A Philosophy for Life

23 April 2019

I am told by people who generally know these things that my blog posts are mostly vacuous, the kicking of  the empty can down the road of life. My reply is, they are written not to plunge the reader into fits of anguish or self-loathing, but are splashed upon the page simply for my own pleasure; to remind myself that the great world rolls on, delighting in trivia, silly jokes, and minor anecdotes about each other. Occasionally, it gives me platform to rail pitifully against the stupidity or ignorance of our political masters. I know my ineffectual voice is but the clucking of an idle hen, but it helps release the impotent frustration bottled within.

My critics tell me that the world awaits depth and insight into the anguish of dying; that I should grip the reader round the throat and throttle the joy and life out of them; that their greatest desire is to see as it were a mirror held to reflect the inner agony and suffering of inevitable extinction. I shall not oblige them. I attended the dying and dead over many years of general practice, and tried to bring ease to pain, or comfort to the bereaved; I have ministered to suffering in a hospice, some of which could not be relieved and brings me to tears even now; as police surgeon I attended fatalities and unexpected deaths by the score, many at their own hand or that of another. Every news item is filled with grief and suffering in the world. This I used to express in poetry, often writing at three a.m. on my way back from some dire night call, and there it lies for any who care to read such things. These emotions do not need repeating; they remain raw and I have no wish to relive them.

For tears, read the news, satisfy yourself with the slaughter in the world, the mindlessness of impersonal violence wielded without purpose. Better to rejoice that most of us prefer to release our exasperation and despair through the grin, not the gun; through bombast rather than the bomb; in trivia rather than travail. I have no wish to emulate Dostoevsky or Tolstoy; had I such talent I would chose to be a Waugh or Wodehouse every time.

And yet... and yet... to be a purveyor of the soul, it should ring true, it should go deep; but this is not a secret diary, filled with secret longings or shame, it is a public document and must respect the sensitivities of others. And so I will continue to intersperse the trivial and mundane with occasional glimpses of the darkness lurking behind existence. I may tell of inner pain and conflicts; but above all, I seek the momentary release that humour may provide, the incongruities that underpin relationships, and the absurdities of our very existence.