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In this remarkable book Morris show us how our species is so amazingly similar to our so called "savage " fellow simians even in things that we thought , in our sheer arrogance, that were specifically and unequivocally ours.
One thing though i believe that its sadly ours and ours only : The lonely nature of human condition .
Unlike the other simians , we have a sharp sense of our finitude , of our demise , and this put us in a rather existencial waste land that our desperate social masquerades cannot really disguise.
We fear loneliness and try to surround ourselves of people all the time in order to think in our life journey we have someone at our side . Hence the reason why we struggle to find a partner , to share moments, experiences , even emotions , when in reality there is what Kant called " the thing in itself " which most basic , elemental almost sub atomic structure of our inner being that can never be transmitted to no one . Each and every one of us is a phenomena that can only be perceived poorly by an outsider . Plus the strong sense of individuality that we cherish as our most precious of treasures , give us the poisonous gift of choice . a choice that can only be made by each and everyone of us , because its our life and no one else´s .
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The unbearable burden of choice throw us into the dark world of loneliness.
And even when the choice is not made by me , even when others that i held in a power higher than mine or , like Ortega Y Gasset states , the circumstances of my life compel me to choose , the consequences of that choice will upon me and me only. Grasping this responsibility in its full extent gives me the pungent and distressed feeling of loneliness.
Every experience of my existence is perceived by me in my flesh . Only i will bleed and only i will rejoice . And in the moment of my Death , the ultimate and supreme moment of loneliness, only i will feel the cold grip of Thanatos.
Nothing is more pathetic , tragi-comic than the sinister spectacle of the relatives and friends of the dying around his deathbed .
Hopeless attempt of mitigating his infinite loneliness .
The Poet John Donne was wrong when he said : " no man is an island entirely of himself".
Indeed we are islands . Always trying to connect with the main land but in the end realizing that that connection is an illusion , a " veil of Maya ".
I share the wish of Walt Whitman , i too would love to be like the animals , immersed in the comfort of the moment , with no past and no future , true children of eternity escaping the jaws of Time.
Happiness is not knowing what happiness and not care about it. We humans care , and in there lies our misery and perhaps our greatness .
