Sexual pleasure causes the body to short-circuit-sultrycare share.

These powerful opposing forces within us, which bind humanity—language and life—to the servitude of lies, are read in literature, where they imbue it with the hidden face of truth. If the cold expression of clear language disappoints, if literature fascinates us, it is because the desire to laugh and love, whether vigorous or subdued, holds us fast.

But in literature, we encounter the same obstacles as in love. Literature has meaning only as happiness, but this pursuit of happiness that compels us to write or read seems to have an unfortunate opposite meaning.

If we consider tragedy, it brings us horror rather than pleasure; if we consider the joy of comedy, such joy seems ambiguous, for we laugh at a degradation, if not at misfortune. The art of the novel demands twists and turns that evoke distress, and, as the saying goes, the depiction of happiness is tiresome.

But literature’s evocation of misfortune seems so necessary to most people that if the writer inspires pleasure, then the dark emotion he employs gives it a painful meaning. Miller himself submitted to this concession, and Sartre undoubtedly gave it its most tragic form.

Often, depictions of happy sexual pleasure seem to fall short of actual sexual pleasure: happiness lacks the resentful, supreme rigor that is the essence of misfortune. Proclamations of ultimate bliss give the impression of a dull, uninteresting poetry (if not a decadent pornography). Recent literature, no longer willing to silence moments of dissolution, offers a barren landscape in this regard.

In fact, a recently published anthology feels frustrating. Writers have certainly tried: they seem to move forward fearlessly, but this very fearlessness is a confession of their unease. It’s no accident that they have made this tragic choice, this hasty presentation, this impoverished display of failed or shameful joy. If the body triumphs, then language can only express that triumph in a retreating movement.

Literature, in various ways, expresses this movement toward happiness that veers toward misfortune. But it doesn’t actually lapse into a tragic or painful narrative: misfortune serves as a stimulus, a revelation of the failure of the forces of resistance. And recent literature, in its depictions of sexual pleasure, has become increasingly curiously prone to betraying happiness and denying the poetry of misfortune.

There may be something insincere here, but it seems to me that modern writers often meekly submit to a rhetorical rule they are unable to articulate.

Perhaps I’m mistaken, but the sexual passages in The Age of Reason have never seemed “true to the facts” to me; I see in them the consequences of an unknown rhetoric that limits literature and imposes a mourning for misfortune—a counterbalance to what it truly is: a desire for happiness.

The absence of the sharp movement of suffering, the general reduction to the “privileged moment,” the dominance of everyday life, undoubtedly demands these pleasures that negate joy without affirming it, these sexual pleasures that accelerate its failure.

If we want to clearly grasp this dance from life to death, from heaven to hell, it is necessary to first recall its material basis. In principle, we are separated from happiness, whether understood in the positive sense of pleasure or the negative sense of rest, because before we can become happy, we must find the means to possess it.

The idea of happiness thus compels us to strive for happiness. But once we strive, we far from bringing us closer to the moment of happiness as we wish, but rather introduce a distance between ourselves and happiness. Once we strive, we place ourselves in the pursuit of happiness—which is not a thing—just as we pursue the direct fruits of our labor, whether it be a house, clothes, or food. We even tend to equate happiness with these fruits, especially in politics.

This becomes even more clear if we note that happiness is conceived of as something to be acquired, even if its demand lies at the opposite level of expenditure. From the heaviest expenditure, namely sexual pleasure (with its attendant luxury and display), to the lightest expenditure, namely rest (a negative expenditure: the resting person consumes little, yet consumes without producing), we cannot feel happy without entering into the perspective of suffering.

If one excludes pathological conditions, then the only escape from suffering is labor. My suffering begins as soon as I, whether accurately or not, discover that I am expending more than I am receiving in a given time. (In terms of resources, physical energy and material possessions are no different, but the uncertainty of the power of labor must be added.) Sexual pleasure certainly suspends suffering, but it also intensifies it: under normal circumstances, the more I expend myself in the hotbed of pleasure, the more I weaken my position.

We are undoubtedly capable of achieving a sensual balance between acquisition and expenditure: sexual satisfaction, through the liberation of certain pathological repressions, often restores this balance in us. But this uncertainty, the misguided tendency to persist in suffering, usually means only that energy depletion does not increase suffering, nor does labor or the acquisition of material goods alleviate it. So much so that we must firmly assume that happiness, so unambiguously conceived, increases suffering. This way of thinking is certainly not universally accepted. Happiness is always conflated with the resources that make it possible. This means that the word “happiness” is used to refer to both acquisition and expenditure, and our expression varies depending on our mood. If we are cheerful, drinking, and radiant, we call that which pleases us happiness; but in sober research, we seek only the coherent effectiveness of our ideas, and happiness is reduced to the resources necessary for our satisfaction. To the extent that the drunkard is wiser than the scholar (or politician): he considers only the calories generated by the consumption of resources. Moreover, rational thinking fails to see that placing happiness on the level of acquisition replaces heat with a life style that rejects heat. For such heat heralds the return of suffering.

After intoxication comes the unpleasant sobriety. The happiness that rejects intoxication is reduced to a life unburdened by suffering. Rational happiness decisively becomes the negation of happiness, for intoxicated happiness is the beginning of unhappiness.

This dialectic is millennia old. Yet, it is not easy to escape the rational and deeply ingrained concept of happiness. Rational people offer a compromise: they refuse to name fleeting pleasure happiness.

Thus, the word happiness has acquired a conventional, simplified meaning. Consequently, discussions often become problematic because people refuse to acknowledge the dual meaning of these terms. Happiness refers not only to something of lasting value but also to something ephemeral (when someone says, “I am extremely happy”).

No one can prevent the word from being used freely in both contexts. I will simply say that the meaning of enduring is necessarily linked to the denial of the meaning of transience (and vice versa). Anyone who finds happiness in what lasts cannot consider transience: for him, value is tied to the acquisition of resources, and the expenditure of resources is desirable only insofar as it contributes to the continuation of happiness. Conversely, in the value of transience, endurance ceases to matter.

Reason has consigned the transience to a hell of suffering. If one chooses endurance, then the importance of transience undoubtedly vanishes completely. But if so, there is no regard for prudence. Under such conditions, what persists in transience is not its powerful value, nor is it its affirmation. Active happiness or expenditure is confined to insignificant forms, never to be recognized for what they are.

Thus, what is most meaningful to man, what holds his most powerful allure, is the extreme moment of life: a moment, by its very wasteful nature, defined as meaningless. It is a temptation, a moment that should not have happened; it is the stubborn animality in man, surrendered by humanity to the world of things and reason. Thus, the most intimate truth is cast into a hateful and inaccessible obscurity.

But it is not abolished. It simply retreats into the night. The rational rejection of suffering and the submission to labor can only deprive consumption of its ultimate value. Persistence is only a pathetic compromise: the more alluring the suffering itself, the more limited the tenuous allure of persistence.

But our desire to preserve persistence has surrendered our most intimate moments to a cruelty, to a degradation. This is not to say that these moments have lost their fundamental value, but that this fundamental value can no longer be accessed on the same level, for it now assumes a terrifying aspect of shame, and we have lost our awareness of it.

Thus, suffering, banished along with happiness, is no longer simply suffering. It has become closely linked to happiness and, in a sense, has become even more painful, because it no longer responds to a simple danger like fear: the danger that suffering resists arises from the possibility of extreme happiness. But not only is our fear multiplied by the attraction of danger; likewise, the resistance of suffering increases the intensity of our happiness, if we ultimately yield to its pull. Thus, the quest for the Holy Grail—where man laments his lost happiness—is linked to the quest for suffering, and deep sexual pleasure can only be experienced in suffering.

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