folly

for some time, a romantic era dwelt

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of the pronouncements wrapped in sorrow but also in hope that your forebears have loaded each word with, today let's together consider that:
"one of the thieves was saved."
For some of you, this may be familiar, for others an entirely foreign phrase; non sequitur. Stoppard, our best playwright for Beckett:

The character of which is optimism, that finding-joy in the state of things which is necessary for continuing to live alongside them. Optimism untempered leads to little poetry, though, as sweetness unbalanced by substance turns sour, and the above quote despite its delight reads more like Malcolm Gladwell than we might like. But let's dig a little deeper; Beckett was mentioned and he risks avoiding sweetness entirely.

If one of the thieves was saved, saving implies salvation, which gets us partway there. Most people know that Jesus Christ is said to have been crucified; many know that he did not die alone, but rather on his left and on his right were also crucified two thieves. According to one of the gospels, one of the thieves asked Christ for redemption, while the other cursed him. To this, St. Augustine is quoted with a pronouncement for our lives:

“Do not despair—one of the thieves was saved.
Do not presume—one of the thieves was damned.”

Here we have the possibility — do not despair, there is hope to be had— tempered by the recognition of the material — do not presume that your hope is the same as reality. There's a simultaneity in the structure and in the thing that remains true and unsaid: both of the thieves, regardless of their afterlife exculpation or predestination, still died, painfully, at the hands of the state. Beckett says, of Augustine: "That sentence has a wonderful shape. It is the shape that matters."

So what are we left with, today? Not to despair! Perhaps dum vivimus, vivamus. Not to presume—if judgment does await us, our odds are not good. If judgment does not await us, an end does. Let that end be as far away as it can! To remember the joy, and temper it with our knowledge of the true things that stay unsaid. And perhaps most of all, while we are here, to find the variety of human experience—and its shape, the balance between the joy and the real—wonderful.


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in reply to @folly's post:

reading the quoted passage without context, it seems plainly & intentionally bleak to me. it seems like your reading is pretty different, though i can't tell what measure of irony may live in your analysis.

i keep trying to think of a further point to make, but i think all i really wanted to do was mention this and see if you have anything to say about it.

I think you're right; when i try to adjust for a less jaded reader i may have overadjusted too far, and then started reading it earnestly and forgot where we began. Or: my barometer on how intentionally bleak something can be and still be "too optimistic" might be off, the other direction.
thanks for the comment!