As I walk among people now, whether I know them or not, it comes to me that they all see a different me and they all see this moment differently. I won’t go insane, but hopefully will stop imposing my way of seeing this moment on everybody. Or insisting they see me as I see myself. Nice to be free of a bit more of life’s baggage.
Well, I have to admit I can't make a lot of sense out of the inconclusive conclusion. Pirandello has guided us through an experience of different layers of alienation, mostly alienation from what others believe about us, but also from our reputations, our deeds, our words, our properties, and even our appearances in mirrors. There are many ways one can become an object to oneself, for instance when one hears one's recorded voices played back. Since every conscious experience one has is subjective, when one also perceives oneself as just an object among other objects one can get disoriented and can even refuse to admit that that thing is oneself. The extra step that Pirandello takes is recognizing that one can not only be an object to oneself, but is always an object to others. BUT, if one is an object to others, that means there must BE other subjects besides one's own. And that is even stranger. One is not only one object among others, but is also one subject among others.
So I get the sense that Moscarda's confusion arises mostly from the paradox of other subjectivities, not the paradox of his own objective being. He can't retain his sanity as long as there are billions of coexisting universes, each with a different center, a distinct consciousness that is somehow not him. In those billions of universes, he is merely one more piece of furniture, yet he is the center of THE universe—the only universe of which he as any direct knowledge. His solution then strikes me as a cowardly way out: to live in a world untroubled by consciousnesses other than his own, that is, in nature. Walking among flowers and trees he is not seen by another.
Sorry about rambling like this, but I think what I'm saying is that I think Pirandello has done something similar to what Sartre did a few years later: he has given an impressive analysis "the other." Sartre summed it up in the famous phrase from No Exit: "Hell is—other people." (https://www.thecollector.com/jean-paul-sartre-hell-is-other-people/)
Your response to the book reads just like many of the astrophysics books I read. The deep space quantum world is marvelously bizarre to our limited brains. One can laugh joyfully at the absurd or go crazy as Moscarda. Thanks for the ride through your thoughts.
I’m so glad we’ve read this book together. It’s honestly not something I would have chosen normally, but I have enjoyed it and found it very thought provoking. It’s always a good thing to read outside one’s comfort zone! Looking forward to Morante now… 😊
Thank you so much for choosing this Pirandello book and guiding me on this journey. I likely wouldn't have discovered this magnificent novella on my own. My impression evolved dramatically from beginning to end. Initially, I saw it as a playful absurdist tale questioning the nature of self and existence, filled with clever philosophical traps. Yet by the conclusion, it transformed into something both frightening and melancholic—a demonstration of how excessive self-reflection leads to madness and tragic circumstances. Throughout my reading, I found myself increasingly repelled by Moscarda's surrounding characters as he portrays them. The bank employees and church people, in particular, proved utterly repugnant—their actions and behavior more deserving of confinement than anyone else's.
The Anna Rosa episode raises numerous interpretative questions, as I find myself doubting Moscarda's account. After all, one doesn't keep a loaded gun under their pillow without purpose. I wouldn't be surprised if Moscarda himself were truly deranged—perhaps one of his personalities is. He seems to have lost control of his various selves, completely fracturing between his internal thoughts and his external words and actions. Even by his own admission, he treated others abhorrently out of sheer indifference.
Yet I deeply appreciated the novel's final meditation on living in the present. Still, I wouldn't want to follow Moscarda's path—becoming completely indifferent just to live authentically. There lies another paradox. I'll certainly revisit this novel. For now, I'm left with a lingering sense of incompleteness and uncertainty—not entirely comfortable feelings, but perhaps that's exactly the point. Life itself offers few definitive answers.
As I walk among people now, whether I know them or not, it comes to me that they all see a different me and they all see this moment differently. I won’t go insane, but hopefully will stop imposing my way of seeing this moment on everybody. Or insisting they see me as I see myself. Nice to be free of a bit more of life’s baggage.
Well, I have to admit I can't make a lot of sense out of the inconclusive conclusion. Pirandello has guided us through an experience of different layers of alienation, mostly alienation from what others believe about us, but also from our reputations, our deeds, our words, our properties, and even our appearances in mirrors. There are many ways one can become an object to oneself, for instance when one hears one's recorded voices played back. Since every conscious experience one has is subjective, when one also perceives oneself as just an object among other objects one can get disoriented and can even refuse to admit that that thing is oneself. The extra step that Pirandello takes is recognizing that one can not only be an object to oneself, but is always an object to others. BUT, if one is an object to others, that means there must BE other subjects besides one's own. And that is even stranger. One is not only one object among others, but is also one subject among others.
So I get the sense that Moscarda's confusion arises mostly from the paradox of other subjectivities, not the paradox of his own objective being. He can't retain his sanity as long as there are billions of coexisting universes, each with a different center, a distinct consciousness that is somehow not him. In those billions of universes, he is merely one more piece of furniture, yet he is the center of THE universe—the only universe of which he as any direct knowledge. His solution then strikes me as a cowardly way out: to live in a world untroubled by consciousnesses other than his own, that is, in nature. Walking among flowers and trees he is not seen by another.
Sorry about rambling like this, but I think what I'm saying is that I think Pirandello has done something similar to what Sartre did a few years later: he has given an impressive analysis "the other." Sartre summed it up in the famous phrase from No Exit: "Hell is—other people." (https://www.thecollector.com/jean-paul-sartre-hell-is-other-people/)
Your response to the book reads just like many of the astrophysics books I read. The deep space quantum world is marvelously bizarre to our limited brains. One can laugh joyfully at the absurd or go crazy as Moscarda. Thanks for the ride through your thoughts.
Thank you for the Satre link - that is so interesting!
I’m so glad we’ve read this book together. It’s honestly not something I would have chosen normally, but I have enjoyed it and found it very thought provoking. It’s always a good thing to read outside one’s comfort zone! Looking forward to Morante now… 😊
Ellie, thank you so much for your posts! I’m pretty sure I wouldn’t have completed the book without your weekly posts.
And nowadays I find myself looking at my nose and others’ noses during Zoom meetings. :D
Thank you so much for choosing this Pirandello book and guiding me on this journey. I likely wouldn't have discovered this magnificent novella on my own. My impression evolved dramatically from beginning to end. Initially, I saw it as a playful absurdist tale questioning the nature of self and existence, filled with clever philosophical traps. Yet by the conclusion, it transformed into something both frightening and melancholic—a demonstration of how excessive self-reflection leads to madness and tragic circumstances. Throughout my reading, I found myself increasingly repelled by Moscarda's surrounding characters as he portrays them. The bank employees and church people, in particular, proved utterly repugnant—their actions and behavior more deserving of confinement than anyone else's.
The Anna Rosa episode raises numerous interpretative questions, as I find myself doubting Moscarda's account. After all, one doesn't keep a loaded gun under their pillow without purpose. I wouldn't be surprised if Moscarda himself were truly deranged—perhaps one of his personalities is. He seems to have lost control of his various selves, completely fracturing between his internal thoughts and his external words and actions. Even by his own admission, he treated others abhorrently out of sheer indifference.
Yet I deeply appreciated the novel's final meditation on living in the present. Still, I wouldn't want to follow Moscarda's path—becoming completely indifferent just to live authentically. There lies another paradox. I'll certainly revisit this novel. For now, I'm left with a lingering sense of incompleteness and uncertainty—not entirely comfortable feelings, but perhaps that's exactly the point. Life itself offers few definitive answers.