Blame, Endurance, Surprise and Proof

Bertrand Russell in a letter to Lady Ottoline:

Wittgenstein went on to say how few there are who don't lose their soul. I said it depended on having  a large purpose that one is true to. He said he thought it depended more on suffering and the power to endure it.

Wittgenstein (in Ray Monk's words):

[T]he possibility of remaining uncorrupted rested entirely on one's self -- on the qualities found within. If one's soul was pure... then no matter what happened to one 'externally'... nothing could happen to one's self.

 - from Marjorie Perloff's Wittgenstein's Ladder

 * * *

I do not believe in Blame.

Not on a source, not on a system, not on a culture, certainly not on a single person.

I'm not claiming that there aren't things that happen that shouldn't piss us off or make us reorganize our priorities and actions.

I'm definitely not claiming that there aren't people for whom the easy notion of reorganization is not an option but a mean joke.

I'm lying if I don't admit that I have blamed others and, this more often, myself.

But, in my opinion, Blame is useless tool.

I may bring it to an unconscious emotional struggle and press it against every bolt with the nonsensical hope it might cause a change. The most it does is move the dialogue from one part of the room to another, like a magnet used only in parlor tricks.

Blame is a not a tractor, not a chainsaw, not a wrench, not a hammer. It is nothing like a thumb.

It is a coffin.

It is four walls being painted over and painted over and painted over until the only space left is enough for one shrinking person.

Who I am, as Wittgenstein seems to suggest, is not what I blame but that I endure.

But then, what about after this endurance? After these trials and errors, these punishments?

If I place so much stock in being able to get through anything, who am I when I have few fences to climb?

Does being able to endure my own suffering -- relatively small lately -- lessen the hope for or value of my soul?

Is this why we Blame? Are we hunters -- constantly seeking proof of our own epicurean endurance?

Like resealing a cut with duct-tape every night, blame keeps fresh the wounds.

* * *

When I write on this blog, it's never without a purpose, though (often) I don't know what that purpose is.

Knowing, too, is overrated.

If I sit down and place my hands on my keyboard and know what I want to type, I might be quite persuasive.

But why would I want to persuade myself?

I learn more from surprise than proof.