Postmodern literature and Ecclesiastes

“Meaningless! Meaningless!” says the Teacher. “Utterly meaningless! Everything is meaningless.” Ecclesiastes 1:2

I have known from early on that I am a plan person. I like plans. I enjoy knowing where I am going, how I am getting there, and what I am going to do. I like having a purpose. Early on in my childhood, I have memories of my father going over every minute detail of every road trip. The directions would be lying next to the jumbo-sized atlas with the path carefully colored out in highlighter. I knew that we would never get lost as we ventured, because my dad had a plan. We knew where we were going and how we were getting there. We had a purpose. Whether it was to pick up my glasses in downtown Johnstown or driving to the Church of the Brethren’s national conference, we always knew how to get there and why we were going. We always had a purpose. It wasn’t enough to just go for enjoyment or just the pleasure of driving, there needed to be a reason. Perhaps this is because the Crissman household was a very large and very thrifty. Or maybe this desire, to have a plan and a purpose, is more widespread than the Crissmans maybe it is a characteristic of humanity.  

In literary criticism, we were discussing postmodernism vs. modernism. I am no expert on either subject, but as we were speaking of the move away from reason and rationality to a period of questions and uncertainty I kept on thinking about contemporary world lit. Now whether these questions of purpose and identity just happened to be buried during the modernist period or people didn’t have them I don’t know. I am however aware that that the questions that postmodernism are now boldly voicing are not new questions. In fact they have been around for millennia. Now please do not mistake me for having any answers to these deeper questions of purpose and identity or their history across the age. Instead, journey with me to shed light on our culture and humanity, as we look at the reflections of humanity in contemporary literature and Ecclesiastes. I believe that the questions surfacing in Istanbul, Omeros, and White Castle echo those of Solomon in Ecclesiastes, and while humans asking questions is nothing new, but why do we keep  asking  these same ones of our purpose, our plan, our identity?  

Why Ecclesiastes? This semester I have begun attending a bible study where we are working our way through the book of Ecclesiastes with Dr. Hegeman. He calls Ecclesiastes the postmodern gateway to the rest of scripture. Others call it a melancholic, frustrating book. It is a written quandary of an individual’s life without God as he searches for meaning. In some ways making Solomon author of Ecclesiastes, king of Israel, and the wisest man, much like many of our modern characters, questioning.

In Istanbul, Pamuk puts a name to this feeling that is overcoming his city. The Turkish word for melancholy is hüzün. But Pamuk stretches this layered word even farther past “a cultural concept conveying the worldly failure, listlessness, and spiritual suffering” (91) to put a name to the “state of mind that is as ultimately life-affirming as it is negating” (91) of Istanbul and of Pamuk. Istanbul is the story of Pamuk and ultimately Istanbul as they together are coping with life in a fallen empire. When Istanbul was the height of society, were these questions asked? Or is it only in our fallen state do we and Pamuk search out the contrasts, of black and white, and the questions? Asking why, how it was that we got here. What happened to the order, to the plan? Pamuk thrives in the contrasts of black and white, poor and rich, happiness and guilt. These contrasts echo those of Ecclesiastes’ seasons. Why is there is the contrast between birth and death, sorrow and joy, love and hatred? Can we only understand the idea of peace after knowing the horror of war? Is light only understood in relation to darkness? Questions carry us along. 

Unfortunately it is around this time, after asking these deep metaphysical questions that we realize that these words are nothing new. Our ideas merely repeat others. In response to our toil, our questions, Ecclesiastes mocks back:

     What has been will be again, what has been done will be done again;

There is nothing new under the sun.

“Is there anything one can say, ‘Look! This is something new’?

It was here already, long ago;

It was here before our time.

There is no remembrance of men of old, and even those who are yet to come

will not be remembered by those who follow.” Ecclesiastes 1:9-11

And yet this burden of remembrance is laid upon Philoctete. “What does the worker gain from his toil? I have seen the burden God has laid on men” (Ecc. 3:10), Philoctete’s burden, his suffering, his pus-filled wound of his people, of remembering, cripples his body. Is this just? Is not Philoctete justified in drowning out his pain? What is the point of his suffering, to what gain, to what purpose? In White Castle the narrator and Hoja are also looking for meaning, looking for a purpose. They write fiction and search for science, only to fail. Their machine gets stuck, the villagers have no grave sin, and they are lost searching for something to fill the emptiness, some purpose behind their lives. But in the end are interchangeable with each other, not unique in themselves. Living out Dr. Hegeman’s words, “To look in the mirror and see a life without a face, eyes searching for meaning” so are their lives meaningless. 

The sentiment expressed in an article about the interpretation of a 16^th century poet applies to my interpretation of yet another poet’s, albeit postmodern, interpretation.  “It is part of the poem’s work to elicit these feelings so that we recognize them and take due action”(McCofey 100), but what action can we take? What defense against the meaningless, against the melancholy, against the purposelessness as we search for identity, a plan?

After Nietzsche’s claim of “God is dead, and we have killed him,” our postmodern culture is thought to be without God and also I think without hope. A hüzün is hanging over our world. But, perhaps it always has been looming over, only now, are we acknowledging it, in our books, in our poetry, and in our questions. Perhaps this is why I have felt discontent while reading some of our novels. I have hope. I have purpose. God has a plan. But our characters do not, nor does so much of our world. Rather than accepting the hüzün, the melancholy of our world or be abandoned in the searching, let us grasp at hope. Questions are our gateway to hope, but in order to reach through the darkness to the light let us turn to Ecclesiastes conclusion.

Now all has been heard; here is the conclusion of the matter:

 Fear God and keep his commandments, for this is the whole duty of man.

For God will bring every deed into judgment, including every hidden thing,

 whether it is good or evil.

So let us ask our questions in the knowledge that God is sovereign and in control. While we may not know what our plan, much less our purpose is He does. So let us questions with our eyes on hope, as we walk through the hüzün carrying our burdens to Him.