// end of the world //
May 18, 2015
What I've Learned
Ethan Herenstein
Over my past few years at Columbia, I’ve come to learn a few things. Among them:
that 114th street smells worse than 115th street, but that 113th smells still worse;
that olfactorily judging streets is totally normal, especially when you’re walking by Dig Inn every morning on your way to yet another class;
that the following formula holds: work - sleep - drink - log(friendships) = productivity;
that the supra usage of a logarithmic function in what is otherwise an elementary, arbitrary formula is both pretentious and hollow and will surely cause my sister’s eyes to roll not only in a sanctimonious expression of fed-up-edness but also, deep down, in a gesture of defeat with regards to said logarithmic function, and really all functions writ large;
that reducing life to a formula, even one as simple (and exhaustive) as the one above, is never a good idea;
that the following formula, too, therefore, holds: life + formulas = bad life;
that in deconstructing the formulaic nature of life we sometimes fall back into formula-making, and that this is both ironic and, in a weird way, comforting, but don’t ask me why because I haven’t yet solved that formula;
that no matter how many times I vow to shut off my phone and disconnect, and regardless of how seriously I consider dumping my Facebook account (once and for all), I’ll never actually do it, because I’m scared and because I’m addicted;
that Douglas Adams and David Foster Wallace have plenty in common, not the least of which is their skepticism of technology, and that if, together, they were to derive a formula, they would value social media as a net-negative;
that those who have actually read Douglas Adams will often, rightfully, push back here, and point to Adams’ profound and very-much-public love of technology, and, while they’re at it, point out how ridiculous it is to throw DFW in here because DFW actually hated technology and even wrote his books— his long, rambling books—by hand, and so the above point is stupid and false and ought to be redacted at once lest this entire list lose credibility;
that maybe “skepticism” is the wrong word, but that there is something here in this relationship between Adams and DFW, and that maybe what they shared was a non- superficial engagement with technology, and that anyone who is still hesitant to accept this equality should go (re)read Adams’ passage about the Babble Fish, which is damn-near saturated with meaning, and if, upon reading said passage, they still don’t see what I’m talking about, well then, we can agree to disagree;
that it is possible to disagree amicably, even about serious shit;
that whoever doesn’t see what I mean about Adams and DFW touching on a similar nerve is a fucking idiot—amicably.
that addiction comes in all sorts of shapes and sizes;
that among the images of addiction might very well be me, Ethan, sitting at my desk, trying in vain to read, say, Spinoza, and instead helplessly watching my hand reach for my phone, positive that I’ve just that moment received an infinitely-pressing message, one which were I to ignore it, might very well ruin everything, and in fact might render my reading of Spinoza not only meaningless but pernicious, and so but of course I reach for my phone because it would be irresponsible not to, and so what if I don’t actually have a message, or if the message is just another update from LinkedIn informing me that people are checking out my profile, because the point is that it could have been anyone, it could have even been my grandmother, and I’ll be damned if I miss her call on some stupid principle;
that Spinoza actually created a formula for life, but the contents of said formula currently elude me, probably because I was too busy checking my phone while I should have been reading;
that when one of your friends teases that you’re addicted to your phone, she’s probably not wrong, and that the worst way to respond to the tease is to reach into your pocket for your phone, even if it was just an ironic joke, because that’s not funny and you’re just avoiding problems like you always do, Ethan;
that it’s always a good idea to confront problems head-on rather than letting them ferment, because fermented problems are, on the whole, much more disagreeable than their non-fermented counterparts;
that time heals all wounds, except those that look at time dead in the face and just scoff;
that wounds can, surprisingly, scoff, and on top of that, that wounds can scoff at such immaterial, abstract entities as time;
that just because when you were a freshman you had this idealized vision of what it meant to be a junior, and that in said vision you had it all figured out and you were sure of where you were heading, this doesn’t mean that you actually should have it all figured out as a junior because who really knows at 21 years old where your life is heading;
that I’m neither smart enough nor interested enough to pursue a PhD, and that I’m neither talented enough nor motivated enough to write, and that, after ruling out these two professions, it feels that all that’s reasonably left is finance, which is weird because this is obviously unreasonable, and because, as far as I could tell, finance had no place in my formula;
that there is no better feeling than arriving in class having done the reading;
that “doing the reading” is one of those terms which means a whole lot of things to a very many people, but that, at bottom, there really is only one way to “do the reading,” and that is to, you know, do the reading;
that if I were to revise the formula above, I would include naps somewhere in the equation, because happiness has got to be a function of naps, though music’s place in the formula is still up for debate;
that it’s a whole lot easier to list all these edifications than it is to arrange them neatly, in some essay-like way;
that it’s a whole lot harder to end a list than it is to end an essay because an essay is getting at something, whereas this list, I think, is getting away from something, and all it takes is a bit of intuition to know when you’ve gotten to where you’re going, but it’s a whole ‘nother ball game to figure out if you’re far enough away from whatever it is that you’re getting away from;
that when I’m not sure where to go with an argument, I tend to make as extreme a claim as I can conceive and then dial it back, little-by-little, until I’ve arrived at something more palatable (cf. DFW, Adams argument, supra);
that the best way to end a piece—essay, list, or otherwise—is to make a short, declamatory exclamation, one that doesn’t so much upend what you’ve heretofore said inasmuch as it casts some doubt on what’s come before;
that it’s kind of cheesy to foreshadow the content and context of your ending;
that it’s time to shut my laptop.
that 114th street smells worse than 115th street, but that 113th smells still worse;
that olfactorily judging streets is totally normal, especially when you’re walking by Dig Inn every morning on your way to yet another class;
that the following formula holds: work - sleep - drink - log(friendships) = productivity;
that the supra usage of a logarithmic function in what is otherwise an elementary, arbitrary formula is both pretentious and hollow and will surely cause my sister’s eyes to roll not only in a sanctimonious expression of fed-up-edness but also, deep down, in a gesture of defeat with regards to said logarithmic function, and really all functions writ large;
that reducing life to a formula, even one as simple (and exhaustive) as the one above, is never a good idea;
that the following formula, too, therefore, holds: life + formulas = bad life;
that in deconstructing the formulaic nature of life we sometimes fall back into formula-making, and that this is both ironic and, in a weird way, comforting, but don’t ask me why because I haven’t yet solved that formula;
that no matter how many times I vow to shut off my phone and disconnect, and regardless of how seriously I consider dumping my Facebook account (once and for all), I’ll never actually do it, because I’m scared and because I’m addicted;
that Douglas Adams and David Foster Wallace have plenty in common, not the least of which is their skepticism of technology, and that if, together, they were to derive a formula, they would value social media as a net-negative;
that those who have actually read Douglas Adams will often, rightfully, push back here, and point to Adams’ profound and very-much-public love of technology, and, while they’re at it, point out how ridiculous it is to throw DFW in here because DFW actually hated technology and even wrote his books— his long, rambling books—by hand, and so the above point is stupid and false and ought to be redacted at once lest this entire list lose credibility;
that maybe “skepticism” is the wrong word, but that there is something here in this relationship between Adams and DFW, and that maybe what they shared was a non- superficial engagement with technology, and that anyone who is still hesitant to accept this equality should go (re)read Adams’ passage about the Babble Fish, which is damn-near saturated with meaning, and if, upon reading said passage, they still don’t see what I’m talking about, well then, we can agree to disagree;
that it is possible to disagree amicably, even about serious shit;
that whoever doesn’t see what I mean about Adams and DFW touching on a similar nerve is a fucking idiot—amicably.
that addiction comes in all sorts of shapes and sizes;
that among the images of addiction might very well be me, Ethan, sitting at my desk, trying in vain to read, say, Spinoza, and instead helplessly watching my hand reach for my phone, positive that I’ve just that moment received an infinitely-pressing message, one which were I to ignore it, might very well ruin everything, and in fact might render my reading of Spinoza not only meaningless but pernicious, and so but of course I reach for my phone because it would be irresponsible not to, and so what if I don’t actually have a message, or if the message is just another update from LinkedIn informing me that people are checking out my profile, because the point is that it could have been anyone, it could have even been my grandmother, and I’ll be damned if I miss her call on some stupid principle;
that Spinoza actually created a formula for life, but the contents of said formula currently elude me, probably because I was too busy checking my phone while I should have been reading;
that when one of your friends teases that you’re addicted to your phone, she’s probably not wrong, and that the worst way to respond to the tease is to reach into your pocket for your phone, even if it was just an ironic joke, because that’s not funny and you’re just avoiding problems like you always do, Ethan;
that it’s always a good idea to confront problems head-on rather than letting them ferment, because fermented problems are, on the whole, much more disagreeable than their non-fermented counterparts;
that time heals all wounds, except those that look at time dead in the face and just scoff;
that wounds can, surprisingly, scoff, and on top of that, that wounds can scoff at such immaterial, abstract entities as time;
that just because when you were a freshman you had this idealized vision of what it meant to be a junior, and that in said vision you had it all figured out and you were sure of where you were heading, this doesn’t mean that you actually should have it all figured out as a junior because who really knows at 21 years old where your life is heading;
that I’m neither smart enough nor interested enough to pursue a PhD, and that I’m neither talented enough nor motivated enough to write, and that, after ruling out these two professions, it feels that all that’s reasonably left is finance, which is weird because this is obviously unreasonable, and because, as far as I could tell, finance had no place in my formula;
that there is no better feeling than arriving in class having done the reading;
that “doing the reading” is one of those terms which means a whole lot of things to a very many people, but that, at bottom, there really is only one way to “do the reading,” and that is to, you know, do the reading;
that if I were to revise the formula above, I would include naps somewhere in the equation, because happiness has got to be a function of naps, though music’s place in the formula is still up for debate;
that it’s a whole lot easier to list all these edifications than it is to arrange them neatly, in some essay-like way;
that it’s a whole lot harder to end a list than it is to end an essay because an essay is getting at something, whereas this list, I think, is getting away from something, and all it takes is a bit of intuition to know when you’ve gotten to where you’re going, but it’s a whole ‘nother ball game to figure out if you’re far enough away from whatever it is that you’re getting away from;
that when I’m not sure where to go with an argument, I tend to make as extreme a claim as I can conceive and then dial it back, little-by-little, until I’ve arrived at something more palatable (cf. DFW, Adams argument, supra);
that the best way to end a piece—essay, list, or otherwise—is to make a short, declamatory exclamation, one that doesn’t so much upend what you’ve heretofore said inasmuch as it casts some doubt on what’s come before;
that it’s kind of cheesy to foreshadow the content and context of your ending;
that it’s time to shut my laptop.
// ETHAN HERENSTEIN is a Junior in Columbia College and Managing Editor of The Current. He can be reached at ejh2177@columbia.edu.