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By some coincidence, a few of the books that I enjoyed tremendously quoted the words of one Bertrand Russell. A philosopher, logician and social critic, he was awarded the Nobel Prize in Literature in 1950, and raised much controversy (among stoic conservatives and religious bigots, I would surmise) with his theories and brilliant insight. 

I am not a happy person, never have been. As a child, my favorite Winnie-the-Pooh character was Eeyore. For most of human history, I would have been considered normal. Happiness, in this life, on this earth, was a prize reserved for the gods and the fortunate few. Today, though, not only is happiness considered possible for anyone to attain, it is expected. Thus, I, and millions of others, suffer from the uniquely modern malady that historian Darrin McMahon calls "the unhappiness of not being happy." It is no fun at all.

Believe it or not, most people in the world say they are happy. Why does this come as a surprise? Two types of people, I think, are to blame: journalists and philosophers. The media report, as a rule, only bad news: wars, famine, the latest Hollywood couple's implosion. The philosophers, though, are the real culprits--the brooding white guys from Europe. They tended to wear all black, smoke too much, and had trouble getting dates. So they hung out, alone, in cafes, pondering the universe, and--surprise!--concluded it is an unhappy place. Worse of all was Freud. While not technically a brooding philosopher, Freud did much to shape our views on happiness. He once said: "The intention that Man should be happy is not in the plan of Creation." That is a remarkable statement, especially coming from a man whose ideas forged the foundation of our mental-health system. Imagine of some doctor in turn-of-the-century Vienna had declared: "The intention that Man should have a healthy body is not in the plan of Creation." We'd probably lock him up, or at least strip him of his medical license. We certainly wouldn't base our entire medical system on his ideas. Yet that is exactly what we did with Freud.

Do not stand at my grave and weep,
I am not there, I do not sleep.
I am in a thousand winds that blow,
I am the softly falling snow.
I am the gentle showers of rain,
I am the fields of ripening grain.
I am in the morning hush,
I am in the graceful rush
Of beautiful birds in circling flight,
I am the starshine of the night.
I am in the flowers that bloom,
I am in a quiet room.
I am in the birds that sing,
I am in each lovely thing.
Do not stand at my grave and cry,
I am not there. I do not die.

~ Mary Elizabeth Frye (1905-2004)

I don't see where the college has the right to force me to listen to a clergyman of whatever faith even once, or to listen to a Christian hymn even once, given that I am an atheist who is, to be truthful, deeply offended by the practices and beliefs of organized religion. I do not need the sermons of professional moralists to tell me how I should act. I certainly don't need any God to tell me how. I am altogether capable of leading a moral existence without crediting beliefs that are impossible to substantiate and beyond credulity, that, to my mind, are nothing more than fairy tales for children held by adults, and in no more foundation in fact than a belief in Santa Claus.

... Bertrand Russell, who is one of the world's foremost logicians as well as a philosopher and a mathematician, undoes with logic that is beyond dispute the first-cause argument, the natural-law argument, the argument from design, the moral argument for a deity, and the argument for the remedying of injustice ... He also discusses the defects in Christ's teaching as Christ appears in the Gospels, while noting that historically it is quite doubtful that Christ ever existed. To him the most serious defect in Christ's moral character is his belief in the existence of hell. Russell writes, 'I do not myself feel that any person who is really profoundly humane can believe in everlasting punishment,' and he accuses Christ of a vindictive fury against those people who would not listen to his preaching. He discusses with complete candor how the churches have retarded human progress and how, by their insistence on what they choose to call morality, they inflict on all sorts of people undeserved and unnecessary suffering. Religion, he declares, is based primarily and mainly on fear-- fear of the mysterious, fear of defeat, and fear of death. Fear, Bertrand Russell says, is the parent of cruelty, and it is therefore no wonder that cruelty and religion have gone hand in hand throughout the centuries. Conquer the world by intelligence, Russell says, and not by being slavishly subdued by the terror that comes from living in it. The whole conception of God, he concludes, is a concept unworthy of free men.

~ Philip Roth, "Indignation"

"Why do boats have names, but not airplanes?" I asked the chauffeur. "Why just Flight 971 or Flight 326, and not the Bellflower or the Daisy?"
"Probably because there're more planes than boats. Mass production."
"I wonder. Lots of boats are mass-produced, and they may outnumber planes."
"Still ... ," said the chauffeur, then nothing for a few seconds. "Realistically speaking, nobody's going to put names on each and every city bus."
"I think it'd be wonderful if each city bus had a name," said my girlfriend.
"But wouldn't that lead to passengers choosing the buses they want to ride? To go from Shinjuku to Sendagaya, say, they'd ride the Antelope but not the Mule."
"How about it?" I asked my girlfriend.
"For sure, I'd think twice about riding the Mule," she said.
"But hey, think about the poor driver of the Mule," the chauffeur spoke up for drivers everywhere. "The Mule's driver isn't to blame."
"Well put," said I.
"Maybe," said she, "but I'd still ride the Antelope."
"Well there you are," said the chauffeur. "That's just how it'd be. Names on ships are familiar from times before mass production. In principle, it amounts to the same thing as naming horses. So that airplanes treated like horses are actually given names too. There's the Spirit of St. Louis and the Enola Gay. We're looking at a full-fledged conscious identification."
"Which is to say that life is the basic concept here."
"Exactly."
"And that purpose, as such, is but a secondary element in naming."
"Exactly. For purpose alone, numbers are enough. Witness the treatment of the Jews at Auschwitz."
"Fine so far," I said. "So let's say that the basis of naming is this act of conscious identification with living things. Why then do train stations and parks and baseball stadiums have names, if they're not living?"
"Why? Because it'd be chaos if stations didn't have names."
"No, we're not talking on the purposive level. I'd like you to explain it to me in principle."
The chauffeur gave this serious thought. He failed to notice that the traffic light had turned green. The camper van behind us honked its horn to the overture of The Magnificent Seven.
"Because they're not interchangeable, I suppose. For instance, there's only one Shinjuku Station and you can't just replace it with Shibuya Station. This non-interchangeability is to say that they're not mass-produced. Are we clear on these two points?"
"Sure would be fun to have Shinjuku Station in Ekoda, though," said my girlfriend.
"If Shinjuku Station were in Ekoda, it would be Ekoda Station," countered the chauffeur.
"But it'd still have the Odakyu Line attached," she said.
"Back to the original line of discussion," I said. "If stations were interchangeable, what would that mean? If, for instance, all national railway stations were mass-produced fold-up type buildings and Shinjuku Station and Tokyo Station were absolutely interchangeable?"
"Simple enough. If it's in Shinjuku, it'd be Shinjuku Station; if it's in Tokyo, it'd be Tokyo Station."
"So what we're talking about here is not the name of a physical object, but the name of a function. A role. Isn't that purpose?"
The chauffeur fell silent. Only this time he didn't stay silent for very long.
"You know what I think?" said the chauffeur. "I think maybe we ought to cast a warmer eye on the subject."
"Meaning?"
"I mean towns and parks and streets and stations and ball fields and movie theaters all have names, right? They are all given names in compensation for their fixity on the earth."
A new theory.
"Well," said I, "suppose I utterly obliterated my consciousness and became totally fixed, would I merit a fancy name?"
The chauffeur glanced at my face in the rearview mirror. A suspicious look, as if I were laying some trap. "Fixed?"
"Say I froze in place, or something. Like, Sleeping Beauty."
"But you already have a name."
"Right you are," I said. "I nearly forgot."

~ Haruki Murakami, "A Wild Sheep Chase"

... to say a bed is a thing to sleep on is like saying the sea is a drop of salty water. Below the cotton quilting lay a hidden world. Wooden braces keep the mattress from collapsing. Inner springs coil when pressure is applied, twanging each time we shift in our sleep or flail to find the ideal position, searching for the lost aquatic comfort we knew long ago in our mother's womb. However tame or acrobatic, sex takes its toil on the foam padding, lust grinding it down to powder, the grains sifting earthward night after night. Microscopic colonies of mites wait for the falling manna of our skin. Dreams sweep across the surface like seasons. Fever and night sweats drench the sheets. A bed is a lectern, a pedestal, an altar, a rack, a boxing ring, a cavern of blankets, a spotlit stage, a trampoline, a nest, a grave.

~ Bernard Cooper, "The Bill from My Father"

The realization that one is growing older comes to most of us, if we're lucky, in bearable increments; that way, the full cargo of mortality doesn't sink the boat, so to speak, but is brought on board in the form of manageable hand luggage. One year you develop an almost erotic fondness for the warmth of a hot water bottle tucked between cold sheets; next, you and your friends develop an entire dinner conversation to the benefits of dietary fiber and, less appetisingly, its effects.

~ Bernard Cooper, "The Bill from My Father"

If there were a way to put an end to himself by some purely mental act he would put an end to himself at once, without further ado. His mind is full of stories of people who bring about their own end -- who methodically pay bills, write goodbye notes, burn old love letters, label keys, and then, once everything is in order, don their Sunday best and swallow down the pills they have hoarded for the occasion and settle themselves on their neatly made beds and compose their features for oblivion. Heroes all of them, unsung, unlauded. I am resolved not to be any trouble. The only matter they cannot take care of is the body they leave behind, the mound of flesh that, after a day or two, will begin to stink. If only it were possible, if only it were permitted, they would take a taxi to the crematorium, set themselves down before the fatal door, swallow their dose, then before consciousness dwindles press the button that will precipitate them into the flames and allow them to emerge on the other side as nothing but a shovelful of ash, almost weightless.