What Are The Key Arguments In 'Existentialism Is A Humanism'?

Osamu Dazai's writing envelops readers in a cloud of existential dread and questioning that is both captivating and unsettling. In novels like 'No Longer Human', he delves into the psyche of a protagonist who feels utterly disconnected from society. This exploration isn't just about individual despair; it poses a broader commentary on the human condition itself. The protagonist's struggle for identity and meaning resonates deeply, evoking empathy for his plight. It's almost as if Dazai invites us to look into a mirror where we all see reflections of our own fears and uncertainties. The narrative style he employs plays a significant role in this portrayal. Dazai's use of introspective thoughts and confessional tone provides a window into his characters' inner conflicts. By allowing us to experience their existential crises firsthand, he effectively underscores the absurdity and loneliness of modern existence. The beautiful yet haunting prose adds layers to his themes; it’s as though every line echoes questions about purpose and the validity of one's feelings within a seemingly indifferent universe. What I find particularly fascinating is how Dazai manages to intertwine his own life experiences with his characters. His bouts with depression and feelings of alienation shine through, making the reading experience feel intimate and raw. There's something so poignant about the way he crafts flawed, searching characters who mirror the struggles many of us face. It leaves me with a lingering thought: are we all just characters in our own existential narratives, fumbling through the pages of life?

In 'Sophie's World', existentialism is introduced through the character of Alberto Knox, who uses everyday scenarios to explain complex ideas. He starts by making Sophie question her own existence, which is a core concept of existentialism. The book doesn’t just throw philosophical jargon at you; it makes you think about your own life. For instance, Sophie is asked to imagine herself as a character in a story, which leads her to ponder free will and the meaning of life. This approach makes existentialism accessible, showing it’s not just for philosophers but for anyone who’s ever wondered why they’re here. The book cleverly uses Sophie’s curiosity to mirror the reader’s own, making the philosophy feel personal and immediate.

Kierkegaard's 'Either/Or: A Fragment of Life' dives deep into existentialism by presenting two contrasting life views—the aesthetic and the ethical—without outright favoring either. The aesthetic life is all about immediacy, pleasure, and fleeting beauty, like a melody that fades once played. The ethical life, though, embraces commitment, responsibility, and enduring meaning, like a symphony with recurring themes. The book doesn’t preach but lays bare the tension between these paths, forcing readers to confront their own choices. Kierkegaard’s pseudonymous authorship adds layers, making you question who’s really speaking—or if it matters. The work’s brilliance lies in its refusal to simplify existence; it mirrors life’s messy, unresolved dilemmas. By framing existentialism as a lived struggle rather than abstract theory, it feels raw and personal, like a diary left open for interpretation.

Nietzsche's critique in existentialism is profound and multifaceted, focusing on the rejection of traditional moral systems and the embrace of individual will. He famously declared 'God is dead,' arguing that society had outgrown the need for religious dogma as a moral compass. Instead, Nietzsche championed the idea of the 'Übermensch,' or superman, who creates their own values and lives authentically beyond societal constraints. His criticism also targets nihilism, warning against the despair that comes from the absence of meaning, and instead advocates for the creation of personal purpose through art, passion, and self-overcoming. Another key point is Nietzsche's disdain for herd mentality, where individuals conform to societal norms without questioning their validity. He believed this leads to a life of mediocrity and suppresses human potential. Existentialism, influenced by Nietzsche, emphasizes the importance of personal freedom, responsibility, and the courage to face life's inherent absurdities. His ideas challenge us to reject passive existence and actively shape our destiny, making his philosophy a cornerstone of existential thought.

In 'The Stranger', Camus dives deep into existentialism by portraying Meursault’s detached, almost mechanical approach to life. The novel starts with his mother’s death, and his indifference to it sets the tone. Meursault doesn’t grieve; he simply exists, going through the motions without seeking meaning. This lack of emotional engagement is a hallmark of existential absurdity—life has no inherent purpose, and Meursault embodies this philosophy. When he kills the Arab on the beach, it’s not out of malice or passion but a reaction to the sun’s glare. The trial that follows isn’t about the murder but his failure to conform to societal expectations of grief and morality. Meursault’s refusal to lie or pretend to feel what he doesn’t highlights the absurdity of human constructs like justice and morality. In the end, Meursault’s acceptance of his impending execution is his ultimate existential act. He finds peace in the indifference of the universe, realizing that life’s meaninglessness is liberating. Camus uses Meursault’s journey to challenge readers to confront their own search for meaning in an indifferent world.

Art holds a transformative place in Nietzsche's existentialism, serving as a powerful vehicle for human expression and a means of confronting the abyss of existence. The way I see it, Nietzsche perceives art as a profound antidote to the nihilism that can arise from a world devoid of inherent meaning. It's like he’s saying, 'Sure, life might seem absurd, but look at the beauty we can create!' For him, the act of creation—a painting, a sculpture, a melody—becomes a rebellion against the void. When we immerse ourselves in art, we engage in an affirmation of life, embracing its chaos and intensity. Through his concept of the 'Übermensch,' or the 'Overman,' Nietzsche implies that individuals must craft their own values and purpose. Here, art is not simply a reflection of reality but an engagement with it. It allows us to express our deepest emotions and craft narratives that resonate within our unique contexts. When I reflect on this, I can’t help but think about how artists like Van Gogh or Nietzsche himself used their suffering to fuel their art, shaping their experiences into something beautiful and impactful. By masterfully channeling their turmoil, they offered a way to derive meaning from their existence, even if only for themselves. People often lose themselves in 'The Birth of Tragedy,' where Nietzsche champions the duality of Apollo and Dionysus, representing reason and chaos. This dynamic interplay is central to the human experience—art encapsulates this struggle and grants us solace as we navigate our own existential uncertainties. It's almost liberating to understand that Nietzsche positions art as a means to overcome the inherent despair of existence. Through creative expression, we find purpose, make sense of our world, and even form connections with others. Whether it’s through music, literature, or visual media, art reflects the human spirit—the vibrant spectrum of our joys and sorrows. When I see a breathtaking painting or listen to a moving piece of music, it resonates with me on a level that transcends words. We embrace our interpretations, playing an active role in our narratives, and thus we can confront the chaos life presents us with. So, Nietzsche’s thoughts on art remind us of the profound capacity we all have to create and find meaning, no matter how ephemeral or chaotic our world may be.

Reading 'The Death of Ivan Ilych' feels like staring into a mirror that reflects the deepest fears we all try to ignore. Tolstoy doesn’t just tell a story about a dying man; he peels back the layers of societal pretenses to expose the raw, aching question: 'What does it all mean?' Ivan’s life, built on status and conformity, crumbles when faced with mortality, forcing him—and us—to confront the absurdity of chasing hollow achievements. The way he grapples with his suffering, swinging between denial and desperation, mirrors existential themes of authenticity vs. illusion. What guts me every time is that moment Ivan realizes his entire existence might’ve been a performance. It’s not just about death; it’s about waking up too late to live. The secondary characters amplify this—they’re trapped in their own roles, indifferent to Ivan’s agony, which underscores existential isolation. Even his family sees his death as an inconvenience. That chilling indifference hits harder than any philosophical treatise. Tolstoy’s genius lies in showing how existential dread isn’t abstract; it’s in the sweat-soaked sheets, the unspoken regrets, the way a man screams into the void when no one listens. The ending, with its fleeting light, suggests peace only comes through brutal honesty. It’s a masterclass in making philosophy feel like a punch to the chest.

Reading 'The Stranger' feels like staring into the abyss of life’s absurdity, and honestly, it’s exhilarating in a way only Camus could pull off. Meursault’s detachment isn’t just indifference—it’s a raw, unfiltered confrontation with a universe that doesn’t care. The novel’s power lies in how it strips away the illusions we cling to: love, justice, even grief. When Meursault says his mother’s death 'doesn’t mean anything,' it’s not cruelty—it’s the terrifying freedom of admitting life has no inherent meaning. What guts me every time is the trial scene, where society freaks out not over the murder he committed, but because he didn’t cry at his mom’s funeral. Camus exposes how we’d rather punish someone for breaking emotional scripts than confront the void. The scorching Algerian sun becomes this oppressive metaphor—nature doesn’t judge, it just is, like existence itself. By the end, when Meursault embraces the 'benign indifference of the universe,' it’s oddly peaceful. No grand revelations, just the relief of stopping the charade.