Jordan Peterson's 2nd Rule, Prometheus' Gift, And T.S. Eliot's Little Gidding
In this episode of the podcast I discuss, Peterson's 2nd rule: "Treat Yourself Like Someone You are Responsible for Helping."
What is it about people that makes many of us more likely to take care of our pets and less likely to take care of ourselves? Or why are so many of us willing to dole out sound advice but not take it? We tell our loved ones that it's important to exercise regularly, as we sit around eating burgers and failing to exercise. If we are to take care of any entity in the world, it seems we will do the worst job in taking care of ourselves.
I discuss the relation to Peterson's profound rule by diving into The Myth of Prometheus and Pandora Ayn Rand's theory of Epistemology Leonard Peikoff's "Objectivism the Philosophy of Ayn Rand" Richard Mitchell's "The Gift of Fire," And T.S. Eliot's The Little Gidding poem I hope by the end of this you will respect Your Promethean gift.
by TS Eliot
Midwinter spring is its own season Sempiternal though sodden towards sundown, Suspended in time, between pole and tropic. When the short day is brightest, with frost and fire, The brief sun flames the ice, on pond and ditches, In windless cold that is the heart's heat, Reflecting in a watery mirror A glare that is blindness in the early afternoon. And glow more intense than blaze of branch, or brazier, Stirs the dumb spirit: no wind, but pentecostal fire In the dark time of the year. Between melting and freezing The soul's sap quivers. There is no earth smell Or smell of living thing. This is the spring time But not in time's covenant. Now the hedgerow Is blanched for an hour with transitory blossom Of snow, a bloom more sudden Than that of summer, neither budding nor fading, Not in the scheme of generation. Where is the summer, the unimaginable Zero summer?
If you came this way, Taking the route you would be likely to take From the place you would be likely to come from, If you came this way in may time, you would find the hedges White again, in May, with voluptuary sweetness. It would be the same at the end of the journey, If you came at night like a broken king, If you came by day not knowing what you came for, It would be the same, when you leave the rough road And turn behind the pig-sty to the dull facade And the tombstone. And what you thought you came for Is only a shell, a husk of meaning From which the purpose breaks only when it is fulfilled If at all. Either you had no purpose Or the purpose is beyond the end you figured And is altered in fulfilment. There are other places Which also are the world's end, some at the sea