Latest news with #AlbertCamus
Indian Express
03-07-2025
- Health
- Indian Express
We can never be free of suffering. But we can choose how we suffer
'Why me?' This question rises unbidden in times of crisis. It may arrive in a hospital ward, in the stillness after a diagnosis, or at the bedside of a loved one. It is the human soul's most honest protest when life turns suddenly unjust, cruel, meaningless. As a retired psychiatrist and a husband watching his beloved wife of 52 years suffer the indignities of advanced Parkinson's Disease, I know this question well. It is not a theoretical query, but one shaped by breath, loss, and long nights. Albert Camus wrote that the only serious philosophical question is whether life is worth living. He gave us the haunting image of Sisyphus, condemned to push a boulder up a hill only for it to roll back down. Yet, Camus invites us to imagine Sisyphus happy. Not because his task has changed, but because his mind has. He has accepted the absurd and still chosen to live. We are not always given reasons for what happens. Often, we are left with the bare reality, and our response becomes the only form of dignity we possess. In that sense, 'Why me?' is not just a cry of anguish but a plea for meaning. It is an invitation to examine what lies at the core of our existence. Psychologically, the question arises when we are brought face to face with our limits. When illness strikes, or a career ends abruptly, or grief overwhelms us, our internal compass spins. The story we told ourselves about our life no longer holds. Psychiatrist Viktor Frankl, who survived Auschwitz, believed that human beings could endure unimaginable suffering as long as they had a 'why', a purpose. 'When we are no longer able to change a situation,' he wrote, 'we are challenged to change ourselves'. This has been true in my life. My wife's decline has changed everything. There are no holidays now, no spontaneous walks, no ordinary ease. Yet, every morning, as we begin the rituals of care, feeding, physiotherapy, soft music, gentle words, I realise that love remains. And in love, there is still meaning. Caregiving brings its own burden, a quieter suffering. It is a slow, private erosion of one's energy and identity. But it also deepens character. What begins as duty slowly becomes devotion. The question 'Why me?' may persist, but the answer becomes less important than the daily act of showing up. For people of faith, 'Why me?' becomes a prayer. The psalmist cried, 'My God, my God, why have you forsaken me?' These same words were echoed by Christ on the cross. Doubt is not the opposite of faith; it is part of it. In Hinduism and Buddhism, suffering is accepted as part of the human condition, dukkha, something to be transcended through awareness, detachment, compassion. In Islam, the concept of sabr, or patient endurance, teaches that the divine is closest to the broken-hearted. Sometimes, faith does not remove the suffering — it simply holds it. It gives us a wider frame in which to place our pain. One need not understand suffering to bear it with grace. Biologically speaking, suffering protects us — pain alerts us to danger. Anguish compels us to seek others. The cry of 'why me?' has evolutionary value; it invites others to come close, to witness, to help. But beyond biology, there is empathy. When we suffer, we become more capable of understanding others who suffer. If we let it, pain can open the heart. That may be one of the few hidden blessings of suffering: It deepens us. Over time, 'Why me?' may shift to 'What now?' or 'How shall I live through this?' That shift is subtle but powerful. It marks a move from protest to purpose. From paralysis to action. Not all questions need answers. Some simply need listening. As theologian Paul Tillich said, 'The first duty of love is to listen.' So, we listen to ourselves, to those we love, and to the silence where no words come. In my home, amid medicines, wheelchairs, nurses, there is still laughter. There is music. There is prayer. No one escapes suffering. But we can choose how we suffer. In that choice lies our freedom. The writer is a retired psychiatrist
The Guardian
28-06-2025
- Entertainment
- The Guardian
Richard Flanagan: ‘When I reread Evelyn Waugh's Scoop it had corked badly'
My earliest reading memoryMy mother reading Kenneth Grahame's The Wind in the Willows to me – and reading it again and again, because I loved it and her. I was perhaps three. We lived in a little mining town in the middle of the rainforest. It was always raining and the rain drummed on the tin roof. To this day that's the sound I long to hear when I relax into a book – a voice in the stormy dark reminding me that I am not alone. My favourite book growing upBooks were an odyssey in which I lost and found myself, with new favourites being constantly supplanted by fresh astonishments. Rather than a favourite book I had a favourite place: the local public library. I enjoyed an inestimable amount of trash, beginning with comics and slowly venturing out into penny dreadful westerns and bad science fiction and on to the wonderfully lurid pulp of Harold Robbins, Henri Charrière, Alistair MacLean and Jackie Collins, erratically veering towards the beckoning mysteries of the adult world. The book that changed me as a teenagerAlbert Camus's The Outsider. It didn't offer a Damascene revelation, though. I was 11. I absorbed it like you might absorb an unexploded cluster bomb. The writer who changed my mindWhen I was 27, working as a doorman for the local council, counting exhibition attenders, I read in ever more fevered snatches Kafka's Metamorphosis, which I had to keep hidden beneath the table where I sat, balanced on my knees. A close family forsaking their son because he has turned into a giant cockroach, after the death of which they marvel at their daughter's vitality and looks? It dawned on me that writing could do anything and if it didn't try it was worth nothing. Beneath that paperback was a notebook with the beginnings of my first novel. I crossed it out and began again. The book that made me want to be a writerNo book, but one writer suggested it might be possible for me – so far from anywhere – that I perhaps too could be a writer. And that was William Faulkner. He seemed, well, Tasmanian. I later discovered that in Latin America he seemed Latin American and in Africa, African. He is also French. Yet he never left nor forsook his benighted home of Oxford, Mississippi, but instead made it his subject. Some years ago I was made an honorary citizen of Faulkner's home town. I felt I had come home. The book or author I came back toWhen I was young, Thomas Bernhard seemed an astringent, even unpleasant taste. But perhaps his throatless laughter, his instinctive revulsion when confronted with power and his incantatory rage speak to our times. The book I rereadMost years, Bohumil Hrabal's Too Loud A Solitude, humane and deeply funny; and Anna Karenina, every decade or so, over the passage of which time I discover mad count Lev has again written an entirely different and even more astounding novel than the one I read last time. The book I could never read againOn being asked to talk in Italy on my favourite comic novel I reread Evelyn Waugh's Scoop. It had corked badly. My fundamental disappointment was with myself, as if I had just lost an arm or a leg, and if I simply looked around it would turn back up. It didn't. The book I discovered later in lifeGreat stylists rarely write great novels. Marguerite Duras, for me a recent revelation, was an exception. For her, style and story were indivisible. Her best books are fierce, sensual, direct – and yet finally mysterious. I have also just read all of Carys Davies's marvellous novels, which deserve a much larger readership. The book I am currently readingKonstantin Paustovsky's memoir The Story of a Life, in which the author meets a poor but happy man in the starving Moscow of 1918 who has a small garden. 'There are all sorts of ways to live. You can fight for freedom, you can try to remake humanity or you can grow tomatoes.' God gets Genesis. History gets Lenin. Literature gets the tomato-growers. Sign up to Inside Saturday The only way to get a look behind the scenes of the Saturday magazine. Sign up to get the inside story from our top writers as well as all the must-read articles and columns, delivered to your inbox every weekend. after newsletter promotion My comfort readOf late, in our age of dire portents, I have been returning to the mischievous joy of James Boswell's Life of Samuel Johnson: 'There is nothing worth the wear of winning, but the laughter and love of friends.' Question 7 by Richard Flanagan is published in paperback by Vintage. To support the Guardian, order your copy at Delivery charges may apply.
The Guardian
27-06-2025
- Entertainment
- The Guardian
Richard Flanagan: ‘When I reread Evelyn Waugh's Scoop it had corked badly'
My earliest reading memoryMy mother reading Kenneth Grahame's The Wind in the Willows to me – and reading it again and again, because I loved it and her. I was perhaps three. We lived in a little mining town in the middle of the rainforest. It was always raining and the rain drummed on the tin roof. To this day that's the sound I long to hear when I relax into a book – a voice in the stormy dark reminding me that I am not alone. My favourite book growing upBooks were an odyssey in which I lost and found myself, with new favourites being constantly supplanted by fresh astonishments. Rather than a favourite book I had a favourite place: the local public library. I enjoyed an inestimable amount of trash, beginning with comics and slowly venturing out into penny dreadful westerns and bad science fiction and on to the wonderfully lurid pulp of Harold Robbins, Henri Charrière, Alistair MacLean and Jackie Collins, erratically veering towards the beckoning mysteries of the adult world. The book that changed me as a teenagerAlbert Camus's The Outsider. It didn't offer a Damascene revelation, though. I was 11. I absorbed it like you might absorb an unexploded cluster bomb. The writer who changed my mindWhen I was 27, working as a doorman for the local council, counting exhibition attenders, I read in ever more fevered snatches Kafka's Metamorphosis, which I had to keep hidden beneath the table where I sat, balanced on my knees. A close family forsaking their son because he has turned into a giant cockroach, after the death of which they marvel at their daughter's vitality and looks? It dawned on me that writing could do anything and if it didn't try it was worth nothing. Beneath that paperback was a notebook with the beginnings of my first novel. I crossed it out and began again. The book that made me want to be a writerNo book, but one writer suggested it might be possible for me – so far from anywhere – that I perhaps too could be a writer. And that was William Faulkner. He seemed, well, Tasmanian. I later discovered that in Latin America he seemed Latin American and in Africa, African. He is also French. Yet he never left nor forsook his benighted home of Oxford, Mississippi, but instead made it his subject. Some years ago I was made an honorary citizen of Faulkner's home town. I felt I had come home. The book or author I came back toWhen I was young, Thomas Bernhard seemed an astringent, even unpleasant taste. But perhaps his throatless laughter, his instinctive revulsion when confronted with power and his incantatory rage speak to our times. The book I rereadMost years, Bohumil Hrabal's Too Loud A Solitude, humane and deeply funny; and Anna Karenina, every decade or so, over the passage of which time I discover mad count Lev has again written an entirely different and even more astounding novel than the one I read last time. The book I could never read againOn being asked to talk in Italy on my favourite comic novel I reread Evelyn Waugh's Scoop. It had corked badly. My fundamental disappointment was with myself, as if I had just lost an arm or a leg, and if I simply looked around it would turn back up. It didn't. The book I discovered later in lifeGreat stylists rarely write great novels. Marguerite Duras, for me a recent revelation, was an exception. For her, style and story were indivisible. Her best books are fierce, sensual, direct – and yet finally mysterious. I have also just read all of Carys Davies's marvellous novels, which deserve a much larger readership. The book I am currently readingKonstantin Paustovsky's memoir The Story of a Life, in which the author meets a poor but happy man in the starving Moscow of 1918 who has a small garden. 'There are all sorts of ways to live. You can fight for freedom, you can try to remake humanity or you can grow tomatoes.' God gets Genesis. History gets Lenin. Literature gets the tomato-growers. Sign up to Inside Saturday The only way to get a look behind the scenes of the Saturday magazine. Sign up to get the inside story from our top writers as well as all the must-read articles and columns, delivered to your inbox every weekend. after newsletter promotion My comfort readOf late, in our age of dire portents, I have been returning to the mischievous joy of James Boswell's Life of Samuel Johnson: 'There is nothing worth the wear of winning, but the laughter and love of friends.' Question 7 by Richard Flanagan is published in paperback by Vintage. To support the Guardian, order your copy at Delivery charges may apply.
Time of India
10-06-2025
- General
- Time of India
A late night existential crisis or just acidity?
Ravi Singh is an Indian Revenue Service (IRS) officer who takes a keen interest in technology and philosophy. Before joining the civil services, he has worked in consulting roles with EY and KPMG. He is also a TED speaker and a sports enthusiast. (Views expressed on the blog are personal). LESS ... MORE At 2 AM, it's hard to say what's hitting harder, life or the spicy chhole you had for dinner. As I lay tossing and turning on the bed last night, I began to introspect. Have I been living an authentic life? Have I been true to myself? Throughout my life, I have mostly done what was expected of me. Yet, a quiet voice inside me asked if I had traded small parts of my authentic self to gain all this. A sharp pain in my lower back pulled me back to the present. It was an old injury, returning once more. I carefully turned to my left to ease the discomfort. The bright LED display of the air conditioner made my eyes uncomfortable and added to my irritation and anxiety. I sighed in frustration. Another night felt ruined, and tomorrow's meeting now seemed uncertain. That thought only made me more anxious. Eventually, I found a somewhat comfortable position, free from pain. My mind drifted to my college days when I was uncertain, broke but filled with energy. Now, although I live a disciplined and productive life, I feel disconnected from that version of me. I easily get exhausted. Probably, this is the path to becoming a mature adult, along with the joint pains. Or probably not. Existential philosopher and Nobel laureate Albert Camus said, 'Nobody realizes that some people expend tremendous energy merely to be normal.' I wish I could do things that give me more energy and happiness. But it is easier said than done. It can be quite challenging to reinvigorate spontaneity in your late 30s. Maybe there is just a lot to lose. With that comes lower appetite for taking risks. Suddenly, a bulb lit in my mind. A voice, perhaps quiet for many years, said with clarity: life is too short to live only by what others expect of you. I do not want to be that old man sitting alone with a list of regrets. I only have half of my life left, that too if I am lucky. I decided that I must reclaim some of that old energy. First, I would finally go on that 7-day trek to the Himalayas, the one I have kept postponing for years. I would also spend more time writing, especially working on my second book. I would also play basketball more often. I decided to do more of what makes me feel alive. Just as I was having a profound inner moment, my stomach decided to join the conversation. I realised that if you stay awake late at night, your body begins to speak in strange and uncomfortable ways. I tried to ignore it, hoping it would settle on its own. What is the real purpose of life? I have always found this question difficult to answer. For many people, it confuses more than it helps. Do we really need an overarching fixed purpose when our beliefs and goals keep changing every few years if not every day? How can anyone commit to one clear aim when everything around and inside us is constantly shifting? In Hindu thought, life's purpose is often described as moksha, or freedom from the cycle of birth and death. But there is a strange irony here. The purpose of life lies outside life itself. In real life, it feels difficult to choose just one fixed aim and run towards it. Maybe purpose is not a final goal but a direction we move in. As Douglas Adams humorously wrote, 'I may not have gone where I intended to go, but I think I have ended up where I needed to be.' I believe the direction must come from within us, but only if we are willing to listen. And that requires honesty and an open heart. As I got deeper into this trail of thought, I saw how tricky these reflections are. They rarely give us direct answers or practical steps. That makes them hard to comprehend in a world where everything is measured by digestible bullet points. Yet, these questions return to us, again and again. As Jean-Paul Sartre once said, 'Everything has been figured out, except how to live.' Perhaps these sleepless nights are our mind's way of reminding us to pay attention. My stomach started growling. I gave up and got out of bed. With half-closed eyes, I looked at my phone. It was 3 AM. I walked to the kitchen, opened the cabinet and took out a sachet of ENO. As the fizz bubbled up in the glass, I stared at it like it was part of a strange ritual. I drank it quickly. A wave of calm passed through my body. Maybe it really was just acidity and not an existential crisis. I woke up late the next morning and rushed to the office. I felt dull and slow during the day. I reflected briefly on the thoughts from the night before, but quickly turned my attention to the meeting. I sipped a strong cup of black coffee. The meeting went fine, the coffee kicked in and I still don't know the purpose of life. But at least I know ENO works. Facebook Twitter Linkedin Email Disclaimer Views expressed above are the author's own.
New York Post
03-06-2025
- Business
- New York Post
Influencer Candice Miller returns to social media with cryptic post nearly a year after husband's suicide
Mommy blogger Candice Miller made her return to social media with a cryptic social media post nearly a year after her husband took his own life in their sprawling Hamptons estate, leaving her and her daughters with a crippling $33.6 million debt. The glamorous mother of two, who ran the popular Mama & Tata blog with her sister documenting their ritzy lifestyle before her husband's shocking suicide last July, posted a photo of the sun glaring over the ocean on her otherwise deleted Instagram page Monday night. 'In the midst of winter, I found there was, within me, an invincible summer,' a quote posted in the caption read. 'And that makes me happy. For it says that no matter how hard the world pushes against me, within me, there's something stronger – something better, pushing right back.' The quote is attributed to the philosophical French novelist Albert Camus. 4 Influencer Candace Miller returned to Instagram on Monday night 11 months after her husband's suicide. Bre Johnson/ / Shutterstock 4 Miller posted a photo of the sun over the ocean with a quote attributed to Albert Camus. Miller's husband, 44-year-old Brandon Miller, a high-profile New York real estate developer, poisoned himself in the garage of their Hamptons home over the 4th of July weekend last year as he secretly battled a mountain of debt totaling $33.6 million. 4 Miller sold the sprawling Hampton's estate for $12.8 million. Bespoke Real Estate 4 Brandon Miller left Candice and their daughters behind with nearly $34 million in debt. Getty Images At the time of his death, Miller had just $8,000 in the bank. Candice reportedly admitted to friends that she never asked about his business dealings and didn't keep tabs on details of their personal finances. After her life was upended by her husband's sudden death, Miller sold the Hamptons estate for $12.8 million and resettled with her two daughters in Miami, Florida, where she is attempting to rebuild her life.
