Apropos of the Sinners

by SpitFlame

Part II – Chapter I – A Narrator's Self-Interest

PART II

A PRIORI; A POSTERIOR

* * *

Do you recall, dear reader, the question to which I addressed you?—What is your life philosophy?

Most of this chapter will be devoted to grappling with the nature of such a question, and so, owing to common decency, I must apologize in advance if that subject does not strike your fancy. Now, to be sure, I'm well aware that I will not be able to hear the reader, and so the question posed is, in essence, a rhetorical one. Go figure.

But to understand and even study these existential troubles is almost a prerequisite for what's to come. I do hope, from the bottom of this narrator's heart, that this won't pose too much of an obstacle for you. If you've read this far then I'm very confident in your intelligence.

Say, intelligence is a tricky little beast, isn't it? It doesn't help that it takes a lot more than intelligence to act intelligently; but, to mix in a little poetic spite, intelligence all on its own can be counterintuitive. Oh, dear reader, what lavish praise, what positive attention, shall be adorned upon the intelligent individual for their intelligence. It's expected, really, like the end of a formula. But a bad analogy: formulas are by no means the ideal method in determining the nature of our development.

You know, dear reader, I believe that the intelligent individual will invariably fall in love with their own creation—a double-edged sword, that is! This would be, what you may call, the arrogance of the intellect. The schools will say that every soul is a creative one—but that's a lie, isn't it? A worse lie than statistics! We all know that creativity constitutes a gem in the rough—and doubly so for intelligence.

This estimation is a most unseemly one, dear reader, and especially so for the so-called arrogance of the intellect. What good is intelligence if all it will lead to is arithmetic? Formulas and more formulas. What do the formulas dictate? That if all our desires—all our rational faculties—were adjusted in such a way that they coincided perfectly with our self-interest, that would bring about eternal prosperity. Do we owe the decline of suffering to our intellect? To these formulas of a bygone era?

No. "And why not?" you may be so good as to inquire. But, to start off properly, it is not my intention to paint a picture of my beliefs while muddying the opposition's. That would turn me from a bad narrator to a very bad one. But these formulas are objective, pillars of reality, blind to the subjective. We can, at the very least, discuss those.

Let us suppose that all of our rational faculties and psychological inclinations were set up as so they followed our self-interest, and nothing more. What would become of it? Can it be, is it even plausible, that the desired utopia so longed for throughout our history—can it be that such a dream would be ushered in? Shower us with riches untold; grant us infinite economic prosperity; give us every conceivable luxury. Can you attest to such a golden dream? No, stupid question. Is that golden dream desirable?

After all, this abdication of suffering and the bringing forth of a paradise follows perfectly in line with our self-interest, or so argues the intellect. These formulas of logic and rationality—would they not please our minds if it came to pass that, owing to this golden dream, all that there was left to do was eat, sleep, and busy yourself with the continuation of your species? That's what you want, I suppose—to remove, one by one like threads from a loose sheet, these inherent vulnerabilities and limitations so characteristic of our existence. "That's exactly it," you declare, in a show of confidence much greater than my own. Fine then. The perfect utopia, the golden dream, as it were, is yours.

But still, out of sheer ingratitude, you would risk it all. If for nothing else than to prove that a mere formula holds no sway over your free will; you would go stark, raving mad, breaking everything, tossing aside your favorite luxuries and burning this heavenly soil into ash—dust to dust, as they say. You would risk everything, just to prove a point. Consider, dear reader: what makes you think that having everything you ever wanted would satisfy you? What if being dissatisfied is what satisfies you? What if these impossible imaginations of ours—these vulnerabilities, these limitations, these sources of unending suffering—what if that is precisely what gives your life meaning?

Dear reader, would you give up the will to live in order to settle in prosperity? And what has the intellect to say? Now, you may be so good as to agree with the former question, stating that our self-interest in and of itself would abate such a catastrophe, and therefore the most golden of dreams would be put into place. In such a case, economic and social prosperity are the sum total of all that is needed in the material world. But individuals, from all walks of life, will knowingly act against their self-interest. This is a recorded fact. Is your free will no longer necessary if it does not act in accordance to your self-interest? Naturally. The only reason we ask ourselves these questions is the symptom of a lack of rational self-interest. Before we can invent new suffering for ourselves, the formulas would step in before they could be acted upon, and rational self-interest would immediately take its place.

Good heavens, dear reader. What sort of life is that? If all our lives are predicated on perfect formulas and perfect calculations, and we were rid of our ability to act with ingratitude, then, out of unfathomable spite, we would intentionally rid ourselves of our reason—just to prove our point! What sort of life—or even better—what sort of meaning is there left, the sort of meaning mediated by our free will, when everything is a case of arithmetic? That is no life at all!

No life at all.

And so, dear reader, as a display of intelligence, the intellect will argue with arguments; and how terribly intelligent these arguments are! But arguments are nothing more than a priori conclusions to ideal presuppositions. In short: ideas.

Tell me, from where will the intellect obtain these ideas? Oh, believe me, creating an original idea all on your own is no easy feat. Instead, what every intelligent soul will fall towards, is this: they will stretch their skin, as far as it can go, and into the pores let enter ideas from foreign intellects whom they admire. When these ideas enter into their being, it possesses them like a phantom. And by the end, the intellect will be chock full of ideas not their own, but act as if they came up with them! Even as I say these words, dear reader, I confess that even I am a thief of ideas. Originality is so very difficult!

But enough of this. Enough, enough. These are all words from our fellow Cluster Tale. It was he who wrote such devastations and circulated them through the minds of our good ponies.

Cluster Tale had, since yesterday, re-established his hold on things. The Summer Sun Celebration was practically finished. A few more check ups—on the food, the weather, et cetera—and Princess Celestia would be given the green light to fly on over. In any case, there still stood in his consciousness the matter of the family meeting tomorrow. He awaited with not a bated breath. We will get to this sooner rather than later.

But anyway, it would do us some good to return to the current story, in the interest of both time and pacing, and, by extension, reaffirm my status as narrator. That would be most appropriate, wouldn't you agree? So...

* * *

Morning came as a seeming slow burn. The clouds had been cleared, and the air was nice and warm.

But Airglow was already awake. She managed just four hours of sleep and still felt in herself a sort of latent energy to drive on, not sensing the least trace of weariness in herself. Her mouth had dried up, so she went to get some water, making sure not to wake anypony. Having been refreshed and livened up, she at once got her saddlebag ready and waited for the sun to rise; in the meantime she took out that golden ticket Misty bestowed upon her.

"A train ticket, huh?" she thought out loud, as was her habit. "Hmm... the Flying Rift Express, transcontinental." She flipped it to read the text on the back. "Goes east, then parts up to the northern lands, and returns from the west. There's first, second, and third class. This is gold, so it's first class. For rich ponies only."

A line of pleasure briefly appeared on her lips, but it vanished just as quickly.

"Misty was really nice to offer this to me, but do I need it? It's for two ponies, so maybe I can give it to Olva and Twinkie? No, Olva would never let me run the library by myself, and besides, I don't think even I'd trust myself."

She reminded herself that this train was reserved for the upcoming month, and as such, she didn't need to stress over such trifles so soon. There would be time for that later. Eventually the sun came up, and she took off, bidding a farewell to Olva at the kitchen.

"Wherever are you heading off to, dear?" asked Olva.

"My dad's house. I'll be back in time for my shift, don't you worry."

"Her father...?" Olva muttered to herself, looking down with a lost expression. "Airglow's father, that nasty Bronze character? Hmm. Oh, think nothing of it, you silly mare."

Author's Note:

Just here to add that in my headcanon, ponies typically reach their coming of age and, consequently, move out of their parents' homes around 13 or 14.