Let's talk about art.
Specifically, let's talk about the suffering that is required to create art (less of a dialectical philosophical question and more of a rumination about...well, about creation, I suppose). See, I just finished a very good book (Sunnyside, by Glen David Gold. I didn't like it quite as much as his debut novel, Carter Beats the Devil, but still, it's a fascinating read), which featured Charlie Chaplin going through an artistic dry spot.
Chaplin's goal throughout the whole book is to make a film that's “as good as he is;” he has been coasting on the successes of his silent comedies, never really stretching to his fullest potential. Try as he might, he can't quite dig down deep enough into himself to tap that well of genius buried under his skin.
What does this have to do with philosophy? Simple: is art, or any creative endeavor, a finite resource? I mean, that sounds silly. Of course not. But think about it—what if a person only has so many good ideas in their life, and once those ideas are gone, that's it? I don't think Socrates or Aristotle would agree with that. I can see them saying that the mind is an infinite resource. Even Descartes said that our wills were infinite, even if our intellects were not. Surely we could muscle some good idea down on paper, or on celluloid, as was the case with Chaplin.
Again, though: what if you can't? That was the question that tortured Chaplin throughout the book, and one that has haunted me for a very long time. What if I've peaked, Chaplin thinks. If I can't create, what does that make me? Am I still a person if I am not putting my stamp on the world?
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