“Book lovers never go to bed alone”

When it comes to literary promiscuity, I’d say I get around. I tend to flit from book to book, sometimes enjoying several at once. Some of these books demand my committed devotion while others could better be described as “one-night stands.” As Catherine might say in Under the Tuscan Sun, “He’s not bad; he’s not good either.”

And then there are some books that you experience once and they alter your soul, but as time goes by you forget about them and move on with life. Perhaps months or years later, your old flame re-enters your life and you wonder how you could ever see the world rightly without its light.

This past weekend I finished Man’s Search for Meaning by Viktor Frankl. I’d characterize this book as an “old flame” kind of book, although our last encounter was mere months ago. At the time, it spoke to the depths of my soul but I didn’t let it change me. I guess I just wasn’t ready. Now I am.

From personal experience, Frankl recounts the power of the human soul to find meaning in all situations, even in the abject suffering of a Nazi concentration camp. If I ever do become a counselor, I plan to incorporate aspects of existential therapy, specifically Frankl’s logotherapy, into my practice. The presupposition of man’s innate significance and capability fascinates me. The world could justifiably be described as absurd, but what really matters is what one chooses to do about his unique situation.

When Frankl speaks of meaning, he says it will “differ from man to man, from moment to moment. Thus it is impossible to define the meaning of life.” On this point, I think many Christians (including myself?) might take issue. Any creature’s meaning in life is to bring ultimate glory to God, therefore it can be defined. Yet this goal seems a little too abstract, and so I think Frankl has a point. Individual, transitory meaning can and must be ascribed in order to propel us in the adventure of life. Frankl writes, “Being human always points, and is directed, to something, or someone, other than oneself—be it a meaning to fulfill or another human being to encounter” (133). It’s why we strive for connection amid perceived isolation. It’s why we long for adventure beyond the drudgery of routine. It’s why we fight for goodness, Truth and beauty in a world that’s “gone to hell.” In these smaller meanings, we can discover the ultimate meaning if only in momentary glimpses.

Frankl concludes his book with a challenge to the reader, “for the world is in a bad state, but everything will become worse unless each one of us does his best. So let us be alert—alert in a twofold sense: Since Auschwitz we know what man is capable of. And since Hiroshima we know what is at stake” (179). At this, I rolled over in almost orgasmic enlightenment. Is this not what we live for? To be worthy of our sufferings for humanity hangs in the balance? Certainly we believe we are no one in particular, but maybe there is something great going on behind the façade of triviality. Perhaps the importance of our experiences on this earth is to find meaning in them, encounter others through them, and in this way gaze upon the divine.