Why We Should Not Give A Damn Anymore

WWII naval battle, nihilists, and reframing meaning

Sadak in Search of the Waters of Oblivion. John Martin. 1812.

At times in our species past, things were FUBAR—fucked up beyond all recognition. At other times, they were TARFU—things are really fucked up. But most of the time, things were merely SNAFU—situation normal, all fucked up.

So most of the time, in one way or another, our situation was pretty fucked up.

Not so much anymore.

We are witnessing a unprecedented form of suffering at present. We stand witness to the suffering of domestication, the suffering in which things are fucked up, yes, but not at all fucked up in the old-school life-threatening way we were designed for.

Clearly, this is a problem, for it is a problem of meaning. No longer are we compelled to define meaning in response to life-or-death situations. It is now possible to drift; to withdraw from the world into an inner world of meaninglessness. But this inner world can be completely at odds with the outer world that is in fact rich with untapped meaning.

Let us further define our problem with a concrete example.

In the Battle of Midway on June 4th 1942, outnumbered U.S. torpedo-bomber and dive-bomber squadrons decimated over half the entire Japanese carrier strike force. Most of the damage was done during a five minute attack.

While the Japanese were front site focused on shooting down the U.S. torpedo-bombers flying low to slip their water missiles in the sea, the U.S. dive-bombers flew in high, swooped down fast, and dropped their bombs on the decks of the Japanese carriers.

The initial torpedo-bomber missions were suicidal, and the U.S. pilots knew it. Of the fourteen torpedo-bombers from the Enterprise, ten were shot down. Of the twelve from the Yorktown, two pilots survived. And of the fifteen from the Hornet, one pilot survived, only by hanging onto a rubber cushion when his plane crashed. “No Japanese kamikaze pilot later in the war ever went to his death more open-eyed or with more certain foreknowledge than these men.”

We can only speculate what went through our pilots minds.

WWII veteran and author James Jones thinks the reason they flew unto their deaths is that they felt, beneath all the reasons commonly given for heroic actions, one feeling above all: “The ultimate luxury of just not giving a damn anymore.”

I thought about this quote for hours. And then days. It put words to some of my own un-worded thoughts, and it reveals a differential between two modes of life—our torpedo-bombers and a safer, more domesticated mode of life. My sense is it offers us a lesson when it comes to meaning.

What, then, does the torpedo-bomber form of not giving a damn mean in comparison to the not giving a damn at present? What lesson does it leave us with?

It is clear the torpedo-bomber meaning of not giving a damn is not nihilistic though it sounds as if it were. The nihilist does not give a damn in a different way. If we wire-tap a nihilists skull, we might hear: Why fly unto death? For what and for whom? This does not concern me. War is a waste. Values are a waste. Humanity is a waste. Why should I lift a finger when other men and women—fools—are willing to do the fighting and dying? Why, when I have been dealt a bad hand in life? Why, when civilization is so ignorant, so corrupt, so resembling some rotten cosmic joke? It becomes clear that to a nihilist—a free rider in evolutionary terms—not giving a damn is simply choosing to live as a victim. They choose limbo. Neither wanting to own and improve upon their lives nor to be rid of them altogether.

Not giving a damn has another meaning at present. This form looks like a calm acceptance, a voluntary renunciation of everything outside of ourselves and the making of our inner selves a safe haven from an uncontrollable and all too upsetting world. The voice living in this skull might go like this: If externals do not matter, then why should I care for them? And if internals are all that matter, then why should I seek a fiery death in some violent conflict? Besides, I disagree with violence, and with all ideas that cannot be settled with calm discourse. It is reasonable to assume the detached are those who do not fly torpedo-bombers on suicide missions for a higher cause. They are more likely to sit in equanimity on the side lines of life, or anxiously do their best to appear calm and serene. This form of not giving a damn means a withdrawal from the titanic ebbs and flows, successes and failures, lives saved and lives lost in this grand human experiment.

Nor is it a casual form of not giving a damn. The casual individual has not suffered much and yet are convinced they are really something special. They look down with half-lidded eyes and a semi-bored expression on those who to take a task as seriously as if their lives depend upon it, as if their days are in the single digits. But what would a casual torpedo-bomber do the moment he realizes this moment is suddenly real, and he never made peace with his God, and he never wrote a last letter home for real or for practice, and he never savored a fig as if it were the last thing he would ever eat on this good green earth, and he never actually stopped to wonder about his kinship with millions of years of savages and hunters and legends and thinkers? What then? Would he rise to the occasion? Or would he be broken? To the casual, not giving a damn means drifting through life in a blurry haze. No grind. No misery. No deep dark silent contemplation of self and humanity and stars and meaning.

It seems, then, we are not born for a life that is not fucked up in a life-threatening way. Maybe so many at present can no longer give a damn and truly mean it since they do not face mortal consequences every now and then. They have not felt the cold bone hand gently squeeze their shoulder, freeze time, and leave them with the feeling of O God, I have been sleep walking my entire life.

So much for what giving a damn is not.

And now we come back to our torpedo-bombers and an irony. The potentially life-ending form of not giving a damn is actually the most life-affirming, and the life-elongating form is all too often life-negating. This is no accident. Our sinews and our neurons, our hearts and our souls were spun from the stuff of star matter to come alive when things are really fucked up.

The crucial lesson from our torpedo-bombers is this: not giving a damn is actually giving the greatest damn we can give, and to do so for one singular reason, one singular task of consequence. Our torpedo-bombers knew they were going to die, and they committed themselves to one last noble deed before they punched out. It is not to be argued they punched out on their own terms with a biblical middle finger to nihilism, detachment, and a casual view of existence.

I say “our” torpedo-pilots because they are representatives of a noble heritage we all share. It lies latent within us. We do not need war to live this way. When we confront or contemplate classically fucked up situations, our lives are reduced to a single need, a clear enemy, a reminder we are mortal, and a realization that meaning exists right in front of us, and always has.

The task does not need to be an epic battle in a World War. It can be the task of absolute presence and nowness while looking into the eyes of a child, a dog, or ourselves in a mirror when we ask ourselves, as our torpedo bombers surely did, what the fuck is the point of life without a good fight?

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What then? is a passion project.

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