Does completeness signify a lack of life?

Metaphysics & Epistemology
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Below is a monologue by the protagonist from the film Stalker (1978, directed by Tarkovsky):

“Let what was conceived come to pass. Let them believe. And let them laugh at their passions; for what they call passion is not truly spiritual energy, but merely friction between the soul and the outside world. And above all, let them believe in themselves and become helpless like children, for weakness is great, and strength is insignificant… When a person is born, he is weak and supple; when he dies, he is rigid and hard. When a tree grows, it is tender and flexible; when it is dry and hard, it dies. Rigidity and strength are companions of death; flexibility and weakness express the freshness of being. Therefore, that which has hardened shall not triumph.”

This particular thought intrigued me greatly, even though the film is rich in many other meanings.

It seems the filmmakers took this idea from the Tao Te Ching.

“…Let them believe in themselves and become helpless like children…” This is a rather profound, counter-intuitive inversion of what we are accustomed to.

Life as becoming—its very possibility—lies in incompleteness, in a lack of rigidity, in plasticity; qualities made possible, in turn, by weakness and pliability.

The completeness of a form implies its finished state, yet with that completeness, life itself—as a process of becoming—comes to an end. To structure, to systematize, to bring to completion—these are the aims of the intellect as it grows strong. Yet it is precisely this completion that threatens death.

What is your take on such ideas? Is this not the true quintessence of any philosophy?

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As you say the sentiment in the quote is very Taoist.

“The highest form of goodness is like water. Water nourishes the ten thousand things and does not try to. It contentedly settles in places that people disdain. Thus, it is very close to the Tao.”

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Yes, of course, what has been said is highly poetic—and, in a sense, imprecise. Questions immediately arise: is becoming truly infinite? After all, any process of becoming in the present moment is possible only within a given form. Moreover, why should weakness—rather than strength—be the necessary space for the becoming of the human being?

From an analytical standpoint, there are more questions than answers, and the assertion itself is easily refuted. Yet, it is precisely such texts that create a sense of participating in the truth within the moment of one’s own existence—much like poetry, music, or art.

I hope that the philosophical mind, despite its rigor and exacting nature, proves highly receptive to the very premises that spark all subsequent intellectual inquiry.

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I think ‘weakness’ is the wrong word. Yielding or suppleness might be a better word. Taoism is full of allegories like how water will wear down a moutain range. It’s not weak, but it’s also not proud or haughty. But then, Jesus was also like that. Born in a manger, you know. Not a potentate or emperor but a servant.

I don’t really understand what bearing this has on ‘becoming’, though. For some reason, I am reminded of Krishnamurti, ‘the old must cease for the new to be’. For Krishnamurti, becoming was always an endless quest which never found fulfilment, it was always pursuit, trying to get or to be. Likewise in Plato, there was always a contrast drawn between being and becoming, being was the only real object of knowledge, becoming was the sensory realm of the transient and the ephemeral.

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I perceive a connection here: the passage contrasts completeness with life. “A tree is dry and rigid when it dies.” Life ebbs away when the entity bearing it becomes too rigid, too hard—too “complete.” In other words, my view is this: life itself is the gap between the current state and a state that allows for no further change. “Becoming” is not yet life in the fullest sense, yet it is impossible without room for internal restructuring or external change.

Thus, strength—as a symbol of rigidity—diminishes vitality itself.

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But rigidity is not strength and suppleness is not weakness.

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Interestingly, the original source puts it exactly this way:

76 Tao Te Ching:

At birth, a human being is tender and weak; at death, he is rigid and stiff. All creatures and plants are tender and weak at birth; at death, they are dry and withered. The rigid and stiff are what perish, while the tender and weak are what begin to live. Therefore, a mighty army does not triumph, and a strong tree meets its end.

The strong and mighty do not possess the advantage that the tender and weak do.

Here, strength, rigidity, and stiffness are treated as equivalents. There is a distinct concept here—albeit one that is perhaps open to debate.

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It could also be considered that Tao was a renunciate philosophy. Confucius was gently parodied for being conventional and legalistic.

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This passage aligns with the very old idea of flexibility, such as that of a bamboo. We lose flexibility as we learn, acquire experience, and become rigid in our ways. The tao suggests a life of adaptability and flexibility: yield, give way, accept and be open.

Force and dominance cannot sway to the direction of the wind.

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Yes, the future is open, unknown and uncertain. Among the many other lessons in what you say, this is one of them.

Interesting topic…

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I prefer Taoism to, say, Buddhism, as I find that it has a sense of humour, as Buddhism seems not to. When/if asked, I call myself a Gaian Taoist, as regards spiritual matters. But this is a bit of a derail, so I’ll shut up now. :wink:

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@Astorre

Ultimately the quote seems to point to the vitality and wisdom of being humble and cooperative.

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Does completeness signify a lack of life?

If completeness conveys a kind of heavenly satisfaction with the way things are, then I envy those who have arrived there. Even in such a state one is animated, pursuing the cycles that has become the structure of that satisfaction.

The problem of being alive is that we will be always be incomplete, until the question has no further relevance to us. This is the burden of kinds of hunger (desire), whether rudimentary or sophisticated.

This question evokes potent and poetic analogues of the Taijitu. Earth sits between the Sun and the colder outer darkness. In that sweet spot life exploded, but it never rests whether in its biological or psychological (r)evolutions.

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These brief lines seem to hold so much meaning that, as you try to pin down even a shred of it in concrete terms, you experience an unverifiable sense of clarity—yet you are left without any specific judgment to show for it. It is like a game. A game of philosophy?

Knowledge is power. Surprisingly, by imposing structure on events, refining details, and extracting specifics from a unified whole, we seem to gain control over them. Yet, paradoxically, in gaining that control and power—and the rigidity that comes with it—we lose that very sense of vitality and wonder at the simple things. It follows, then, that the knowledge which grants power simultaneously renders the knower less alive; the “magic” vanishes.

Often, when I see someone working diligently on something, I ask myself: you might create this and solve a specific problem, but what comes next? Will the problem vanish, or will its resolution give rise to new ones?

“Theories of everything” frequently appear on this forum. On the surface, they look like solutions to every problem—concepts that unravel the mystery of existence. Of course, upon closer inspection, things turn out to be far less simple. The very idea of ​​finding that elusive description—one that captures reality with absolute precision and offers a definitive resolution—seems both intuitive and logical. For some reason, our brains are wired to simplify, to reduce everything to a single, all-encompassing truth. Yet, it is precisely in that state of resolution that a sense of finality lies; consequently, life—at least as we understand it—ceases to exist. All that remains is an algorithm.

Yes, I see that too. Moreover, to my mind, the concept of the “thing-in-itself” (or “thing in and of itself”) is an elegant mental construct that allows us to treat an object as a concept for the sake of understanding. The catch, however, is that nothing I have ever encountered can exist apart from something else: coins lying on a table remain coins precisely because the external environment allows them to retain that form (to use Pinter’s example).

The point here is that “becoming” is made possible through changes in interaction—through being embedded in something else. In this sense, the rigidity of wood effectively drops out of the process of becoming, because its very stiffness prevents it from changing (in conjunction with something else).

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Schopenhauer wrote that the artist/philosopher is an insect that wants to lay its eggs so that it can die in peace. Dostoevsky also has Shatov discuss “this desire to get to the end” in The Possessed.

“The life of the child is the death of the parent.” Romantic love is directed toward this sacrifice. Great passion is future oriented, even death oriented. “Till death do us part.” But those who believe in Heaven look forward to being re-united with spouses especially.

I am a romantic in practice, however cynical in theory. Long married and planning to stay that way. The “glue” is no joke. I mean it survives the jokes of the pessimist.

Completion promises death. But we sort of don’t want it to keep this promise. “Make me chaste O Lord, but not quite yet.”

Perhaps ambivalence is another good candidate as surrogate concept for being “really” live.

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Well said !

The dry tree is even the “crystallized residue.” As Feuerbach puts it, death is our final transmission. We become “pure culture” or “pure sign.” No longer flesh, we live on as “meme-crystal” —if anyone bothers to remember, and this is of course the exception rather than the rule. But perhaps we can’t help but to aspire toward becoming a lifeless monument to the process driven by that very aspiration.

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@j_j

Yes. It was a magnificent film. After watching it, I walked around for several days reflecting on what I had seen. And yet I couldn’t shake the feeling that something was missing. Then, quite unexpectedly, I happened to watch the film “Good Will Hunting” from 1997. I don’t know if you’ve seen it, but if not, I highly recommend it.

It’s astonishing, but “Stalker” and “Good Will Hunting” seemed to complement each other, even though both films come from different eras; the first is Soviet and the second is American.

The subject is vulnerability. In “Stalker” we understand that incompleteness constitutes life, whereas Will shows us a particular case of the possibility of such incompleteness. The protagonist at 20 years old is a genius. But at the same time he wants nothing, he’s perfectly content, and he doesn’t want to realize himself. Yes, whether one must necessarily realize oneself or whether that’s merely a modern Western narrative is a separate ethical question (let’s set that aside).

But life itself begins to happen to the protagonist only when he becomes vulnerable before the “Other.” That is, that “hardening of the tree” — it’s not about age when it comes to a person. It’s about closedness to risk, to recklessness, to the ability to surrender oneself to the will of another or of chance.

Becoming in this (human) sense presents itself to us as the capacity to open oneself to an encounter with the unknown. The capacity to become vulnerable. Only then does something happen. Yes — it can be both victory and defeat, but only by becoming open to trauma does that possibility arise.

In life I often encounter people who have fenced themselves off from the world with views, dogmas, convictions, the names of great philosophers and their concepts. All of this is incredible and allows one to cope with the anxiety and unpredictability of existence. However, all of this simultaneously deprives one of the very possibility of “aliveness” — of “the openness of a wound to feeling.”

And in the film “Good Will Hunting” (by the way, the title is a great play on words and can be read in different ways) — the hero’s attempt to become vulnerable before the Other is shown.

Summing up what has been said, and if one looks at all of this dryly and analytically, little will remain. After all, the ideas I’ve presented can easily be deconstructed, and counterexamples can be shown. But I like these speculations, damn it!

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I love Good Will Hunting. Robin Williams is also great in Dead Poets Society, which I highly recommend.

I very much agree. The sore is arose. Or a sore arose. There is no great love affair and no great friendship without a terrible trust that enables open-ness. I cannot feel recognized and loved unless of course I show myself in my entirety. I must make myself vulnerable to betrayal.

“Those who restrain desire do so because their desire is weak enough to be restrained.” This is Blake. You mention people “hiding” ( my term ) in the crystallizations of “great” philosophers. This almost sums up the tragedy. The great philosopher was dangerously alive. Their gesture was a risk. But once they become “great” and “established,” that risk is gone. So now the same work provides an opportunity to “hide in scripture.” A cynic might say that this kind of appropriation ( of Heidegger perhaps) is just a reaction to fame. The “generic signifier” of “I am deep” becomes a substitute for personal risk, personal risky self-assertion or just self-exposure. Presumably exposure makes more sense before the phase of assertion. Assertion comes later, when the exposure is perceived to have uncovered something neglected. If something is uncovered.

I think we both reject “fixed doctrine.” I also think we both accept the possibility of “solid findings.” I mean that “searching” need not lead nowhere. What I find for myself need not be valuable to everyone else. But in genuine relationships I will of course share what I find valuable with others, risking misunderstanding and betrayal.

It’s good stuff, my friend !

We aren’t doing math here. To me this is “wisdom writing.”

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Generally speaking, engaging in philosophy is, in a sense, a step toward life itself; after all, few people are capable of turning to a different worldview—thereby exposing their own previous outlook to a degree of vulnerability. In the process of inquiry, one might easily discover that one has been mistaken all along. And not everyone is willing to consciously venture into a place where the constructs they’ve invented for themselves might cease to be a comfortable cocoon.

Yet, this is precisely where another trap often lies: suppose you have passed through the “millstones of nihilism,” or embraced a religion or some other “-ism,” only to stop there—simply parroting that ideology. In this way, philosophy turns out to be just another way to become rigid; I imagine you have met such people.

If one goes further, it implies constantly scraping away the thin scab forming over a wound, keeping it “raw.” Yet, on the flip side, this very approach can easily devolve into flightiness or an inability to make any decision at all.

Hence, balance is crucial. After all, a tree that never hardens cannot grow taller than the grass; without a stabilizing foundation, the capacity for growth is lost. So, perhaps I should be a bit more cautious with my own “openness to vulnerability.”

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I think you are on to something. Even if a person converges “ideologically” toward a fixed sense of the world, that does not at all erase the general vulnerability at the basis of genuine human relationships. So for me this issue has at least two branches.

I may converge as a philosopher, but I am socially “dead” if I am no longer open to new relationships or new depths in current relationships.

Then even a relatively congealed and stable set of beliefs allows for an infinite variety of presentations. We might imagine a philosopher who first writes an earnest manifesto. But he or she goes on to write an elusive novel, that contains the same beliefs in a much richer context. These same beliefs are themselves presented with more vulnerability. The elusive author is not obviously endorsing them and perhaps even focuses on the case against them. Joyce famous featured this “dramatic” mode as the highest authorial mode. The author does not obviously appear as any of the characters on the stage.

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