Noa Fischer
Nietzche’s critique of hedonism may just be the most disagreeable text of all time. Firstly, Schopenhauer’s ideas on pleasure are summoned by the lines “All satisfaction, or what is commonly called happiness, is really and essentially always negative only, and never positive. It is not a gratification which comes to us originally and of itself, but it must always be the satisfaction of a desire”. Nietzche never abandons this account in his work when adapting Schopenhauer, either: "pain, suffering that includes all want, privation, need, in fact, every wish or desire, is that which is positive and directly felt and experienced. On the other hand, the nature of satisfaction, enjoyment, and happiness consists solely in the removal of privation, the stilling of pain; and so these have a negative effect.” Therefore, need and desire are the conditions of every pleasure and enjoyment. Yet the bigger issue has seldom been, by both, that they failed to describe hedonism properly. Allow me to propose an alternative. Allow yourself to reimagine hedonism, the most feminine indulging of pleasures, but if it our renowned philosophers were, as they should have been, women. Girls, even.
Hedonism means waking up past noon. It means to have a big breakfast but still be hungry by lunch. It means putting the perfect measurement of coffee against sugar in your cup, and for the water to be warm but not too hot. Hedonism means dragging your feet on the cold floor but feeling the sun on the very top of your crown. It means to wear clothes that hang from you, but hug you and don’t fall behind. Hedonism is throwing your hands around when you speak and when the movement of your lips matches perfectly the words falling out of your mouth. Hedonism is winning at cards and then playing more cards because there is absolutely no rush. Hedonism is sex. Seduction. Being drunk when the sun is still out. The touch of red beneath your eyes when they fill with salty water. The shiver through your spine when you dip your toe in the reflective wetness on the first day of summer. The salt you lick off your partner once you get out and begin to dry. Hedonism is when the night falls, slowly, waiting for your head to follow. And as your vision blurs and your pupils prepare for the night, hedonism means for the sky to be a lighter blue that lies about the time, and for the stars to hang low enough to steal and carry home to forever be mine.
People talk about finding their place in the universe quite a lot. Finding a purpose or an aim. May I suggest using a compass instead of a made-up God? What are these people looking for? What is missing that they’re hoping to dig out of the street corner and find? The best feeling, the ultimate sensationalism, is being lost. Because that means, dear unfound souls, that there is enough of you for the feeling of loss to feel real - which means you, despite all your best efforts, are real enough and here enough, to realize that here doesn’t exist after all. Seduce the person you wish you bring home, and become them. When in doubt, ponder and criticize. Bad artists copy. Good artists steal.
I went to Venice last May and had an identity crisis walking around. Its shallow streets and deep water filled the canals with cacophonous lies. The trip had been bizarre enough, from the very start, as I was on my way to visit a good friend of mine. Who I happened to have been infatuated with since the rotten age of 14 and a half. He was older and smoked Marlboro Reds that hurt my throat whenever I would bum one. He was a painter and a brunette, making him a fatal combination for my barely pubescent body and mind. And I’ll be the first to admit that I put on masks and perform like Macbeth when I like someone. I don’t know if you know, but it just so happens that Venice is the epicenter of dramaturgy, and sells these masks and mystics in every corner shop and every style. You can be whoever you want, and hide whoever you are. Looking at all of these Venitian masks, nevertheless, made it difficult not to think about which one I’d like to put on. And why such an intrigue to put one in the first place? My appetite for beauty and form was certainly not the answer. The masks made me want to deceive and lie. I didn’t want to play the hero. I wanted to become the villain.
I was not writing at the time. Not that I was writing badly, I wasn’t writing at all, and for months. That was, at least, the advantage of my short-lived years as a writer: my mastery of the craft was never called into question - everyone assumed I had none, which made me feel calm and confident at all times. Granted, this was misplaced confidence and arrogance I had, but it served me well throughout life. So why did I come to Venice other than to wither and cry over an ex that was never even an ex of mine? I needed an interlude, an impromptu living, a dolce far niente, a distant climate to make my summer bearable and hedonistic from the very start. Besides, I wasn’t sure how much more time I had before the mask on my face no longer fit, and it was time to end the act. The worst thing one may bestow upon themselves and others is overstaying their welcome, and overplaying what has long been done.
Need not worry about dropping your mask, being left to die alone, and being eaten by cats. They are not creatures of hedonism. They, rather, prefer to spend their time plotting revenge than slurping down good wine. I believe Nietzche despised hedonism simply because nobody invited him for a shag. And yet the irony of his syphilis-riddled death pertains. Poor Friedrich.