In existentialism, existence precedes essence. It’s a tight premise, a real pitch of
philosophy—and once you accept it, a can of worms. If existence comes first, then literally
everything in life is reduced to what you make of it: there is no god, no moral “ought to,” no inherent value to anything—just the meanings that you assign. The joke is that this is completely overwhelming. The joke is accurate. In existentialism, there is no other to take up the burden of making your own choices, just you and the trolley barreling down the tracks. In existentialism, you find your own way to live with yourself and others simply because it works for you.
philosophy—and once you accept it, a can of worms. If existence comes first, then literally
everything in life is reduced to what you make of it: there is no god, no moral “ought to,” no inherent value to anything—just the meanings that you assign. The joke is that this is completely overwhelming. The joke is accurate. In existentialism, there is no other to take up the burden of making your own choices, just you and the trolley barreling down the tracks. In existentialism, you find your own way to live with yourself and others simply because it works for you.
…
It has been nearly six months since I took my first trip to the UCLA Young Research
Library, an experience I would later describe to my friend Erin as labyrinthine. There were
shelves upon shelves of monochrome paperbacks stretching from floor-to-ceiling, five levels with letters—not genre or topic—as a distinction, and massive floors with seemingly no symmetry or pattern in layout. The Young Research Library is one of the largest collections in what is already a huge public university. It is monstrous and not, to say the least, beginner friendly. I guess I could draw some connection to an idea of divine purpose; I had a research paper to write, and I truly imagined waltzing into that beating heart of academia, being preternaturally drawn to the sections holding the material I was looking for, and then leaving, having already done all the research I needed. Again, there was no divine purpose; no such god-of-the-library has ever existed.
Library, an experience I would later describe to my friend Erin as labyrinthine. There were
shelves upon shelves of monochrome paperbacks stretching from floor-to-ceiling, five levels with letters—not genre or topic—as a distinction, and massive floors with seemingly no symmetry or pattern in layout. The Young Research Library is one of the largest collections in what is already a huge public university. It is monstrous and not, to say the least, beginner friendly. I guess I could draw some connection to an idea of divine purpose; I had a research paper to write, and I truly imagined waltzing into that beating heart of academia, being preternaturally drawn to the sections holding the material I was looking for, and then leaving, having already done all the research I needed. Again, there was no divine purpose; no such god-of-the-library has ever existed.
I often prepare myself to be surprised in new spaces like this—that’s just what new things
mean. Still, it did not occur to me that this library excursion would be a battle. I did not see myself being intimidated by the imposing height of the thing, nor by the quixotic mix of technology and Dewey decimals which decorated the shelves. Did I even think, for one second, that the first floor might hold only dictionaries? Not in the slightest. As I continued, the trip going from a quick 30-minutes in and out to over an hour of wandering like Cain over the desert, I became more desperate. Still, the library was what I wanted, right? Academia in condensed form—all of life’s answers right at my fingertips. I searched for salvation—rather, for maps on my phone—as I wandered the entirety of the third floor, becoming ever more frightened by the indistinguishable row numbers. The maps eventually sent me to the right floor, but that was where their usefulness ended. The building diagrams I stared at failed to capture the cavernous spaces which they simply labelled “J” or “P.” I felt my footsteps were suspect—both obnoxious and unsure. What was supposed to be an intellectual challenge, I found, was more emotional than anything else. Silent students studying in the few open spaces were like wards. I avoided them,
unable to find my spot or direction within the maze.
I left the library, eventually. I had located two books out of the many I was looking for,
neither of which were for the research project. I felt like a wounded warrior, the first knight in medieval times to actually encounter a dragon, fleeing, terrified, with one stolen coin or scale before the very beast I sought to fell. I was utterly defeated by that godless place; it had won.
…
The nascent tendrils of Existentialism have existed since Socrates’ imperative to “know
thyself.” But alongside the philosophy, for as long as it has been a notion at all, there were
ideologies which preached the opposite. Religion or Idealism, all claiming some underlying substance or being upon which the universe turns. Even modern movies—allegedly secular—paint romance as powerful magic; we like to believe that our morals and actions are determined by some other. The alternative is something we have always feared, even with our hands stretched heavenward: “know thyself, for you may never be able to know anything else.”
thyself.” But alongside the philosophy, for as long as it has been a notion at all, there were
ideologies which preached the opposite. Religion or Idealism, all claiming some underlying substance or being upon which the universe turns. Even modern movies—allegedly secular—paint romance as powerful magic; we like to believe that our morals and actions are determined by some other. The alternative is something we have always feared, even with our hands stretched heavenward: “know thyself, for you may never be able to know anything else.”
…
At the end of this, rushing out of the library and up through the sculpture garden, I
remembered I had been texting with Erin. I explained my odyssey to them in a series of rushed, ungrammatical texts—half as catharsis and half as a lifeline, as if I might be dragged back by the library if I did not come away with my story. Without telling it, I feared, I might find myself waking up the next day as if it had never even happened.
remembered I had been texting with Erin. I explained my odyssey to them in a series of rushed, ungrammatical texts—half as catharsis and half as a lifeline, as if I might be dragged back by the library if I did not come away with my story. Without telling it, I feared, I might find myself waking up the next day as if it had never even happened.
I had been texting with Erin for most of that day, in fact. We would talk often about
philosophy. Today, I was on a literary high after writing an essay on “The Death of the Author.” I explained my theory to them and felt like a true academic as we debated Barthes. This is probably why I entered the library with my chin held so high. This is probably how I managed not to notice the bones of so many academics past strewn at the entrance.
…
Erin Cartney is one of the more fascinating people in my life, and while this story is not
necessarily about them, it is. Erin and I share a love of theater and of philosophy—they
introduced me to Existentialism as we walked to school last spring. They’re truly a genius, the kind of mind that seems labyrinthine to most. They’re also a flirt, and I’m a person who falls hard and falls easily. Halfway through the year, by the time we had acted as lovers in a play, it was all over. I’m not into the concept of soulmates, things determined by a greater power, but it seemed to me that things had been determined in just that way. Weren’t there signs? If I could share such a deep intellectual connection with someone, wasn’t that kind of like destiny?
necessarily about them, it is. Erin and I share a love of theater and of philosophy—they
introduced me to Existentialism as we walked to school last spring. They’re truly a genius, the kind of mind that seems labyrinthine to most. They’re also a flirt, and I’m a person who falls hard and falls easily. Halfway through the year, by the time we had acted as lovers in a play, it was all over. I’m not into the concept of soulmates, things determined by a greater power, but it seemed to me that things had been determined in just that way. Weren’t there signs? If I could share such a deep intellectual connection with someone, wasn’t that kind of like destiny?
This was not Erin’s view of things.
…
What’s so freeing about Existentialism, Erin had explained to me at a crosswalk, is that it
gives you purpose. Rather, you give yourself purpose. “Existence precedes essence,” they said; Existentialism suggests we cannot rely on predetermined destinies—because they do not exist. If there is no one to decide what is right, then it is your responsibility to give up any hopes of meant-to-be’s, and to take responsibility for the reality of your life. It is your responsibility to do good for others, and your responsibility alone to decide what that “good” looks like. Sure, books might hold the answers you seek, but it’s up to you to do the research.
gives you purpose. Rather, you give yourself purpose. “Existence precedes essence,” they said; Existentialism suggests we cannot rely on predetermined destinies—because they do not exist. If there is no one to decide what is right, then it is your responsibility to give up any hopes of meant-to-be’s, and to take responsibility for the reality of your life. It is your responsibility to do good for others, and your responsibility alone to decide what that “good” looks like. Sure, books might hold the answers you seek, but it’s up to you to do the research.
…
I had always felt that the affection of friendship lives just catty-corner to that of romance.
It doesn’t mean I saw people as objects of affection, just that romance seemed to me the best way to appreciate someone. All this culminated in me stopping them on the stairs, right before practice, and saying just that. There are, of course, at least two ways of looking at any given thing; platonic love, they told me as the coach took role, was their language. To them, this was exactly how our friendship ought to be. It was the first time someone had expressed it to me this clearly: “It doesn’t have to be something more.” This, too, was friendship: no magical connection, just the reality of dust in the space between us.
It doesn’t mean I saw people as objects of affection, just that romance seemed to me the best way to appreciate someone. All this culminated in me stopping them on the stairs, right before practice, and saying just that. There are, of course, at least two ways of looking at any given thing; platonic love, they told me as the coach took role, was their language. To them, this was exactly how our friendship ought to be. It was the first time someone had expressed it to me this clearly: “It doesn’t have to be something more.” This, too, was friendship: no magical connection, just the reality of dust in the space between us.
Maybe I had finally grasped their Existentialism, because, to my surprise, that was
alright.
…
To love is not just romance. To love is come away from a phone call talking about Chris
Cornell with your cheek warm from the phone your forgot was there. To love is to live life with someone—not physically, but emotionally, by rules only the two of you decide. I credit Erin for teaching me this. They remain my greatest philosopher friend, and I get to be happy about that. Those emotions are a labyrinth and complex as book stacks; it’s awfully difficult to look at them as having a center and an exit, but that’s exactly where we fail—where I failed. Feelings aren’t transactional. You don’t walk into them hoping to grab your prize and extricate yourself, having trumped them, victorious and great. There isn’t victory, but there is peace; there is learning to live in the labyrinth, finding the way that works for you. There is taking a single book off the shelves, sitting down in one of the dusty alcoves, and reading it.
Cornell with your cheek warm from the phone your forgot was there. To love is to live life with someone—not physically, but emotionally, by rules only the two of you decide. I credit Erin for teaching me this. They remain my greatest philosopher friend, and I get to be happy about that. Those emotions are a labyrinth and complex as book stacks; it’s awfully difficult to look at them as having a center and an exit, but that’s exactly where we fail—where I failed. Feelings aren’t transactional. You don’t walk into them hoping to grab your prize and extricate yourself, having trumped them, victorious and great. There isn’t victory, but there is peace; there is learning to live in the labyrinth, finding the way that works for you. There is taking a single book off the shelves, sitting down in one of the dusty alcoves, and reading it.
…
Months later, the Young Research Library feels like an old friend. I speak with clerks at
the circulation desk and follow a complement of maps to find never more than one or two books. I have found my own routine. I do not pretend to have tamed some beast, to have conquered it, to know all its secrets, to be its closest confidant—its lover—, but I do love it. I completed research on my essay, thanks mostly to that library. I did learn a few of its secrets, but I know it is much vaster than I have seen. I have never since ventured to the second floor. There are boundaries that only the oldest friends of the library—librarians, of course—may cross. This is alright with me. We are our own beings—our own people with our own rules. The library knew this, now I do too.
the circulation desk and follow a complement of maps to find never more than one or two books. I have found my own routine. I do not pretend to have tamed some beast, to have conquered it, to know all its secrets, to be its closest confidant—its lover—, but I do love it. I completed research on my essay, thanks mostly to that library. I did learn a few of its secrets, but I know it is much vaster than I have seen. I have never since ventured to the second floor. There are boundaries that only the oldest friends of the library—librarians, of course—may cross. This is alright with me. We are our own beings—our own people with our own rules. The library knew this, now I do too.
Zach Goldberg, 17, lives in Los Angeles, California, where he can often be found staring up at trees in awe. He is a musician, climate organizer, and alumnus of the Kenyon Young Writers program. He works primarily in poetry and short fiction, and hopes one day to be able to read Borges untranslated.