There is a slight proofreading error that occurs on page 106, where Rowlands claims that four billion years after the birth of the cosmos, humans arrived. What he likely meant was four billion or so years after the formation of the earth, humans arrived. Nonetheless, Rowlands weaves back and forth between philosophic excursions and Brenin’s life with an alacrity, joy, and ease that makes one want to slow down and savor the ideas that are broached; such as Rowlands’ semi-disdain for the fact that human beings have made feelings the sine qua non of what it is ‘to be human,’ when clearly this is false. Animals, as Rowlands demonstrates, are just as emotional as we are. Intellect is the great divider that defines us as human. Yet, Rowlands certainly does not want for emotion, as his chapters on Brenin’s illness, recovery, and subsequent death illustrates. The penultimate chapter sees Rowlands tackle the circular and linear concepts of time, and, in its evocation of Rowlands love for his wolf, put me in mind of the great poem by Robinson Jeffers, The House Dog’s Grave. It ends:
You were never masters, but friends. I was your friend.
I loved you well, and was loved. Deep love endures
To the end and far past the end. If this is my end,
I am not lonely. I am not afraid. I am still yours.
In its evocation, Rowlands realizes that the two concepts are not mutually opposing things, and the end of that chapter, on one of his female dog’s reactions to Brenin’s death, is perfect.
As is the aforementioned culmination and climax of the book; its last chapter. In it, Rowlands dismisses mere happiness as an end unto itself, that purpose -- especially self-purpose -- has a greater place, and uses the example of Sisyphus to demonstrate, for even were the gods to avail Sisyphus of the balm of enjoying his futile task of rolling his stone up his hill, that joy would still not be a thing worthy, in and of itself. It would be an absurdity, and even a cruelty inflicted by the gods. Rowlands argues for measurable objective success, not subjective joy derived, as what determines if something is good or not. Then he gets to his rub, that once a purpose is chosen and completed, there is no further meaning, and this point is one that Rowlands has addressed in other venues, but never seems to have tackled fully.
To me, the answer is clear: one must choose a purpose that perpetuates itself beyond yourself, and the only things that do this are things that serve not the self, but others: art, science, medicine, public service. Purpose, therefore, can only avoid Rowlands’ logical meaningless dead end if it is directed away from the self. In this way, only in altruism can one selfishly gain a deeper sense of satisfaction. And this can only be achieved, as most things are, via personal volition, willing meaning from the ether, so to speak. Rowlands wraps up his book with the conclusion that one’s own personal meaning thus comes from those few moments that one is at one’s best. These are not those things that are ‘essentially’ you, for stubbornness, stupidity, greed, duplicity or worse, can all be equally essential to a person, but the moments that are the de facto ‘reason’ for one’s existence, as determined via the formulations above, are those in which we are at our peak, in whatever sense of the term best suits one’s fancy - when we are at our most generous, fittest, smartest, fastest, kindest, funniest, etc. As Rowlands puts it, in a pitch perfect diss of religion and blind faith:
Hope is the used-car salesman of human existence: so friendly, so plausible. But you cannot rely on him. What is most important in your life is the you that remains when your hope runs out. Time will take everything from us in the end. Everything we have acquired through talent, industry, and luck will be taken from us. Time takes our strength, our desires, our goals, our projects, our future, our happiness, and even our hope. Anything we can have, anything we can possess, time will take from us. But what time can never take from us is who we were in our best moments.
At the risk of sounding arrogant (but who cares?), I couldn’t have said it better myself, and bravo! Mark Rowlands’ book, The Philosopher And The Wolf, is not just a great read, a great memoir, nor even a great book. It is all of those things, but, if it can just get enough readers, I think it can take on a life of its own, and become a book of sustained and continued philosophic and personal influence. And I mean that of the positive sort, not the way The Prophet nor Jonathan Livingston Seagull are considered such. Rowlands’ book is a masterful work that deserves to be seen as a classic that combines the highest and broadest of human achievement and art. It is didactic without being ponderous, self-deprecating without being precious, and far superior to all the bad self help books on life’s meaning that clutter shelves because the latest Oprah-endorsed guru wants to scam unthinking zombies. I only hope an Oprah, or some other person of influence in the mass media, will stumble upon this book, and give it the larger audience that it deserves. In service to that directed away from the self goal, I urge readers of this review to buy the book, read the book, and thank me later. I can wait. Most others cannot.
Article comments
1 - Sebastian
"smite the apostate down"
That's the language of the Taliban. It has no place in educated society... not even as a metaphor.
This article was a muddle-headed meander of pseudo-science, and superstitious moralising. The errors of logic and fact are so numerous the article is not worth correcting.
Incidentally, fish have a highly developed sense of touch (including an organ designed specifically for it which we do not share: try to guess what it is) and are perfectly capable of feeling pain. What little research there has been into their intelligence also demonstrates a capacity for learning and memory.
It is an error of Victorian proportions to assume that lack of personal knowledge is equivalent to knowledge of lack.