Another example of a manuscript that the author, before dying, requested not be published. A companion text to his classic The Denial of Death, this work argues that what we call evil (a term that is lightly tossed about, but shouldn't be) isn't because we are flawed or distorted from a more pristine nature (as Rousseau and Marx believed), or because we are inherently evil, delighting in the infliction of pain and suffering (as Christianity argues), but because due to our nature as a death-aware species, we strive to do good for ourselves, but in the process that usually ends up being bad for others. Immortality projects tend to have high costs in blood. ( )

http://msarki.tumblr.com/post/70425908245/escape-from-evil-by-ernest-becker

Nearing his own end Ernest Becker expressed that he had no intention of this book ever being published. After being diagnosed with a terminal disease he decided he had nothing more to say on the subject. But his survivors decided not to honor his wishes. This happens too often to many good writers. And it is evil. It is the only issue I have with this book. His master work [b:The Denial of Death|2761|The Denial of Death|Ernest Becker|https://d202m5krfqbpi5.cloudfront.net/books/1386924823s/2761.jpg|97366] did much to cement his reputation as one of the premier thinkers in modern psychology. Escape from Evil is still worth reading and is recommended as a way to perhaps consider another idea contrary to what you get from any religion, dictator, or state-sponsored entity. The book did give me cause to consider again my own state of affairs and to reason why it is I am the way I am these days instead of who I was in years past.

I often wonder why I am no longer given to the very hardest feelings of lust, envy, greed, and anger. It is not that I no longer have these feelings, I do, but not to the degree I used to and certainly not in the fitful state that might compel me to act on them. We humans are a living history of natural destruction and there is nothing in the cards to bet against our grave and tragic continuance of it. Everything visible in the world today indicates to me that nothing much has changed. The most specific reason that I myself no longer harbor any of these feelings enough to do damage to my neighbor, or even a loved one, has in fact nothing to do with a religious conversion or newfound knowledge and understanding regarding the error of my ways. I credit my relief to my own surrendering to, and self-examination of, all my impulses including the delicious ones as well as the maniacal disturbances threatening to manifest themselves in not so glorified ways. Because I no longer suppress these impulses I am able to examine them in light of an understanding wife, a fellow collaborator in my thinking, relevant literature and study, as well as my own fruitful imagination and exuberant gifts for fantasy. We have given ourselves permission to divulge our feelings and to realize them all by thinking entirely through them instead of acting them out as others among us have done so dangerously. Not only has the exercise made my wife and I more intimate but it also has brought relief to much of what has obsessed at least myself for many years.

Being an artist helps. By writing honestly about whatever it is that makes the most demands on me I am better able to enjoy some sort of equilibrium in the very unstable world we live in. The fact that we all want more, and what is beyond us, keeps the pressure on to continue to eliminate one-by-one the impulses that occur religiously among all of us. And those of us who safely deny these impulses are either satisfied by the promises of one's religious beliefs or numbed by some addictive behavior that can only harm us in the end. Instead, by accepting these wide-ranging impulses I, in essence, have chosen the disease instead of the cure. But the ripe fullness of each impulse in itself pleases me, and I learn just how and what it is that makes me tick.

The more I indulge myself in these exciting fantasies the more equipped I am to recognize which ones are good for me and which ones are bad. In the long run suppressing them only creates a certain pain I cannot escape from and subsequently less life due to a sort of dying. Better to live and make my share of mistakes than to remain immobile as if frozen to death on a stake. There are no fires of hell then certain to come and save me. In all matters of aggression my sword is actually my word. And though the book offers little hope to the human condition there remains an underlying urgency for continuing the pleasure for discovering new seas in which a frightened toe might take that plunge and courageously decide to really swim. ( )

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