In the modern world there are two factors that, more than any others, are responsible for hindering our realization of the spirituality that was known in the most ancient traditions: the first is the abstract character of our culture; the second is the glorification of a blind and frantic obsession with activity.
On one hand, there are people who identify the “spirit” with the erudition acquired in libraries and university classrooms, or with the intellectual games played by philosophers, or with literary or pseudomystical aestheticism. On the other hand, the new generations have turned athletic competition into a religion and appear to be unable to conceive anything beyond the excitement of training sessions, competitions, and physical achievements; they have truly turned accomplishment in sports into an end in itself and even into an obsession rather than as means to a higher end.
Some people regard this opposition of lifestyles as some kind of dilemma. In reality, in the so-called scholarly type, we often find an innate strong dislike for any kind of physical discipline; likewise, in many sports-practicing people, the sense of physical strength fosters contempt for those in “ivory towers” who confine themselves to books and to battles of words they view as harmless.
These two lifestyles should be regarded as misguided and as the fruits of modern decadence because they are both foreign to the heroic vision of the spirit that constituted the axis of the best Western classical traditions which, in the context of the actual renovation of Italy, is being successfully evoked.
All too often people forget that spirituality is essentially a way of life and that its measure does not consist of notions, theories, and ideas that have been stored in one’s head. Spirituality is actually what has been successfully actualized and translated into a sense of superiority which is experienced inside by the soul, and a noble demeanor, which is expressed in the body.
From this perspective it is possible to appreciate a discipline which, although it may concern the energies of the body, will not begin and end with them but will become instead the means to awakening a living and organic spirituality. This is the discipline of a superior inner character.
In the ascetic, such a discipline is present in a negative way, so to speak; in the hero it is present in a positive, affirmative way, typical of the Western world. The inner victory against the deepest forces that surface in one’s consciousness during times of tension and mortal danger is a triumph in an external sense, but it is also the sign of a victory of the spirit against itself and of an inner transfiguration. Hence, in antiquity an aura of sacredness surrounded both the hero and the initiate to a religious or esoteric movement, and heroic figures were regarded as symbols of immortality.
However, in modern civilization everything tends to suffocate the heroic sense of life. Everything is more or less mechanized, spiritually impoverished, and reduced to a prudent and regulated association of beings who are needy and have lost their self-suffiency. The contact between man’s deep and free powers and the powers of things and of nature has been cut off; metropolitan life petrifies everything, syncopates every breath, and contaminates every spiritual “well.” As if that weren’t enough, faint-hearted ideologies foster contempt for those values that in other times were the foundation of more rational and bright social organizations. In ancient societies the peak of the hierarchy was occupied by the caste of warrior aristocracy, whereas today, in the pacifist-humanitarian utopias (especially in the Anglo-Saxon ones), attempts are made to portray the warrior as some kind of anachronism, and as a dangerous and harmful entity that one day will be conveniently disposed of in the name of progress.
Once it is suffocated, the heroic will seek further outlets outside the net of practical interests, passions, and yearnings, and that net becomes tighter and tighter with the passing of time: the excitement that sports induce in our contemporaries is just an expression of this. But the heroic will need to be made self-aware again and to move beyond the limits of materialism.
In the struggle against mountain heights, action is finally free from all machines, and from everything that detracts from man’s direct and absolute relationship with things. Up close to the sky and to crevasses—among the still and silent greatness of the peaks; in the impetuous raging winds and snowstorms; among the dazzling brightness of glaciers; or among the fierce, hopeless verticality of rock faces—it is possible to reawaken (through what may at first appear to be the mere employment of the body) the symbol of overcoming, a truly spiritual and virile light, and make contact with primordial forces locked within the body’s limbs. In this way the climber’s struggle will be more than physical and the successful climb may come to represent the achievement of something that is no longer merely human. In ancient mythologies the mountain peaks were regarded as the seats of the gods; this is myth, but it is also the allegorical expression of a real belief that may always come alive again sub specie interioritatis.
In life—as has been pointed out, since Nietzsche, by Simmel—humans have a strange and almost incredible power to reach certain existential peaks at which “living more” (mehr leben), or the highest intensity of life, is transformed into “more than living” (mehr als leben). At these peaks, just as heat transforms into light, life becomes free of itself; not in the sense of the death of individuality or some kind of mystical shipwreck, but in the sense of a transcendent affirmation of life, in which anxiety, endless craving, yearning and worrying, the quest for religious faith, human supports and goals, all give way to a dominating state of calm. There is something greater than life, within life itself, and not outside of it. This heroic experience is valuable and good in itself, whereas ordinary life is only driven by interests, external things, and human conventions. I use the word experience, because this state is not connected with any particular creed or theory (which are always worthless and relative); rather it presents itself in a most direct and undoubtable way, just like the experiences of pain and pleasure.
This profound dimension of the spirit, which perceives itself as infinite, self-transcending, and beyond all manifest reality, is reawakened and shines forth—even though not entirely consciously—in the “insanity” of those who, in increasing numbers and without a specific reason, dare to challenge the mountain heights, led by a will that prevails over fears, exhaustion, and the primitive instincts of prudence and self-preservation.
Feeling left with only one’s resources, without help in a hopeless situation, clothed only in one’s strength or weakness, with no one to rely upon other than one’s self; to climb from rock to rock, from hold to hold, from ridge to ridge, inexorably, for hours and hours; with the feeling of the height and of imminent danger all around; and finally, after the harsh test of calling upon all one’s self-discipline, the feeling of an indescribable liberation, of a solar solitude and of silence; the end of the struggle, the subjugation of fears, and the revelation of a limitless horizon, for miles and miles, while everything else lies down below—in all of this one can truly find the real possibility of purification, of awakening, of the rebirth of something transcendent.
It does not matter that the heroic symbolism of the mountain can only be experienced initially by a few people. When these meanings are duly focused upon, they will influence people. There is no real climber who is not able to experience mountain climbing, if only in a few occasional flashes, as something more than a mere sport. Likewise, there is no real climber who does not display, in the eyes or in the face darkened by the sun’s reflection on the snow, the mark of a race that has transformed beyond that of the people of the plains.
On this basis, we should save the mountains from the contaminating invasion of tourists who attempt to conquer them by building their “civilized” base camps. I am not just referring to those faint-hearted youths who bring with them to popular mountain resorts their vain, mundane city habits (such as discos and tennis courts), and who snobbishly display the colorful new equipment they’ve bought to use only for some harmless walk in the woods. I am also referring to those who tarnish silent and uncontaminated places with materialism and triviality, namely with a competitive spirit and a mania for that which is difficult and unusual, for the sake of setting new records.
The mountain requires purity and simplicity; it requires asceticism.
O sky above me! O pure, deep sky! You abyss of light! Gazing into you, I tremble with divine desires. To cast myself into your height—that is my depth! To hide myself in your purity—that is my innocence! And when I wandered alone what did my soul hunger after by night and on treacherous paths? And when I climbed mountains, whom did I always seek, if not you, upon mountains? And all my wandering and mountain climbing, it was merely a necessity and an expedient of clumsiness: my whole will desires only to fly, to fly into you! [Nietzsche, Thus Spoke Zarathustra (translated by Hollingdale, Penguin, 1961), 184]
These are words that Friedrich Nietzsche, the philosopher who championed the will to power, wrote in the secluded mountains of Engadine. To some people these words may amount to nothing more than lyrical effusions. To others they may contain both the intimate sense of the heroic spiritual attitude, the spirit of which is action, and the discipline of ruthless self-control. The temple of this spirit is the primordial majesty of the peaks, the glaciers, the crevasses, and the boundless blue sky.
In this context the mountainous peaks and the spiritual peaks converge in one simple and yet powerful reality.
From Meditations On The Pick
No comments:
Post a Comment