Between the Dragon and the Logos: the intimate war for the meaning of life
There are moments when living does not mean seeking peace, but refusing to kneel before the void.
Gabriel G. Oliveira
4/18/202612 min read
"Transforming the everyday prose into heroic poetry"
"Transforming the prose of everyday life into heroic poetry" is not a religious adornment for a parish card; it is a severe demand. The quote, attributed to Saint Josemaria Escriva, hits the mark precisely by criticizing the contemporary ailment of believing that only what is grand deserves respect. In the simplest daily life, in the most modest occupations, and in the most basic activities, it is in this context that truth tests us, for it is in this environment that no one can appear great without first being willing to bear the burden of what is common. When I come across Chesterton's works, I am reminded of the reason why it is still worth existing in this world: only a spirit that has allowed itself to be corrupted by the performance of its own relevance approaches everything with a gravity akin to that of a funeral. A large number of people, especially in certain academic circles, label as "childish" everything they cannot understand, acting as if their own lack of sensitivity were evidence of intelligence. Not at all. Sometimes, it is just a lack of spiritual vitality expressed in technical terms. Chesterton was precisely for that: to humble the arrogant and restore admiration for the small things.
The question of the meaning of life usually arises when it is too late, when the person has already spent years following the paths laid out by others and realizes, with frustration and delay, that money, prestige, and entertainment are not enough to sustain an entire life. Most people don't live; they just manage fatigue, complete tasks, pay bills, entertain anxiety, and call it maturity. Later, they miss what is no longer there. As if the void were an unforeseen event. It's not an accident. It's what happens when a life trades purpose for habit and habit for mere survival.
Thus, the notion that the meaning of life is unchanging, always maintaining the same tone for all ages and for each person, is excessively comforting to be considered true. The theory of the twelve layers of personality, created by Olavo de Carvalho, hits an important point: the human being changes their center of gravity as they mature, and what seems to be a goal in one phase can become a caricature in the next. There are those who live in search of pleasure, others who yearn for recognition, some who seek knowledge, and there are also those who, finally, realize that, in the absence of transcendence, even intelligence can deteriorate. The mistake lies in making one's current phase the most important and considering it the pinnacle of life, when, in reality, it often turns out to be nothing more than a well-lit basement.
Viktor Frankl witnessed this in a place where practically every stage philosophy would be ashamed to be: in a concentration camp. There, where human flesh was stripped down to the last bone, he understood that not even the most intense suffering is capable of completely eliminating inner freedom. The human being may be humiliated, starving, besieged, crushed, but they always retain the ability to decide how to react to horror. This does not transform suffering into something beautiful; on the contrary, it makes human dignity even more terrifying, as it continues to demand a response precisely when all justifications seem sufficient. Frankl does not idealize suffering; he confronts it with seriousness.
It is for this reason that, in Frankl's work, compassion never transforms into an excessively sweet form of morality. It is the spiritual choice amidst pressure. It is at this moment that Tolkien hits the mark again in addressing the same theme, when Gandalf clarifies to Frodo that "his mercy may have ruled the fate of many." Bilbo confronted Gollum not out of naivett, but because he refrained from the arrogant haste of judging who deserves to live and who should die. Mercy is not ignoring evil; it is refusing to equate oneself with it. Refusal, often ridiculed by cynics, often has the power to drive history more significantly than any violent action. The modern world tends to label this as weakness, having forgotten how to recognize the moral power that resides in restraint.
However, it would be naive to limit oneself to Frankl, as if it were enough to "find meaning in the now" and that's it, problem solved. By no means. The moment cannot exist in isolation. Aristotle and Thomas Aquinas observe that human life is not reduced to a series of emotional moments; it is structured around goals, understanding a goal not as an end, but as a purpose, a telos, a direction that makes sense. When this is lost, a person may even create small temporary meanings, but they begin to live like someone trying to light a match in the midst of a storm. Beautiful for two moments, but worthless afterward. Without a foundation that organizes, without something that supersedes the will of the moment, meaning transforms into mere indulgence, and that indulgence, sooner or later, demands its price in the form of destruction.
It is at this point that the young man, intoxicated by superficial interpretations of Nietzsche, tends to stumble upon his own pride. He discards any notion of an absolute meaning in favor of complete freedom, which, when examined more closely, reveals itself to be merely a metaphysical childhood with a hostile attitude. Nietzsche employed the term nihilism to precisely designate the disintegration of higher values; thus, playing with this abyss, as if it were a pastime for someone who collects impactful phrases, is a typical attitude of individuals who have not yet realized that the void also consumes those who amuse themselves at its expense. Nihilism attracts with the promise of a liberation without defined contours, but it offers only a disintegration disguised with an elegant lexicon. When someone finally realizes this, they are no longer "free"; they just feel empty.
That is why God does not appear here as an emotional remedy for terrified people, but rather as the only possibility that prevents existence from becoming a mere chemical experiment with poetic aspirations. If there is Logos, then it is possible to understand. If there is understanding, then life is not reduced to a series of individual convulsions. If there is nothing that transcends the individual, then any discourse about dignity, truth, and the good becomes merely verbal embellishment, adorning impulses that compete with each other. Modernity loves this game as long as it is winning. Upon losing, it refers to the void as trauma.
For Voegelin, this was as clear as day: the man who closes his soul to the transcendent does not become more rational, but merely more receptive to ideologies that promise a totality. The search for meaning is exchanged for rigid systems, immediate answers, activist groups with a savior language, and promises of stability created by people who are, internally, chaotic. The result is always the same: the individual avoids confronting the vastness of the infinite and encloses themselves in a small conceptual space, referring to it as critical consciousness. It's not a critique. It's a feeling of claustrophobia accompanied by a bibliography.
There is a quote attributed to Bukowski, as abrupt as a door slamming in your face: "Accept your own loneliness or you will die." Whether or not it is exactly from the pedigree, it hits the mark. Loneliness is the Sphinx of internal existence. She positions herself on the path of the soul and does not ask for kindness, but rather for interpretation. "Listen to me or I will devour you." Those who avoid it seek to fill the mystery with noise, unknown people, bad relationships, social ostentation, and anything that gives the impression of being accompanied. It operates for thirty minutes. Then, the monster returns, even bigger, for now it also enjoys its own self-deception. Loneliness does not cause death only due to the lack of company; it also kills due to the lack of understanding. Whoever manages to decipher it does not become more sociable, but rather more free.
It is for this reason that the dragon is often depicted in various myths as the ultimate representation of the challenge to be overcome. The dragon represents the excess that has taken on scales: a burning fear, a defensive pride, an unbridled desire, and a nameless shadow. In the symbolism of Goetia and various similar traditions, "demons" can be interpreted as disordered inner powers, not serving as a justification for an esthetic cult to the abyss, but rather as a dramatic map of what must be confronted and controlled. Beowulf facing the dragon, Saint George facing the creature, the seeker confronting his own chaos: in all these situations, the true hero does not triumph thru hatred, but thru an internal hierarchy. He who defeats the dragon without first mastering his own desire to venerate the creature merely changes currents. We are not referring to worship, but rather to a symbol. And the symbol, when true, does not divert attention; it reveals.
I grew up more among trees and plants than within four walls. While my parents were dedicated to work, I spent my time in the company of animals and exploring the forest next to the land where I live. I used to spend long hours among the trees, fishing, hunting small animals, and observing the larger ones, always accompanied by my dog, a machete, a crossbow, food, and a book to record what I observed. It was in that place that I came to appreciate the inherent freedom of animals, the brutality with which they move, fight for life, and compete for territory, without pretending to have qualities they do not possess. I believe in a Christian God who is transcendent, just as I believe in this form of spiritual density present in creation, as if even the falling stone and the flying leaf carried an invisible signature. I have always avoided old-fashioned romanticism. The forest is beautiful, but it is not gentle. Everyplace, it is a relationship between prey and predator, between impulse and danger, between hunger and vigilance.
Perhaps for this reason, observing animals, both thru biology and a deeper spiritual intuition, has always provided me with uncomfortable lessons about human nature. Frequently, I was able to perceive their most basic impulses, their particular logic, and their habitual gestures, almost as if I knew what they were going to do before it even happened. The thing is, as I better understood that situation in them, the more I noticed its reflection in us. As Plato and Aristotle already knew: impulses are not evil by their existence; they become oppressive when they refuse to be controlled. For me, growing up meant understanding that rejecting our animal nature is an immature attitude, while yielding to it is a form of degradation. The human being does not achieve their full humanity thru the absence of instincts; they become truly human by refusing to submit to them.
That's why the last scene of Fantastic Mr. Fox seems to be absolutely perfect. When Mr. Raposo meets the wolf, he doesn't make speeches, doesn't create a sociological synthesis, nor does he try to resolve the tension between civilization and savagery with an elaborate phrase. He just admits it. He raises his fist. Neither capitulation nor evasion. Respect. There are aspects within us that will never be fully tamed, and maturity does not consist in eliminating them, but rather in understanding when it is appropriate to greet them from a distance and when it is better to keep them protected behind a fence. Wisdom begins when a human being stops considering as freedom what is, in fact, nothing more than an unrestrained reflection.
While watching A Man for All Seasons, one witnesses Thomas More standing firm, occupying the same place where most people would get lost in overly cautious discussions to be sincere. The film, which is an adaptation of Robert Bolt's work about the dispute between More and Henry VIII, does not portray a fanatic clinging to the traditions of the past, as the current mindset would like to simplify, but rather a man who realized that conscience is worthless if it can be bought at an affordable price. In an era when flexibility is seen as an elegant form of well-paid cowardice, More returns as a true scandal. He does not oppose for a dramatization of moral character; he opposes because he understood that yielding to the lie is a way of committing spiritual suicide. Chesterton probably identified him as a rare exception: a man who is sufficiently happy not to compromise his soul in installments.
In the end, it is precisely this that distinguishes integrity from performance. The world considers obstinacy what it cannot acquire. But he loses the position, being close to the king, having prestige, being protected, living in tranquility, having a clear future. And yet he leaves with what truly matters preserved. There are defeats that can shame all the winners.
Maybe that's why Dancing with Myself has never seemed to me just a song to dance to, but rather the distorted anthem of someone who has learned to live without the presence of an audience. We inhabit a deafening world, where everyone talks and few truly listen; for many, establishing relationships has become a real risk market, loving has turned into a defensive joke, and loneliness has come to be seen as a certificate of failure. Nonsense. Sometimes, it is more gratifying to dance alone in an empty square than to beg for the closeness of someone who only cares about exchanging favors. He who can be with himself without falling apart has already overcome a good part of social servitude.
Currently, everything seems superficial. The worst are almost always applauded, while the best often become invisible, and many people of good character discover too soon that the emotional world does not reward integrity as frequently as calendar moralists guaranty. I am also tired of this romantic belief that "God will send someone" as if other people's free will were celestial protocol. On some occasions, it sends nothing. There are moments when the person leaves without anyone by their side. And what's the problem with that? It is preferable to this than to wither away waiting for an illusory love, begging with an emotional beggar's voice. There is a rough dignity in remaining whole even without being chosen. Not all solitude is punishment; often, it serves as a healing process.
This solitary dance, therefore, should not be seen as a defeat, but rather as a refusal. The rhythm I follow is mine, and the ground I walk on is mine too. Moreover, the respect I have for myself is more valuable than any fleeting company that is acquired at the cost of one's own negative transformation. He who fears solitude often settles for any situation to avoid the sound of his own emptiness. The cost, later on, comes in installments of humiliation.
Trigun approaches this theme in a different way. What is the reason to love one's own life? Trigun tries to provide an answer and ends up failing spectacularly, as the answer it seeks does not fit into a world, but rather into a heart.
Vash is an almost celestial creature who inhabits a lifeless planet, hunted by assassins, betrayed by his brother, and oppressed by guilt that does not belong to him... and yet, he chooses to smile. Choose to be foolish. Choose to be good. Not because it is simple, but because it represents the last refuge of the spirit in a desert where everything has turned to dust.
He reveals what the Gospels proclaim: true peace has never been the absence of conflicts, but rather the courage not to become what destroys you. Christ stated: "I did not come to bring peace, but division," for the reality of the world is difficult, but even so, it does not cease to offer the opportunity for forgiveness.
Frankl reminds us that God offers us "a blank sheet" so that we can write the meaning.
Chesterton observes that life is a miracle that needs no explanations.
And Tolkien asserts that we are the only ones capable of collaborating in creation with God.
Vash goes thru all of this: when facing his adversary who begs for his life, he remembers Rem, the flowers, the possibility of regret, and understands that killing would eliminate all opportunities, including those that have not yet arisen.
For the human heart is dry, but not barren.
And thus the question that permeates the entire anime appears: how is it possible to exist in such a brutal world?
The answer is simple and alarming: because freedom exists.
If God acted in all situations, we would end up becoming a part of Him again, devoid of consciousness, history, and the sense of "self."
The presence of evil is due to our capacity for choice. It is precisely because we have the freedom of choice that good truly has value.
Trigun is exactly about that: the suffering of humanity and the ability to still lift one's gaze, even if filled with tears, and affirm:
"Today I exist." This can already be considered a victory.
In the end, loving one's own life is not just about smiling at the mirror like a fool conditioned by inspirational quotes. It is to recognize that life encompasses loneliness, struggle, routine, limits, longings, hierarchies, disappointments, awareness, guilt, compassion, and risk; and, even so, to affirm a yes, not out of lack of discernment, but out of full awareness. The meaning of life is not found in an emotional artifice, in a momentary pleasure, in a convenient ideology, nor in an identity created to escape reality. It begins when the human being stops begging the world to numb them and chooses to put their own soul in order in the face of reality. Whoever manages to do this may still be wounded, may still be alone, may still be fighting, but is no longer lost. In a century full of disoriented people congratulating each other, this comes close to a true miracle.
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