Exploring the Parallel Origins of Pietism and Absurdism

“A rose by any other name would smell as sweet.”

— William Shakespeare, Romeo and Juliet, Act II, Scene II

The Thinker
Auguste Rodin (French, 1840–1917)
Bronze, c. 1880
Collection of the Cleveland Museum of Art

Introduction

Throughout intellectual history, certain movements emerge as responses to profound existential challenges, particularly in times of crisis when traditional sources of authority and meaning prove inadequate. Pietism, a religious movement within 17th and 18th-century Lutheranism, and Absurdism, a philosophical outlook articulated in the 20th century by figures such as Albert Camus, represent two such responses. At first glance, these movements may appear to occupy separate universes: Pietism, with its emphasis on personal spirituality and divine relationship, seems rooted in religious conviction, while Absurdism, especially as developed by Camus, confronts the inherent meaninglessness of life, proposing a defiant acceptance of the absurd. Yet, beneath these surface differences lies a shared psychological strategy for coping with the limitations of human existence. Both movements involve an internal retreat to assert autonomy and agency in the face of external authority, ultimately rejecting or reinterpreting the concept of control over what life presents.

This essay explores the deep connections between Pietism and Absurdism, arguing that both movements, despite their different contexts and expressions, engage in a similar process of internal retreat and reframing of meaning. By analyzing the historical and philosophical underpinnings of each movement, as well as their respective responses to crises of autonomy, we can uncover the unexpected parallels between them. Through this comparison, we gain a deeper understanding of how individuals and communities navigate the challenges of existence, finding ways to create meaning and assert control in a world that often seems indifferent or hostile to their aspirations.

I. The Historical Contexts of Pietism and Absurdism

To fully appreciate the parallels between Pietism and Absurdism, it is essential to consider the historical contexts from which they emerged. Pietism arose in the aftermath of the Thirty Years’ War (1618–1648), a conflict that devastated much of Central Europe, particularly the German states. This war, one of the most destructive in European history, left the region in ruins, with a shattered economy, deep social fragmentation, and widespread spiritual despair. In this context, the institutional Lutheran Church, which had been a source of spiritual and social cohesion, was increasingly perceived as distant and disconnected from the immediate needs of its congregants. Philipp Jakob Spener, often considered the father of Pietism, called for a return to a more personal and heartfelt form of Christianity. Spener’s vision emphasized personal piety, the cultivation of the inner life, and a direct, unmediated relationship with God as the means of spiritual renewal.

Similarly, Camus’ philosophy of Absurdism was shaped by the profound existential crises brought on by world wars, particularly World War II. Writing in occupied France, Camus grappled with the moral and philosophical implications of a world plunged into chaos by unprecedented violence and suffering. The horrors of the war, including the Holocaust and widespread destruction, shattered many of the moral, religious, and philosophical certainties that had underpinned Western thought. In this context, Camus developed his concept of the absurd—the recognition that life is inherently devoid of meaning, a reality that can lead to either despair or rebellion. In his seminal essay The Myth of Sisyphus (1942), Camus presents Sisyphus, the mythological figure condemned to endlessly push a boulder up a hill only to see it roll back down, as the archetype of the absurd hero. Sisyphus’ rebellion lies in his acceptance of the futility of his task and his decision to find joy in the struggle itself. This defiant embrace of the absurd becomes, for Camus, a model of how to live meaningfully in a world that offers no intrinsic meaning.

Despite the centuries that separate them, the historical contexts of Pietism and Absurdism reveal a striking similarity: both movements emerged in response to the devastation and moral ambiguity wrought by catastrophic wars. The Thirty Years’ War and World War II, though vastly different in scale and nature, each led to a profound crisis of meaning. In both cases, the established structures of meaning—whether religious, political, or philosophical—seemed inadequate to address the realities of a world torn apart by violence and chaos. In response, both Pietists and Absurdists turned inward, seeking to create or rediscover meaning within the self, rather than in the external world.

II. Internal Retreat and the Assertion of Autonomy

Central to both Pietism and Absurdism is the concept of an internal retreat as a response to the recognition of powerlessness in the face of external forces. For the Pietist, this retreat involves a rejection of the institutional structures of the church, which were perceived as corrupt or spiritually empty, in favor of a direct and personal relationship with God. This inward turn was a deliberate choice to reclaim agency in a world that was often hostile as well as spiritually barren and controlled by external secular and spiritual authorities that offered little true solace. The Pietist’s focus on personal piety, repentance, and the cultivation of the inner life was not merely a withdrawal from the world but a strategic redefinition of what it meant to live a meaningful life.

Similarly, Absurdism posits that the external world is indifferent, and often hostile, to human aspirations, and that any search for absolute meaning or purpose is ultimately futile. Faced with this reality, the Absurdist retreats inward, choosing to assert autonomy by creating personal meaning through their actions and attitudes, even in the absence of any inherent purpose. This internal retreat is exemplified in the figure of Sisyphus, whose rebellion against the absurdity of his situation is not an attempt to escape his fate but to find meaning in the struggle itself. By embracing the absurd and rejecting the false comforts of external validation or hope, the Absurdist asserts control over their own experience of life.

In both Pietism and Absurdism, the internal retreat is a means of asserting autonomy in a world where external control is impossible. The Pietist’s decision to focus on a personal relationship with God, and the Absurdist’s choice to find meaning in the act of living itself, are both expressions of a deep-seated need to reclaim agency in the face of overwhelming external assaults and constraints. This retreat into the self allows both the Pietist and the Absurdist to create a sense of purpose and meaning that is independent of the external world, even as they acknowledge the limitations of their control over that world.

III. Reframing Meaning: The Creation of Purpose

A key aspect of both Pietism and Absurdism is the reframing of meaning in response to the recognition that external sources of validation are inadequate or non-existent. For the Pietist, this reframing involves a shift away from the traditional markers of religious authority and success—such as adherence to doctrine or participation in ritual—and towards the cultivation of personal piety and a “direct relationship with God.” This reorientation of values allows the Pietist himself or herself to define what it means to live a meaningful life, focusing on the internal transformation that comes from spiritual devotion rather than on external adherence, achievements, or recognition.

In Absurdism, the reframing of meaning involves a rejection of the notion that life has any inherent purpose or value. Instead, the Absurdist creates meaning through their own actions and attitudes, embracing the struggle of existence as the only source of true fulfillment. This process of meaning-making is deeply personal and likewise self-directed, relying on the individual’s ability to find joy and purpose in the act of living itself, rather than in the pursuit of some ultimate goal. For the Absurdist, meaning is not something that can be discovered in the world, but something that must be created from within.

Both movements, therefore, involve a similar process of reframing meaning in response to the limitations of external validation. The Pietist’s focus on personal spirituality and the Absurdist’s embrace of life’s struggles both represent ways of creating meaning that are independent of external authority or recognition. In this sense, both movements can be seen as responses to the same existential crisis—the realization that the external world offers little in the way of inherent meaning or purpose—and as attempts to reclaim control over one’s own experience of life.

IV. Absurdism with a Defined Purpose? A Pietist Perspective

One of the most intriguing aspects of the comparison between Pietism and Absurdism is the question of whether Pietism can be understood as a form of Absurdism with a defined purpose. The Pietist’s commitment to a personal relationship with God, and the self-directed study of the Bible (as opposed to clerically mediated study), could be seen as an “absurd” response to the same existential reality that the Absurdist confronts—the lack of inherent meaning in the world. In this light, the Pietist’s purpose is a chosen framework within which they navigate life, much like the Absurdist who chooses to live fully and autonomously despite recognizing the absurdity of existence.

From a Pietist perspective, the Absurdist’s rejection of predefined purpose might be viewed as a form of self-delusion. The act of living, even without a declared purpose, imposes a structure, a boundary within which life is conducted. In this sense, the Absurdist’s choice to embrace life’s struggles without seeking external validation could be seen as indistinguishable from the Pietist’s choice to live according to their spiritual principles. Both are volitional acts, grounded in the need to define one’s existence in a world where external authorities offer little guidance or control.

This perspective raises the possibility that the distinction between Pietism and Absurdism may be less significant than it initially appears. Both movements involve a retreat into self-definition, where the individual creates meaning and purpose in response to a world that offers little in the way of inherent validation. Whether that purpose is found in a personal relationship with God, or in the conscious embrace of life’s struggles, both the Pietist and the Absurdist are engaged in the same fundamental process of creating meaning within the constraints of an uncontrollable external reality.

V. The Interplay of Rebellion, Resignation, and Autonomy

The interplay of rebellion, resignation, and autonomy in Pietism and Absurdism reveals a complex psychological response to the challenges of the human condition. Both movements engage in a form of rebellion against external circumstances—whether it is the chaos and harshness of the provincial German states and the related materialism and formalism of the Lutheran Church or the meaninglessness of the universe. This rebellion is not about changing the external world but about asserting control over one’s internal life and creating a sense of meaning that is independent of external validation.

At the same time, both Pietism and Absurdism involve a form of resignation—a recognition of the limitations imposed by the external world. This resignation is not a passive surrender but a deliberate choice to focus on what is within one’s control. For the Pietists, this meant turning inward and cultivating a personal relationship with God. For Sisyphus and the Absurdists, it meant embracing the struggle itself and finding contentment in the act of living. This resignation is a key part of the psychological strategy that allows individuals to navigate a world that otherwise offers little in the way of inherent meaning and satisfaction.

Resilience Through Rebellion and Resignation

The psychological resilience observed in both Pietism and Absurdism stems from their ability to reinterpret adversity and find strength in internal resources. The Pietists’ resilience was anchored in their faith and their personal relationship with God, allowing them to navigate a world that seemed increasingly hostile to their material interests and spiritual values. By focusing on spiritual transformation and personal piety, they found stability and purpose that transcended the material world’s limitations.

For Camus’ absurd hero and himself, resilience is achieved through the acceptance of life’s inherent meaninglessness and the conscious decision to live fully within those constraints. Sisyphus’ act of pushing the boulder, despite its futility, becomes a metaphor for human resilience. The hero’s strength lies not in overcoming the absurd but in embracing it and finding contentment in the act of living itself. This resilience is a form of defiance against the absurdity of existence, an assertion that life’s challenges, no matter how insurmountable they may seem, do not diminish the value of living.

Creating Meaning Within Constraints

Both Pietism and Absurdism advocate for creating meaning within the constraints of a world that offers little in the way of inherent purpose. For the Pietists, this meaning is found in their spiritual journey and their relationship with God, which provide a framework for understanding and navigating life’s challenges. The Pietist’s rejection of worldly concerns in favor of personal piety represents a deliberate choice to focus on what is within their control—their spiritual life—rather than being overwhelmed by the external world’s demands.

Similarly, the absurd hero, and those who emulate him, create meaning through the very act of living, despite the absence of any ultimate purpose. For Camus, the struggle itself becomes the source of meaning, as the individual engages with life on their own terms, rejecting the notion that life’s value must come from outside themselves. This act of meaning-making is entirely self-directed and deeply personal, reflecting a commitment to autonomy and agency in the face of a purposeless universe.

The connection between Pietism and Absurdism lies in this shared emphasis on creating meaning from within, rather than seeking it in the external world. Both movements recognize that the world is full of limitations and constraints, but they also assert that individuals have the power to define their own sense of purpose and fulfillment. This focus on internal resources—whether spiritual or existential—highlights the importance of personal autonomy and resilience in navigating life’s challenges.

VI. Conclusion

In examining the shared themes between Pietism and Absurdism, we find that both movements, though arising from different historical and philosophical contexts, reflect a fundamental human response to the limitations of existence. Both engage in an internal retreat to assert autonomy and create meaning within a world that offers little external validation or control. Whether through a personal relationship with God or the embrace of life’s inherent struggles, both the Pietist and the Absurdist find ways to live meaningfully and resiliently within the constraints of their respective circumstances.

Ultimately, Pietism and Absurdism reveal that the human quest for meaning and purpose transcends specific religious or philosophical frameworks. Both movements offer valuable insights into how individuals can navigate the challenges of existence, finding ways to assert control and create meaning within the limitations imposed by the external world. By comparing these two seemingly disparate approaches, we gain a deeper understanding of the universal human experience and the strategies we use to make sense of our place in the world.

[The draft essay above was inspired by two recent posts—one discussing Isaiah Berlin’s reflections on the origins of Pietism, and another examining the Proto-Indo-European root Skei- and its derivatives, which led me to a consideration of Absurdism. It occurred to me that these two movements, though seemingly distinct, seem to blossom from similar impulses. This initial exploration of that possibility is promising.

A more comprehensive exploration, currently exceeding twenty pages with a substantial bibliography, is in progress. Whether the project evolves further depends on whether the ideas presented here bear fragrant fruit or wither on the vine.]

Light, Shadow, and the Human Quest: The Duality of Science and Shit

In this piece, the author reflects on the interconnected nature of language and life, using the evolution of the Proto-Indo-European root “skei-” as a lens. This root gave rise to words like “science” and “shit,” which represent opposing concepts but share a common origin. The author explores how this linguistic duality mirrors broader philosophical and religious themes of light and shadow, good and evil. By drawing parallels to Jungian psychology, Christian theology, and the works of Dante and Rumi, the author highlights the interplay between knowledge and waste, creation and rejection, light and shadow as essential to the human condition.

Vitruvian Man (Pen, brown ink, and watercolor over metalpoint on paper, c. 1490) by Leonardo da Vinci (1452–1519). Gallerie dell’Accademia, Venice.

Language, much like life itself, often reveals the interplay of opposites—light and shadow, creation and destruction, knowledge and ignorance. The study of etymology, the history of words, can uncover surprising connections between concepts that seem worlds apart, offering us profound insights into the human condition. One such connection is found in the shared origin of the words science and shit. Though these words have come to represent vastly different ideas, they both trace their lineage back to the same ancient root: the Proto-Indo-European (PIE) root skei-, meaning “to cut” or “to split.” This essay explores how these seemingly disparate words, rooted in the same ancient origin, serve as powerful metaphors for the light and shadow inherent in the human condition and the perennial quest for understanding.

Proto-Indo-European Roots: The Seeds of Language

Proto-Indo-European (PIE) is not a language we have direct evidence of—it is a reconstructed ancestor, a theoretical framework derived from comparing the languages that descended from it, such as Latin, Greek, Sanskrit, and Old English. PIE roots, like skei-, are the conceptual building blocks from which countless words in these descendant languages evolved. These roots are not words in the modern sense but rather represent basic, primal ideas—actions like cutting or splitting, states of being, or essential objects.

In PIE, the root skei- originally meant “to cut” or “to split.” From this simple, physical concept, a remarkable range of words has emerged across different languages, each bearing the imprint of its original meaning while branching out into diverse semantic fields. This evolution offers us a window into how the same fundamental idea can develop in different directions, leading to words that are as disparate in meaning as science and shit.

The Evolution of Skei- in the Romance Languages

In Latin, skei- evolved into scire, meaning “to know,” which later gave rise to the word scientia and eventually science in English. This path reflects the metaphorical extension of “cutting” as a process of discernment, a way of separating truth from falsehood, knowledge from ignorance.

Beyond scientia, the influence of skei- in the Romance languages is extensive. Consider the Latin word secare, meaning “to cut,” which directly inherits the original sense of the PIE root. From secare stem a multitude of words in the Romance languages associated with cutting, division, and distinction. For example, the English word section derives from the Latin sectio, meaning “a cutting” or “division.” Similarly, segment, from Latin segmentum, refers to something that has been cut off or separated from the whole.

In French, the verb scier (to saw) also traces its lineage back to skei-, emphasizing the physical act of cutting. Meanwhile, the word ciseau (chisel), though phonetically and morphologically transformed, ultimately connects to the same root, representing a tool used to cut or shape materials. Italian retains the word secare (to cut), giving us sezione (section) and segmento (segment), maintaining the connection to division and separation.

Even more abstractly, the root skei- gave rise to words that convey the notion of separating or distinguishing in non-physical ways. The Latin discernere (to discern), combining dis- (apart) and cernere (to sift, to separate), encapsulates the mental process of distinguishing between different ideas or concepts. This term evolved into the French discerner and the Italian discernere, both of which continue to convey the act of intellectual separation and judgment.

The linguistic journey of skei- culminates in the English word science, derived from the Latin scientia. Here, science encapsulates the essence of skei-, as the pursuit of knowledge is fundamentally about separating truth from falsehood, understanding from ignorance. Science, in its most basic form, is the practice of discernment—of cutting through the noise to reveal the underlying principles that govern our world.

The Germanic Branch: From Skei- to Shit

In the Germanic languages, the PIE root skei- also left its mark, though in a different form. The sense of “cutting” or “separating” was preserved, but the focus shifted towards more physical, often bodily, processes. In Old High German, the word scīzan meant “to defecate,” directly preserving the sense of separation as it applies to bodily waste. This verb gave rise to similar terms in other Germanic languages: scheiden in Middle Dutch and skita in Old Norse, all of which convey the idea of separating waste from the body.

The Old English word scitan developed from this same root, referring to the act of defecation. Over time, scitan evolved into shit in Middle English, a term that has persisted into modern English with its meaning largely unchanged. Unlike its Latin counterpart, which evolved into abstract notions of knowledge and discernment, the Germanic branch retained a more literal, physical interpretation of skei-, focusing on the act of excretion.

This divergence is emblematic of the broader thematic dichotomy explored in this essay. The PIE root skei- gave rise to science—the disciplined pursuit of knowledge, marked by precision and intellectual rigor. Yet it also gave us shit—a word rooted in the most basic, physical processes, often associated with what is discarded or deemed unworthy.

A Metaphor for Life’s Duality

The linguistic journey of the PIE root skei- culminates in a profound metaphor for life’s duality: science, the pursuit of knowledge and enlightenment, represents the light, while shit, the rejected and discarded, embodies the shadow. This dichotomy between light and shadow is a theme that resonates deeply across various philosophical and religious traditions, each grappling with the tension between what is revered and what is reviled, what is illuminated and what remains in darkness.

Sassanid-era relief at Nassqsh-e Rostam depicting Ahura Mazda presenting the diadem of sovereignty to Ardashir I (180-242AD). Photograph by Wojciech Kocot / CC BY-SA 4.0.

In many philosophies and religions, light is associated with truth, purity, and the divine. In ancient Zoroastrianism, one of the oldest dualistic religions, the eternal battle between Ahura Mazda (the god of light) and Angra Mainyu (the spirit of darkness) symbolizes the cosmic struggle between good and evil. Here, light is knowledge, order, and goodness—concepts closely aligned with what we might associate with science, the disciplined pursuit of understanding that seeks to illuminate the mysteries of the universe. In contrast, Angra Mainyu is associated with the physical world’s corrupt and defiled aspects, bringing death, decay, and moral corruption—elements metaphorically aligned with shit, representing what is base, impure, and rejected.

However, it is important to note that while mainstream Zoroastrianism presents Ahura Mazda and Angra Mainyu as distinct and opposing forces without a common origin, a divergent tradition within Zoroastrianism, known as Zurvanism, offers a different perspective. Zurvanism posits Zurvan (Time) as the primordial deity, the ultimate source from which both Ahura Mazda and Angra Mainyu emerged. Just as the words science and shit diverge from the same linguistic root to embody opposing concepts, Zurvanism’s narrative suggests that the duality of light and darkness, good and evil, originates from a single, primordial source. This perspective mirrors the linguistic evolution we see with skei-, where a single root gives rise to words with vastly different meanings.

Just as the duality of light and darkness is central to Zoroastrian thought, Christianity presents its own understanding of these forces, offering a distinct yet parallel exploration of the tension between good and evil. Although Zurvanism was influential for a time, it was eventually deemed heretical by mainstream Zoroastrianism, which maintained a strict dualism without a common origin for good and evil. This divergence in religious thought parallels the Christian perspective on light and shadow, good and evil.

In Christianity, light is often used as a metaphor for God’s presence, truth, and divine guidance. The creation story in Genesis begins with God’s command: “Let there be light” (Genesis 1:3), bringing light into the void and establishing the foundation of the universe. However, it is essential to recognize that God is also the creator of darkness and shadow. Isaiah 45:7 affirms this: “I form the light and create darkness, I bring prosperity and create disaster; I, the Lord, do all these things.” This verse underscores that both light and shadow, good and evil, are within God’s dominion.

An illustration from “Milton’s Paradise Lost illustrated by Gustave Dore.”

God is also the creator of Satan, originally an angel named Lucifer, who rebelled against God’s authority. According to Christian tradition, as depicted in Paradise Lost by John Milton, Satan’s rebellion leads to his expulsion from Heaven and his fall into Hell. Milton vividly describes Satan’s fall, portraying him as a once-glorious being who becomes the ruler of a realm of darkness and despair, a place of punishment that is also part of God’s creation. In Paradise Lost, Hell is depicted as a kingdom of “darkness visible,” where Satan and his fallen angels are condemned to eternal torment.

This depiction of Hell is further elaborated in Dante Alighieri’s Divine Comedy, particularly in the Inferno. Dante places Satan at the very center of Hell, a realm of perpetual darkness and despair. Here, the damned suffer in various circles filled with filth and excrement, symbolizing the moral corruption that led them to their fate. Especially vivid is his articulation of the fate of flatterers, recounted in Canto XVIII:

“Here we heard people whine in the next chasm,
and knock and thump themselves with open palms,
and blubber through their snouts as if in a spasm.

Steaming from that pit, a vapour rose
over the banks, crusting them with a slime
that sickened my eyes and hammered at my nose.

That chasm sinks so deep we could not sight
its bottom anywhere until we climbed
along the rock arch to its greatest height.

Once there, I peered down; and I saw long lines
of people in a river of excrement
that seemed the overflow of the world’s latrines.

I saw among the felons of that pit
one wraith who might or might not have been tonsured—
one could not tell, he was so smeared with shit.”

Illustration for Inferno Canto XVIII by Gustave Doré (1832–1883), from The Divine Comedy: The Vision of Hell by Dante Alighieri, translated by H. F. Cary, M.A., 1892. Cassell and Company.

The image of Satan presiding over a kingdom of darkness and filth powerfully illustrates the connection between evil, rejection, and waste—concepts intimately tied to the notion of shit. In Dante’s vision, Hell’s filth is not merely a punishment but a reflection of the inner corruption of the soul, manifesting physically in the environment of the damned.

Darkness and shadow, therefore, are not merely the absence of light but are active forces within the world, created by God to fulfill His divine plan. Just as light reveals and guides, shadow obscures and challenges, reminding humanity of the consequences of straying from the path of righteousness.

The shadow—represented here by shit—carries connotations of what is hidden, ignored, or rejected. In Jungian psychology, the “shadow” represents the unconscious mind, the darker, hidden parts of ourselves that we “cut off,” deny or repress. Jung’s concept of the shadow is not just an abstract idea; it is a fundamental aspect of the psyche that influences behavior, decisions, and self-perception. The shadow is composed of all the aspects of our personality that we do not wish to acknowledge, the traits and impulses that are contrary to our conscious self-image. These elements are not necessarily evil, but they are often perceived as such because they conflict with the ideals and norms of society or our personal moral compass.

Jungian psychology teaches that the shadow must be confronted and integrated into our conscious awareness to achieve psychological wholeness. This process, known as individuation, involves bringing the shadow to light, recognizing it as part of ourselves, and reconciling it with our conscious identity. The failure to do so can result in projection, where we see our own shadow traits in others, or in the shadow manifesting in destructive behaviors.

In a similar vein, Samuel Beckett’s wayfarers in Waiting for Godot find themselves mired in a cyclical existence, often lying in ditches—literal and metaphorical—beset by a sense of futility and degradation. These ditches, filled with the mire of their own making, symbolize the excremental realities that we, too, must navigate. Here, the clash between our lofty aspirations and the baseness of our condition becomes starkly apparent. It is in such moments, where the struggle between light and shadow is most palpable, that the human quest for understanding reaches its existential depths.

A critical part of Carl Gustav Jung’s own journey involved confronting what might be considered the ultimate shadow: the filth and shit inherent in life itself. In a pivotal dream, which Jung described in his autobiography, he saw God defecating on a cathedral. This shocking image challenged his previously held religious beliefs and led him to a deeper understanding that both the sacred and the profane, light and shadow, are intrinsic to the truth of human experience. For Jung, recognizing and integrating these elements was essential to achieving psychological and spiritual wholeness.

The Christian concept of sin and the Jungian shadow share significant parallels. Just as sin is what separates humanity from God, the shadow is what separates the conscious self from the full realization of the psyche’s potential. In both cases, the shadow or sin must be acknowledged and transcended to achieve a higher state of being. The metaphor of shit, then, becomes a powerful symbol for the shadow—something that must be expelled or transformed if one is to attain spiritual or psychological clarity.

Just as the light of science allows us to discern truth, the exploration of the shadow—be it in Dante’s dark realms, Jung’s psychological depths, or the moral struggles depicted in Christian theology—reveals the complexity of the human condition. It challenges us to confront what we might prefer to ignore, to recognize that the pursuit of purpose or truth is not only about enlightenment but also about grappling with the darkness within.

In addition to the psychological insights provided by Jung, the teachings of the 13th-century Persian poet and mystic Jalāl Al-Dīn Muḥammad Rūmī offer a profound perspective on integrating the shadow. Rūmī, known for his deeply spiritual and allegorical tales, explores themes of love, transformation, and the human journey toward divine understanding.

In one tale from his Masnavi, the Prophet Mohammed encounters a man known as the Huge Eater, who, after a night of excessive eating, defecates in his bed. Rather than chastising him, Mohammed quietly cleans the soiled bedclothes. This act of humility and compassion profoundly moves the man, leading to his spiritual awakening.

Rūmī’s tale symbolizes the cleansing of the shadow—what Jung might metaphorically describe as the basest parts of our psyche—transforming what is impure within us into something pure. As Rūmī writes, “When the body empties and stays empty, God fills it with musk and mother of pearl. That way a man gives his dung and gets purity.” This stanza underscores the transformative process, where acknowledging and cleansing these shadow elements leads to spiritual growth. It also subtly alludes to the idea of “cutting off” or removing what is impure to make room for the divine.

Just as Muḥammad’s act of dealing with literal shit in Rūmī’s tale leads to the man’s transformation, so too does the integration of our shadow lead to deeper knowledge and understanding. This mirrors the duality discussed throughout the essay: the interplay between science and shit, light and shadow, and the continuous process of transformation that defines the human experience.

But this exploration of light and shadow, science and shit, extends beyond the mere experience of these dualities. It speaks to the human quest—the relentless search for truth that drives our existence. This quest is fraught with tension, as illustrated in the imagined dialogue I recently wrote between da Vinci and Beckett. Da Vinci, the archetypal figure of the Renaissance, represents the light of reason, the pursuit of knowledge through science and art. Beckett, on the other hand, embodies the existential struggle, the shadow of doubt, despair, and the acknowledgment of the absurdities that define human existence.

Their dialogue captures the essence of this tension: the push and pull between the desire to illuminate the world with knowledge and the recognition of the inherent limitations and darker aspects of that pursuit. It is within this tension that the human search for truth takes place, a journey that is neither straightforward nor devoid of shadow.

In their imagined conversation, continued anew here, Leonardo da Vinci, the Renaissance polymath, questions Beckett about the purpose of his work, Waiting for Godot. Da Vinci, who devoted his life to the pursuit of knowledge and the perfection of art, sees in Beckett’s work an unsettling reflection of the human condition—a world stripped of certainty, where meaning is elusive and the quest for truth is often met with silence.

Da Vinci: “Your characters wait endlessly, in vain, for something—or someone—that never arrives. Is this the conclusion of your inquiry? That we are condemned to wait, to search without hope?”

Beckett: “Leonardo, your works capture the beauty and order of the world, but what of the chaos, the emptiness? My work reflects the shadow, the nothingness that underlies our existence. The quest for meaning is not always met with light; often, it is swallowed by the void. Yet, in the waiting, in the recognition of the absurdity, there is a truth—perhaps not the truth we desire, but a truth nonetheless.”

Da Vinci: “Yet, to acknowledge the void is not to surrender to it. Even in the shadow, there is form, there is structure. My studies of anatomy, of light and shadow, reveal the underlying patterns of life. Can we not find meaning even in the darkness?”

Beckett: “Perhaps. But meaning in darkness is not the same as light. It is ambiguous, fleeting, and it demands a confrontation with the parts of ourselves we’d rather not see—the shadow, as Jung might call it. We cannot have one without the other, can we?”

Da Vinci: “No, we cannot. My work has always sought to unify—to bring together the light and the dark, the known and the unknown. Your work, in its starkness, Samuel, reminds us that this unity is not easily achieved, that the search for truth is fraught with difficulties, and that sometimes, the answers we seek lie in the very questions we ask.”

Beckett: “And so we continue, each in our own way. You with your light, me with my shadow. Both necessary, both incomplete without the other.”

This dialogue between da Vinci and Beckett reflects the core of the human experience—the pursuit of knowledge and meaning, which inevitably involves grappling with both light and shadow, science and shit. It is through this dialectic, this ongoing tension between opposites, that we inch closer to understanding the complex reality of our existence.

Yin and Yang motif featured at the center of the reverse side of the silver fifty-cent piece from Kirin Province, Empire of China, issued during the reign of the Guangxu Emperor (1875-1908).
Coin image courtesy of Stephen Album Rare Coins.

The Taoist concept of Yin and Yang further encapsulates this duality, with Yin representing the shadowy, passive, and receptive aspects of the universe, and Yang symbolizing the bright, active, and creative forces. Unlike the Western dichotomies of good and evil, light and darkness, Taoism teaches that these forces are not in opposition but are interdependent and interconnected. Yin and Yang exist in a dynamic balance, each necessary to the other—just as science and shit both derive from the same linguistic root, and just as light and shadow originate from the same source. This balance reflects a more holistic understanding of duality, one where opposites are seen not as conflicting entities but as complementary forces that together create a unified whole.

Thus, from a single ancient root, we derive two words that reflect this timeless duality: science, the light guiding us toward knowledge and understanding, and shit, the shadow symbolizing what is cast aside, hidden, or ignored. This divergence serves as a powerful metaphor for the duality inherent in human experience and our ongoing quest for truth. Just as light and shadow originate from the same source, so too do our highest ideals and our basest realities emerge from the same fundamental force.

Recall that Dante’s journey in The Divine Comedy culminates in the Paradiso, where the pilgrim is ultimately united with the divine light, a symbol of ultimate truth and understanding. This final vision represents the fulfillment of the human quest for knowledge and the transcendence of earthly shadows. While Dante’s Paradiso offers an idealized conclusion—one that many might consider beyond the reach of human experience—it underscores the universal journey through light and shadow, science and shit, a path marked by both striving and imperfection.

Indeed, in exploring the relationship between science and shit, we confront the uncomfortable truth that both are essential parts of the human condition—two sides of the same coin, each reflecting different aspects of our quest to understand and navigate the world. The light of science allows us to discern, to separate truth from falsehood, illuminating the path ahead. But the shadow of shit reminds us of the inevitable waste, the parts of our existence that we might prefer to forget but which are nonetheless integral to the whole.

Tracing the evolution of skei- from PIE to modern English deepens our understanding of the intertwined nature of knowledge and waste, creation and rejection, light and shadow. This exploration reveals that these seemingly opposite concepts are, in truth, two sides of the same coin—each essential to the human condition, each a reflection of the complex interplay of light and shadow that defines our existence, and each a testament to the perpetual human quest for truth.

Bibliography

Beckett, S. (2011). Waiting for Godot. Grove Press.

Beekes, R. S. P. (2011). Comparative Indo-European Linguistics: An Introduction (2nd ed.). John Benjamins Publishing Company.

Boyce, M. (2001). Zoroastrians: Their Religious Beliefs and Practices (2nd ed.). Routledge.

Dante Alighieri. (2003). The Divine Comedy. Trans. John Ciardi. New American Library.

De Vaan, M. (2008). Etymological Dictionary of Latin and the Other Italic Languages. Brill.

Fortson, B. W. (2010). Indo-European Language and Culture: An Introduction (2nd ed.). Wiley-Blackwell.

Graver, L. (2004). Beckett: Waiting for Godot (2nd ed.). Landmarks of World Literature. Cambridge University Press.

Harper, D. (n.d.). skei-. In Online Etymology Dictionary. Retrieved August 30, 2024, from https://www.etymonline.com/word/*skei-

Jung, C. G. (1959). Aion: Researches into the Phenomenology of the Self (Collected Works, Vol. 9, Part 2). Princeton University Press.

Jung, C. G. (1963). Memories, Dreams, Reflections. (Aniela Jaffé, Ed., & Richard and Clara Winston, Trans.). Vintage Books.

Kohn, L. (2009). The Taoist Experience: An Anthology. State University of New York Press.

Laozi. (2003). Tao Te Ching. Translated by D. C. Lau. Penguin Classics.

Mallory, J. P., & Adams, D. Q. (1997). Encyclopedia of Indo-European Culture. Fitzroy Dearborn Publishers.

Mallory, J. P., & Adams, D. Q. (2006). The Oxford Introduction to Proto-Indo-European and the Proto-Indo-European World. Oxford University Press.

Milton, J. (2008). The Major Works including Paradise Lost. Oxford University Press.

New International Version. (2011). The Holy Bible. Zondervan.

Rumi, J. (2004). The Essential Rumi (New Expanded Edition, Translated by Coleman Barks). HarperOne.

Watkins, C. (2000). The American Heritage Dictionary of Indo-European Roots (2nd ed.). Houghton Mifflin Harcourt.

Yarab, D. S. (2024, August 29). Exploring Art and Existence: A Dialogue Between Leonardo da Vinci and Samuel Beckett. North Coast Antiquarian. https://northcoastantiquarian.com/2024/08/29/exploring-art-and-existence-a-dialogue-between-leonardo-da-vinci-and-samuel-beckett/

Challenging the Illusion: AI Text Detection and Human Perception

La Trahison des Images [The Treachery of Images]
(oil on canvas, 1928-9) by René Magritte (1898-1967).
Los Angeles County Museum of Art.

Once again, a word that appears with some frequency in my writing (delve) is maligned as an indicator of AI authorship. But, at least in this instance, it comes within the context of an essay that includes a warning that humans are only under the illusion that they can detect AI written material. The essay in which the aspersion occurs also accurately notes that studies have shown that a well-written AI prompt has often been adjudged by reviewers as more surely written by a human than a piece written, indeed, by a human. The study in circulation demonstrating the latter, written by individuals associated with the Department of Cognitive Science, UC San Diego, does not look like it was written by humans, no matter how many times I review it, but that is attributable to a different bias, not AI.

Ethan Mollick, a writer whose insights at www.oneusefulthing.org are always worth exploring, recently captured my attention with his thought-provoking essay Post-apocalyptic Education. In a section aptly titled, “The Illusions,” Mollick states:

People can’t detect AI writing well. Editors at top linguistics journals couldn’t. Teachers couldn’t (though they thought they could – the Illusion again). While simple AI writing might be detectable (“delve,” anyone?), there are plenty of ways to disguise “AI writing” styles through simple prompting. In fact, well-prompted AI writing is judged more human than human writing by readers

Ha! that parenthetical regarding the word delve, included to provide a small exception to the author’s point, is no exception, at least when it comes to my writing.

Exploring Art and Existence: A Dialogue between Leonardo da Vinci and Samuel Beckett

Untitled (oil on canvas, c. 1916) by Kazimir Malevich ( 1878-1935).  Peggy Guggenheim Collection, Venice.

Introduction

The dialogue below brings together two iconic figures from different eras—Leonardo da Vinci (1452–1519) and Samuel Beckett (1906–1989)—to explore contrasting views on art, existence, and the search for meaning. Leonardo da Vinci, the quintessential Renaissance man, was a polymath whose works spanned art, science, and engineering. He is best known for masterpieces like The Last Supper and Mona Lisa, and his relentless pursuit of knowledge and understanding of the natural world. Leonardo’s philosophy is deeply rooted in the belief that art can reveal the underlying harmony and divine order of the universe, offering humanity a glimpse into deeper truths that transcend the fleeting nature of life.

In stark contrast, Samuel Beckett, an influential 20th-century playwright, novelist, and poet, is most famous for his existentialist works, including the groundbreaking play Waiting for Godot, which puzzled me to no end when I first encountered it in college. Beckett’s worldview, shaped by the absurdity of the human condition, strips away illusions to reveal a world devoid of inherent meaning, where the act of waiting and enduring becomes central to existence. His minimalist approach challenges traditional notions of purpose and order, suggesting that meaning, if it exists at all, is found not in grand designs but in the persistence of the human spirit amidst an indifferent universe.

In this imagined dialogue, Leonardo and Beckett engage in a thought-provoking conversation that delves into the purpose of art, the nature of existence, and the ways in which different philosophical perspectives can both clash and complement one another. The exchange invites readers to reflect on the role of art and creation in human life—whether it serves to elevate, to challenge, or merely to mirror the complexities and absurdities of our existence. Through their contrasting views, the dialogue underscores the universal human experience of seeking understanding, whether through the lens of hope or despair, harmony or chaos.

This dialogue continues my summer writing exercises, which have spanned academic writing, prose, poetry, fables, musical lyrics, and more. If I am not mistaken, this is my first attempt at constructing dialogue, making it a new and challenging endeavor for me. As such, the exchange between the characters may be more superficial than one might ideally hope. I ask for your understanding as I continue to explore and refine my craft, and I apologize for any shortcomings in this or my other recent efforts.

Setting:

A large, solitary tree stands in an otherwise barren landscape. The tree is full of leaves, their colors shifting subtly with the light. The leaves rustle softly in the breeze, creating a tranquil, yet slightly eerie atmosphere. Leonardo da Vinci and Samuel Beckett are gathered beneath the tree, engaged in a deep, reflective conversation.

Dialogue:

Leonardo da Vinci: Leonardo sits beneath the tree, sketching quietly, absorbed in the play of light and shadow on the leaves. He looks up as Samuel Beckett approaches, his tone one of curious observation.

“This tree—its form, its structure, the way the light filters through its leaves—there is something here that speaks of life’s continuity, of the patterns that repeat in nature. I find myself drawn to capture it, to understand its place in the world. And you, Samuel? What brings you to this solitary tree?”

Samuel Beckett: He stops a few paces away, his gaze fixed on the tree, his voice flat, resigned.

“I am here because it stands alone, like the tree in Waiting for Godot. There is something in its isolation that mirrors the emptiness of waiting, of existence itself. It’s just a tree—there’s nothing more to it. And perhaps, like my characters, I wait without knowing why, without expecting anything to come.”

Leonardo da Vinci: Nods slowly, considering Beckett’s words, his tone contemplative.

“Waiting… It is a concept I have pondered often, though in a different sense. I wait for the right light, for the moment when nature reveals its hidden order. But you speak of waiting as if it is an end in itself, a state of being rather than a passage to something more. Is there not, even in this waiting, some expectation, some hope?”

Samuel Beckett: His voice remains steady, almost emotionless, with a trace of irony.

“Hope? A word, nothing more. My characters wait, because waiting is what they do, what we all do. There’s no expectation, no miracle—just the passage of time, the empty habit of existence. The tree stands here, indifferent, like the world. Whether we wait or move on, it’s all the same. And yet, we wait. Because what else is there?”

Leonardo da Vinci: Leonardo pauses, considering Beckett’s words with deep reflection. His tone is gentle, yet firm.

“Perhaps you’re right, Samuel. Perhaps, when we strip away everything, we are left with nothing but the bare truth, as stark as it may be. But I have always believed that even in that starkness, there is something worth reaching for—a light, however faint, that guides us. Art, in my view, is not merely about reflecting what is, but about aspiring toward what could be. It’s about finding order in chaos, meaning in the void. Take, for example, my Adoration of the Magi. I used light and shadow not just to define forms, but to reveal the deeper truths within the scene—the struggle between the sacred and the profane, the divine revelation amidst human confusion. Even if that meaning is fleeting, even if it is, as you say, just another illusion—it is one that gives us reason to continue, to create.”

Samuel Beckett: Beckett listens, his expression calm but with a glint of irony in his eyes. When he speaks, his voice is quiet but carries a sharpness, a dry humor beneath the surface.

“Illusions are the finest of comforts, Leonardo. They keep us warm at night, keep us from staring too long into the abyss. My characters, Estragon and Vladimir, wait for Godot because they think it might give them purpose. But in the meantime, they do everything but find meaning—they argue, they contemplate hanging themselves, they try on each other’s hats. It’s all distraction, all misadventure, because they know deep down that Godot won’t come. But they wait, because that’s all there is to do. And if there’s a glimmer of beauty in that, it’s in the sheer absurdity of it all. Not the light, not the shadow—just the fact that we’re still here, passing the time, playing out the farce.”

Leonardo da Vinci: His gaze shifts from the tree to Beckett, a deep respect evident in his tone.

“Then perhaps we wait together, under this tree, each seeking our own understanding. Whether it is the light I seek or the void you confront, we are united in the act of waiting, in the search for something beyond ourselves. And in that search, there is meaning, even if we cannot fully grasp it.”

Leonardo da Vinci: Leonardo’s eyes wander back to stare intently at his sketch book for a moment, then, looking back up from his sketch book to Beckett, his voice thoughtful, he weaves in his understanding of the natural world.

“My work in The Last Supper was driven by a desire to capture a moment of profound significance—a moment suspended between betrayal and redemption, where the divine intersects with the human. I sought to convey the tension, the movement, the interplay of light and shadow that defines the scene. The way light falls on Christ’s face, the way shadows creep toward Judas—it’s all part of a larger harmony. Yet, Samuel, in your Waiting for Godot, I find a world that seems to reject the very principles that guided my hand. Your characters wait in vain, trapped in a cycle of despair. How do you find purpose in such a depiction?”

Samuel Beckett: He replies with characteristic brevity, his voice carrying the weight of existential reflection.

“Purpose? There is none. In Godot, there’s no divine order, no grand design. The characters wait, because that’s all they know—an endless habit, a ritual without meaning. They’re stuck, like the rest of us, waiting for something that never comes. The tree in my play—it’s initially bare, lifeless, a symbol of the void that lies beneath our expectations. And yet, it sprouts a few leaves, as if to mock the very idea of hope—offering just enough to keep us waiting, but never enough to change anything. No light, no shadow—just emptiness.”

Leonardo da Vinci: Nods slowly, his tone contemplative, struggling to reconcile this with his own beliefs.

“I understand your perspective, though it is far from my own. To embrace the void, to depict a world where order and meaning are absent—it is a stark contrast to my belief that art can illuminate the divine symmetry in all things. Your play challenges the very foundation of what I sought to express in my works. And yet, I cannot help but admire the honesty in your approach. You confront the darkness, the uncertainty, without flinching. But does this not lead to despair?”

Samuel Beckett: His voice remains minimalist, laced with irony.

“Despair? It’s just another word, another illusion. My characters don’t despair—they endure. Godot strips away the comforting lies we tell ourselves, leaving only the bare bones of existence. No despair, no hope—just being. Your work seeks to elevate, to find harmony. Mine strips away the illusion, shows what’s left when there’s nothing left to believe in.”

Leonardo da Vinci: He considers this, his voice filled with quiet resolve.

“Perhaps that is the essence of our craft—to persist, to create, in search of the harmony that underlies all things. Whether we work with light or shadow, we strive to uncover the deeper truths of the world. The act of creation itself connects us to the divine order, revealing a meaning that transcends the fleeting and the transient.”

Samuel Beckett: A faint smile touches his lips, his tone tinged with irony.

“Harmony, divine order… It’s a beautiful thought, Leonardo, truly. But when all is said and done, what endures? Maybe the search itself, or the act of creation as you say. But what’s left after the thoughts are provoked, after the truths are revealed? We’re still here, Leonardo, still waiting, still searching for meaning where there may be none. Maybe the real trick is to keep going, to keep creating, even when we know the search might be futile.”

Leonardo da Vinci: He gazes at the tree, then at Beckett, a thoughtful expression on his face.

“Perhaps, Samuel, we will never fully agree on what lies at the heart of our existence—whether it is light, shadow, or simply the void. But in our own ways, we both seek to understand, to express the human condition. Maybe that is the true essence of our craft.”

Samuel Beckett: He offers a faint, sardonic smile.

“Maybe. Or maybe we’re just two men, passing the time under a tree, waiting for something that may never come. Either way, we keep going, because what else is there?”

Leonardo da Vinci: Nods, a quiet respect in his voice, yet firm in his belief.

“Yes, we keep going. For in that persistence, we find not just the passing of time, but the opportunity to discover, to create, and perhaps to glimpse a truth greater than ourselves.”

The two men sit in silence for a moment, the leaves rustling softly above them, as the conversation fades into the stillness of the landscape.

The Influence of German Pietism: Lessons for Historical and Contemporary Scenarios

“The Ancient of Days” (frontispiece to Europe A Prophecy, 1794) by William Blake (1757-1827) The William Blake Archive

Giambattista Vico (1668–1744), Johann Gottfried Herder (1744–1803), and Johann Georg Hamann (1730–1788) may be obscure names to many, and their writings equally impenetrable, but they are nonetheless important to numerous academic disciplines, many of which I study. Consequently, many of the scholarly tomes and articles I read frequently mention these gentlemen, with whom I have thus become somewhat acquainted.

This past week, I have been revisiting The Roots of Romanticism (Princeton University Press, 2013) by Isaiah Berlin (1909–1997). The aforementioned scholars make their obligatory appearances, as do men more famous and more obscure. It was, however, when Berlin sought to set the stage for a lesser-known figure by discussing the genesis of the Pietist movement in the German lands in the 17th and 18th centuries, that the inspiration for today’s post took root.

Berlin, prone to sweeping observations—both historical and psychological—offers fascinating insights into the rise of the Pietist movement, insights that merit reflection and may well extend to contemporary parallels. He posits that, during this era, German culture was largely provincialized: “There was no Paris, there was no centre, there was no life, there was no pride, there was no sense of growth, dynamism and power. German culture drifted either into extreme scholastic pedantry of a Lutheran kind—minute but rather dry scholarship—or in the direction of the inner life of the human soul. This was no doubt stimulated by Lutheranism as such, but particularly by the fact that there was a kind of huge national inferiority complex, which began at that period, vis-à-vis the French, this brilliant glittering State which had managed to crush and humiliate this great country which dominated the science and the arts, and all the provinces of human life, with a kind of arrogance and success unexampled hitherto” (Berlin, 42).

Berlin then notes that the Pietist movement, a branch of Lutheranism, became deeply embedded in the German lands. He describes the movement as possessing a passion for a meticulous study of the Bible, a profound respect for the personal relationship between man and God, an emphasis on the spiritual life, and a contempt for learning, ritual, and form. Moreover, the movement placed “tremendous stress upon the individual relationship of the suffering human soul with its maker” (Berlin, 43).

Berlin does not mince words in his assessment of the outcome:

“This was a very grand form of sour grapes. If you cannot obtain from the world that which you really desire, you must teach yourself not to want it. If you cannot get what you want, you must teach yourself to want what you can get. This is a very frequent form of spiritual retreat in depth, into a kind of inner citadel, in which you try to lock yourself up against all the fearful ills of the world. The king of my province—the prince—confiscates my land: I do not want to own land. The prince does not wish to give me rank: rank is trivial, unimportant. The king has robbed me of my possessions: possessions are nothing. My children have died of malnutrition and disease: earthly attachments, even love of children, are as nothing before love of God. And so forth. You gradually hedge yourself round with a kind of tight wall by which you seek to reduce your vulnerable surface—you want to be as little wounded as possible. Every kind of wound has been heaped upon you, and therefore you wish to contract yourself into the smallest possible area, so that as little of you as possible is exposed to further wounds.” He concludes that “[t]his is the mood in which the German Pietists operated” (Berlin, 44).

The above is striking, as it applies, in my view, to many historical, contemporary, and even personal scenarios. For the latter, I need only consider my post entitled Poetic Reflections: Exploring the Fortress of the Mind. Indeed, I see connections and relevance everywhere.