Speedrunning Faust

November 24, 2022

It is only once he has fully exhausted the subjects of philosophy, medicine, jurisprudence, and theology that Dr. Faust reaches the state of disillusionment we find him in at the beginning of Goethe's poem. He has been teaching at a university for a decade, leading his pupils this way and that, before he comes to the conclusion that he can not teach them anything of value, for there is nothing of value to know.

It's interesting to ponder what allowed Faust to maintain the level of motivation and discipline required to master all these subjects when prone to such an attitude. He must have believed throughout that there was some light at the end of the tunnel: that the result of all this education would be some Absolute Knowledge that reveals the workings of the universe, and thereby make it possible to live a Truly Good Life. Perhaps it was only once he had explored all the various nooks of philosophy that he turned to medicine, and then to jurisprudence, and then finally to religion. Perhaps it was in this way that he delayed his descent into melancholic apathy.

Maybe he was simply a product of his time. If we look at the history of German education and scholarship, we find periods of great enthusiasm for modern learning as a way of shedding the prejudices of the past and discovering the Truth of the world. Knowledge imported from abroad promises new horizons for those willing to dedicate the time to study it. The New Philosophy promises the possibility of fully understanding the world and one's place in it — understanding God and his plan. Faust probably didn't know anyone who had done so; maybe he thought he would be the first.

His inability to reach this goal, despite all his best efforts, leads him to a despair so desperate that he is willing to do anything — even sell his soul to the devil. This sale, or contract, or wager (it is referred to in many contradictory ways throughout the poem) has one purpose: to make Faust's life more entertaining. He is willing to rub shoulders with the literal manifestation of evil in order to solve his boredom. Now, this immediately makes Faust seem like kind of a jerk, but the point here is not whether making a deal with the devil is a good idea or not. The point is that this must be a pretty desperate form of boredom if that's what it drives you to do.

If you travel to the corners of the internet where the desperate and the lonely hang out, you will find yourself surrounded by young Fausts. They have not studied philosophy, medicine, jurisprudence, or theology; nor have they have taught at a university for ten years — no, they are speedrunning Faust. They have given up before they’ve even started. They have decided, before they even dip their toes, that knowledge is a curse. That reading philosophy will only bring them more, and not less despair; less, and not more, understanding.

They make memes about virgins and based chads. They tell each other that being smart will not get you laid, or rich, or anywhere at all. They tell each other not to read books, but instead to embrace material pleasures. In fact, you could say that they are little Mephistopheles and Fausts rolled together, that in their Fall they are attempting to tempt and convert others to their nihilistic Hell.

I can't say that their arguments, while amateurish and even naive in their presentation, are not without grounds. Or at least, I can't say that there is not a certain appeal at times to this notion that all the book-learning in the world won't save you. It would certainly be a handy shortcut: I mean, you could reach the level of understanding Faust did in less than half the time!

And yet, desperate and lonely people are still, one after another, drawn to literature. They are drawn to philosophy and theology. And it seems that no matter how many memes are created, or how many parents or friends or counsellors tell them there's no hope in the humanities, they jump headfirst into this world anyway.

For whatever reason, the more time there is left in your life, the more you rush, and the less time there is left in your life, the more you take your time. Young people are predisposed to rushing things, because as a teenager our understanding is that when you turn 25 you may as well be dead; and as a twenty-five year old our understanding is that when you turn 30 you may as well be dead, and so on. Some people stay young forever in this way, still lamenting their impending loss of youthfulness as they approach 50.

Faust, whatever his age is — in Part One he appears to be in his 30s or perhaps early 40s — has that sort of youthfulness. He has made an attempt to speedrun wisdom: to reach this goal of Enlightenment as quickly as possible, in order to enjoy it for as much of his life as he could. He wanted to peak early, and then coast. This is a common sentiment, particularly among investment-gamblers; some call it early retirement, or financial independence. Of course, Faust wasn't looking for monetary fulfillment, but he seemed to see Enlightenment in a similar way. It makes a certain amount of sense: if you reach your potential early, you can reap the rewards for an entire lifetime, instead of only near the end.

I decided pretty early in my life that my only desire was to be cool. I didn't particularly care about knowledge, except to the extent that it would allow me to impress people. I had certain role models; these role models had intricate knowledge of niche subjects. They found way to make this knowledge seem important. That made them cool. I wanted to be a cool individual, so I started doing what my role models did. I learned Japanese. I read classical novels. I read philosophy. I ate lentils.

(This isn't to say that I didn't enjoy any of what I was doing on its own merits. I like reading, and learning languages, and I like lentils too. I wouldn't have chosen these particular people as my role models if I wasn't already interested in the kind of things they were doing.)

I knew, for a fact, that doing all this would make me cool, and I knew for a fact that if I became cool, my life would be complete. Very few people at the time thought I was cool, but I knew they would come around eventually. I knew that eventually I would emerge to tell people about my interests, and they would say, "Woah, look at that guy." That was the goal: I wanted to be someone about whom people said, "Woah, look at that guy." That was my version of Enlightenment.

Whenever I acted in a way that resembled my role models, I was pleased. Whenever aspects of my own personality shone through, I was disappointed.

I had particular ideas about by what age I had to accomplish certain tasks. I wanted to do everything quicker; if my role model went to Japan at 24, I wanted to go at 20. If my role model achieved success at 27, I wanted to do it at 23. It wasn't enough to just become my role models; I needed to eclipse them, and to do that, I needed to go fast.

Eventually, I learned a little too much about my role models. I learned enough that they stopped being my role models. One by one and then all at once, they failed me. I had to discontinue my attempt to be a different person. I had to, instead, attempt to become myself. And then I realized, shit, I already am myself.

I took a long look at myself. I attempted to measure the value of the knowledge I had gained through all the book-learning I had done. I didn't know a single person who liked books as much as I did. I didn't know a single person who read philosophy — all I ever heard about philosophy was people making fun of it. No one cared about my interests, and no one ever, ever said, "Woah, look at that guy."

I know disillusionment. I know it quite well. I know what it's like to spend a year where every time you open a book of philosophy you exclaim, "WHO CARES!" I know what it's like to open four novels in a row and not connect with any of them. I've had weeks where all knowledge looks like a bowl of Spaghetti-Os. I've had days where I didn't even open my eyes because I didn't think there was anything to see.

These young and desperate fools online, with their memes and their what-not, are partially right. You can't get everything from books. They'll never get you laid, and they'll never make you rich. They won't make you cool, and they won't make you happy.

What these people are desperate for, and what I was desperate for, can not be discovered by reading books. It's an idiot's gambit to try. People don't get depressed because philosophy ruined their life; they get depressed because they expected philosophy to save their life, and it didn't. In fact, they don't get depressed at all — they were depressed the whole time. We find hope in the promise of study and Enlightenment, and when we eventually fall back to where we started, it feels much worse than if we never began. At least when we started reading there was hope. There was the possibility that all this effort would fix what was broken inside of us. Now, there's nothing but years of wasted failure.

At this point, some choose to warn others about their journey. They beseech the youth to give up their quest for knowledge, and embrace simpler pleasures. They tell them to learn to program, or to go out and get laid, or to try to make a million dollars. And if they were visited by the Devil, hell, they might sell their soul, too.

But despite their cynicism, their jadedness, their "mature" resignation, they are still young at heart. Like Faust, in their haste they have reached the middle of their journey and mistook it for the end. How can one claim to have mastered philosophy, medicine, jurisprudence, or theology? By what metric are we to measure such mastery? Have you truly exhausted the topic, or merely exhausted your own willingness to continue?

If I were to judge the books I've read by the success I've found in my life after reading them, then their ratings would fluctuate as wildly as my moods. One moment they're wasted time; the next, the foundation of a beautiful joy. But it's not the responsibility of books to make my life worth living. If they ever attained that power, it's because I gave it to them. If they mean anything to me, it's because I found meaning in them. And if they've disappointed me, it's because I expected too much from them.

Faust believed he couldn't teach his students anything valuable, because there was nothing out there worth knowing. Well, I've learned a lot from people who didn't know the value of what they know. Authors who considered themselves failures have lifted my spirits. Philosophers who certain pedants would argue have been "refuted" have changed my life. And yeah, learning Japanese didn't make me cool, but it would be hard to argue that delving deep into a totally foreign form of communication hasn't done anything for me. Without all of this, my life would totally suck. I'd be but a shadow of my current self. Hell, I might be dead.

I wouldn't trade all that away for hedonistic fancy or political power. I wouldn't tell anyone to abandon philosophy — or even medicine, jurisprudence, or theology, if that's what they were into. I feel deeply sad and sorry for those who wish to give up because they haven't yet gained what they wish to gain. There’s no speedrunning wisdom, my friends. That will only lead you to an earlier and earlier Faustening.

It would be idiotic of me to believe that I have not been making progress toward something resembling Enlightenment. When I look at the despair of my former years and compare it to my despair of today, they are not even in the same category. I have gained an outlook on the world that allows me to combat that despair, instead of wallow in it. No, I am not financially successful, or famous, or influential. Perhaps no one looking at me would know what it is that I've attained for all my troubles. But I know it.

I guess you'll just have to take my word for it. It's either mine or Mephistopheles'.