In opposition to Positivism, which halts at phenomena and says “There are only facts and nothing more”, I would say: No, facts are precisely what is lacking; all that exists consists of interpretations. We cannot establish any fact “in itself”: it may even be nonsense to desire to do such a thing. “Everything is subjective”, you say; but that in itself is interpretation. The “subject” is nothing given, but something superimposed by fancy, something introduced behind. – Is it necessary to set an interpreter behind the interpretation already to hand? Even that would be fantasy, hypothesis. To the extent to which “knowledge” has any sense at all, the world is knowable; but may be interpreted differently; it has not one sense behind it, but hundreds of senses. – “Perspectivism”. It is our needs that interpret the world; our instincts and their impulses For and Against. Every instinct is a sort of thirst for power; each one has its point of view, which it would fain impose upon all the other instincts as their norm.
--Friedrich Nietzsche, Will to Power, Vol. 2, translated by Ludovici, Anthony M.
The Way of the World
Not fully knowing where to begin,
We always start somewhere
Where we left off—perhaps a dream
That we are trying to remember,
Perhaps a story, that we read somewhere,
That we’re now trying to retell,
Perhaps a piece composed to music
Is what prompts us so—
We recognize in our collective past
There are countless stories to be told—
Now, as I look at you in silence,
I recollect meeting your eyes before,
In your inquisitive smile
I see a thousand lifetimes that we shared—
For we are all connected by some
collective thoughts—
Some bright and beautiful, some dark
And painful that haunt us to this day—
But light and darkness, beauty and ugliness
Are only known through their antitheses—
For what is laughter without tears?
What’s pain without joy?
And our eyes are infinite eyes of God,
Each seeing some new facet of creation,
But we can’t see that—perhaps that’s why
We hurt each other so—
Why do we act like six blind men,
Groping an elephant, unable to describe it?
Or is this life a mere test
That throws us here for a millisecond
On the cosmic clock to learn
The secret of God’s inner beauty?
Yet how vain and shallow we must be
Not to see it in these constellations, these lakes,
These trees, these mountains, this tiny
Grain of sand...
How hollow our accomplishment must be
If we must trample all that is beautiful
To build a giant shopping mall,
Where we can shop for anything we desire...
But that’s our ruin—we get too comfortable,
Too attached to things—today it’s VCRs, TVs,
Cell phones, stereos, computers, DVDs,
Video games, sports cars, and virtual sex,
As we insatiably want more and more and more…
So human life’s reduced to home entertainment,
Sponsored by rape and pillage of the Earth,
Whose poor are deceived by sumptuous
Promises of another world,
Furnished with ample viands and
Enticing virgins.
Yes, we all live like monkeys, chasing
Bananas and watching other monkeys play—
That’s how we live and how we teach
Each other—in God we trust
to make the money, make the money
to buy and buy and buy
consumer goods...
For it’s the economy that drives the world—
So forgive them, Father, for they are blind
And know not what they do...
August 7, 2002
--Alexander Shaumyan
The Door: Selected Poems
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