On Existential Crises
By David Snyder
After the completion and use of the original atomic bombs, the ones used on Hiroshima and Nagasaki, Richard Feynman, one of the chief scientists who worked on the bomb, fell into a deep depression. His depression wasn’t crippling; he still went about his work, went out to dinner, and gave lectures. But he was depressed, none the less. In his lovely little book, The Pleasure of Finding Things Out, he recounts his depression with one telling anecdote. He told the story of how, after the use of the bombs, he would walk around main street as he was going about his business, and every time he’d see a new building being erected or a new ditch dug, he would think to himself “Why? Why build new things when all is doomed to destruction anyway?” Those weren’t his words verbatim, but those were his sentiments in brief.
The man had every right to ask such questions. He, a man of science, had dedicated his life to uncovering the mysteries of the atom and the workings of the universe, only for his work to be used to end hundreds of thousands of lives in the blink of an eye and the flash of a mushroom cloud. He had helped to invent a sure fire way of ending everything humanity has accomplished since the Sapiens conquered the Neanderthals. I’d be feeling a touch existentially dubious, too, if I were in his shoes.
But what struck me most was his feelings about construction, about how it seems so futile, to build what will surely be destroyed by one force or another. Why do we silly vertebrates build skyscrapers that rest amongst the clouds, or great pyramids built brick by brick, or space stations that allow man to live in the vacuum of space? I haven’t a clue. I’m not a religious man nor a nihilistic one. I haven’t the faintest idea about whether or not there’s a point to all of this nor do I really care. It makes no difference to me whether or not there’s a grand plan or no plan at all. I’ll still read the books my favorite authors write and drink the coffee my favorite shop brews. And the same goes for humanity. We’ll still build the tallest skyscrapers and invent the most efficient toilets. We’ll still push our species onto Mars and squabble about emails and the cost of pant suits.
Feynman admits that he eventually came out of his existential crisis. He stopped fulminating at the site of a construction crew or a “For Sale” sign on a newly finished neighborhood home. He too cared little for whether or not humanity is part of a grand design, some cosmic or spiritual blueprint. I’m with him there. And I know he’d be with me when I assert that what matters is not why we’re here but that while we are here we better make a damn good go of it. So far, I’d say, we’ve done an admirable job, if with a few blemishes. But what great beauty is without a few blemishes?
No doubt all that been built, all the stories that have been told, all the great art that has been made, will one day cease to be. All will be cosmic dust. Very well. Does that make it all without reason — all hopeless? Give me a break. So long as the Celtics play in Boston and coffee has caffeine this thing isn’t hopeless. Things are always worth doing, even if the universe doesn’t care to keep so much clutter hanging around.
