The urge to graft meaning onto every part of waking consciousness isn’t surprising, but does this habit actually make anyone feel better?
Writing a book about nihilism in 2020 was a strange experience. Whenever anyone asked about the project they’d offer the same feedback: “It’s a great time to be nihilist!” I get the sentiment. In the face of rolling health, financial and climate crises, the population is rich with existential dread. But, as I have rebutted many times, nihilism isn’t relevant because it mirrors our fears and apathies; it’s relevant for its ability to soothe our exhausted 21st century brains.
Historically, nihilism hasn’t had the sunniest reputation. At its simplest, it’s a declaration that life is meaningless. That the systems we subscribe to, to give us a sense of purpose (religion, politics etc), are constructs. Notions of morality, decency and goodness are not inherent to the fabric of existence, but concepts we allow to dictate our collective reality. Sure, stating that everything you love, value or seek comfort in is meaningless can feel like a bitter declaration. But it doesn’t have to be.
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