/lit/ - Literature

Why do philosophers avoid taking about suicide, with the exception of the overtired ethics of medical euthanasia?
Camus' claims in the essay, The Myth of Sisyphus, "There is but one truly serious philosophical problem and that is suicide"

It seems nonsensical to talk about the wonders of life, its sorrows and tackle its teleogy without questioning a very real alternative.

If I find chaos, pain, eternal struggle and self-consumption to be beautiful, am I a hylic? I think Sisyphus should be happy.

For what does he push the rock?

Has there ever been any compelling philosophical reason not to kill yourself?

What book can help me deal with the guilt of being alive, of being infinitely indebted to my parents, of feeling like I could always do more for others if only I stopped being lazy and exerted myself more?

I read the Myth of Sisyphus and read the Wikipedia page but I still don't understand exactly what Absurdism is at all. I get Nihilism, nothin' matters. Absurdism is kinda like that, in that the Absurd is the juxtaposition between a lack of intrinsic meaning and the fact that meaning-craving beings like us exist, right?

Then what exactly is Absurdism? How do you base an entire lifestyle on the Absurd? Google's answers are pretty lousy. Why must we imagine Sisyphus happy?

>>12172756
Bellerophon and my boy Sisyphus who did nothing wrong

Why must one imagine Sisyphus happy?

>>10189199
>why are disempowered young men so attracted to rand's thought
More like disempowered lovers of Western civilization.
I'd say the reason is that the essence of this quote is at the core of all her writings:
>"You who're depraved enough to believe that you could adjust yourself to a mystic's dictatorship and could please him by obeying his orders— there is no way to please him; when you obey, he will reverse his orders; he seeks obedience for the sake of obedience and destruction for the sake of destruction. You who are craven enough to believe that you can make terms with a mystic by giving in to his extortions. There is no way to buy him off, the bribe he wants is your life, as slowly or as fast as you are willing to give it in— and the monster he seeks to bribe is the hidden blank-out in his mind, which drives him to kill in order not to learn that the death he desires is his own. You who are innocent enough to believe that the forces let loose in your world today are moved by greed for material plunder— the mystics' scramble for spoils is only a screen to conceal from their mind the nature of their motive. Wealth is a means of human life, and they clamor for wealth in imitation of living beings, to pretend to themselves that they desire to live. But their swinish indulgence in plundered luxury is not enjoyment, it is escape. They do not want to own your fortune, they want you to lose it; they do not want to succeed, they want you to fail; they do not want to live, they want you to die; they desire nothing, they hate existence, and they keep running, each trying not to learn that the object of his hatred is himself."