The title of this post comes from the 19th century English prime minister. It is a very macho kind of sentiment and I sometime attempt to adhere to it. Not becuase of it’s tedious macho overtones but more becuase of the fact that complaining and explaining are rarely of any use since nobody really wants to hear about it.
On the other hand I believe that there is a real theraputic function in both complaining and explaining. Right now I have just finished what may be called a week of teaching hell. Not that the workload has been excessively heavy (even if it has been a lot) but I have been stuck in some kind of ennui, boredom, tristess – a blue funk which has been difficult or hard to shake off.
The result is that the pointlessness of work and life have become all too apparent. Usually the pointlessness should not be enough to make life less important. In fact the pointlessness can be seen as being its own reward. Or to follow the words of Camus who writes at the end of his magnificent essay “The Myth of Sisyphus” that “The struggle itself is enough to fill a man’s heart. One must imagine Sisyphus happy.” The task of life should not be valued by the rewards.
On the other hand maybe it is just the fact that its cold, snowing and windy outside. I want less students, more sunshine, more distractions, a better mind, more original ideas, time to explore these ideas and the artfulness to express them well.
The good news is that it’s the weekend soon and the fact that I am complaining should indicate that I am heading in the right direction…