“no one gets this female character like i do” and the female character is the 2016 film swiss army man directed by the daniels and produced by a24 starring paul dano and daniel radcliffe
seen from Malaysia

seen from Malaysia

seen from Malaysia

seen from Germany
seen from China
seen from Norway

seen from Germany

seen from Malaysia
seen from China

seen from United States
seen from China
seen from United States
seen from United States
seen from China
seen from China
seen from United States
seen from China

seen from United States

seen from Switzerland
seen from China
“no one gets this female character like i do” and the female character is the 2016 film swiss army man directed by the daniels and produced by a24 starring paul dano and daniel radcliffe
Hello! I am writing a character who has existential nihilism, and it is quite hard to write them. Do you have any notes on how to?
Writing Notes: Existential Nihilism
Nihilism - a continental philosophy (a philosophical ideal that originated in Europe in the 19th and 20th centuries) that posits that everything is meaningless.
While there are multiple positions and variations on nihilism, they all work around this premise of pervasive pointlessness and no purpose to life.
The word “nihilism” comes from the Latin word “nihil,” which means “the absence of anything” or “nothing.”
The current version of the term nihilism comes from the German word “nihilismus,” which dates back to the 18th century.
Existential Nihilism
This form of nihilism upholds the position that life has no meaning.
Everyone everywhere, at every point, has no value to the universe.
It overlaps with the branch of philosophy called existentialism.
French philosopher Jean-Paul Sartre wrote about existential nihilism.
Tenets of Nihilism
Although there is more than one form of nihilism, all of them discuss the human condition and its existence. Here are a few underlying principles of nihilism:
Existence is useless. A nihilist believes there is no purpose to having values or beliefs because everything in existence is unfounded.
There is no truth. Everything is unfounded and useless, including the truth, so there are no reasons to uphold moral principles for your own sake or the sake of anyone else.
Everything is meaningless. Active nihilism says that since there is nothing and nothing we do matters, all things are therefore meaningless, including the meaning of life.
As its name implies (from Latin nihil, ‘nothing’), philosophical nihilism is a philosophy of:
negation,
rejection, or
denial of some or all aspects of thought or life.
Existential nihilism negates the meaning of human life, judging it to be:
irremediably pointless,
futile and
absurd.
Karen L. Carr defines existential nihilism as “the feeling of emptiness and pointlessness that follows from the judgment, ‘Life has no meaning.’”
This understanding of nihilism has become so prevalent that Gertz, in his recent book on the subject, barely discusses it in any other sense.
Although he recognizes nihilism's complexity and diversity, all definitions, in his analysis, ultimately revolve around the absence of meaning: “Nihilism is not merely the denial that life is inherently meaningful, as nihilism can instead be seen as a particular way of responding to the anxiety caused by the discovery of life's inherent meaninglessness.”
The predominance of existential nihilism over all other types of nihilism has been attested to by numerous modern commentators.
Donald A. Crosby attributes its primacy to its widespread use, its ability to subsume other forms, such as moral, epistemological, and cosmic nihilism, and its broad relevance to life in general rather than to a specific discipline.
Thus, he concludes that “existential nihilism is the most basic and inclusive, and therefore the most important, form of nihilism.”
Carr likewise recognizes existential nihilism as “probably the most commonplace sense of the word,” noting its significance in modern literature (citing Dostoevsky and Camus) and observing that Nietzsche was “preoccupied with this form,” although it might be more accurate to say he invented it.
Existential nihilism can be considered not just the heir to, but also the fulfillment of Nietzsche's infamous prophecy: “What I relate is the history of the next two centuries. I describe what is coming, what is inevitable: the rise of nihilism.”
The "Straw Nihilist" Trope
This trope mostly applies to a negative portrayal of existential nihilism.
Also known as the Straw Pessimist.
An extreme version of The Cynic and a specific type of The Philosopher who delivers Despair Speeches and Breaks People by Talking about Life, The Universe, and Everything (or at least how meaningless it is to fight for any of them).
Often Chewing the Scenery about how the hero/audience lives on an Insignificant Little Blue Planet and morality never existed in the first place.
Often Above Good and Evil, due to the Straw Nihilist's Armor Piercing Questions about "What Is Evil?".
The basis for the Straw Nihilist is usually extreme scientific empirical materialism:
We're all nothing but matter and energy and eventually the universe is going to die as if we never existed, so what's the point in trying to hope and fantasize in a world full of suffering and destruction where morality is dictated by force?
Your consciousness is merely an electrochemical reaction inside a dying chemical reactor called the brain which, out of animalistic instincts to protect itself from pain, creates the illusion of meaning and significance in a reality that has none.
Good, evil, morality, and thought are nothing but illusions, with no absolute standard in the universe by which to prove their absolute existence as immutable physical laws?
Examples
Everything Everywhere All at Once: Jobu Tupaki is one of these, having been overwhelmed by experiencing of all of her alternate universe selves at once. She took away from this that everything is arbitrary and nothing matters, and she is seemingly jumping from universe to universe, causing chaos and bloodshed for the fun of it. Really, she's just scared and hurt from her experience, and is seeking a version of Evelyn that will either give her an alternate viewpoint or join her in suicide. The climax of the film is Evelyn and Waymond convincing her that, sure, everything is arbitrary and nothing matters, but we can't let that stop us from loving each other and living our lives.
The "Satan" sequence in The Adventures of Mark Twain (adapted from Twain's novella The Mysterious Stranger) is one of the most frightening and disturbing examples, where an "angel" with a White Mask of Doom for a face tells Tom Sawyer and his friends that their lives are as meaningless as those of the civilization of clay figurines he created and destroyed on a whim. [Satan: Life itself is only a vision, a dream. Nothing exists, save empty space and you. And you… are but a thought.]
In Fight Club, Tyler Durden likes to use a lot of nihilist-sounding rhetoric. [Tyler Durden: Listen up, maggots. You are not special. You are not a beautiful or unique snowflake. You're the same decaying organic matter as everything else.]
Fyodor Dostoevsky loved this type of character; in fact, Dostoevsky was a major influence on Nietzsche himself, and the Nietzschean Übermensch has strong similarities to Raskolnikov. His famous novella Notes from Underground features a protagonist who rants against the Nihilists, the Straw Nihilists of the time, yet fits the trope pretty well himself.
The Iliad: Achilles predates Nietzsche by millennia, but he resembles this form of Straw Nihilist. He gets an absolutely epic rant about how life and the heroic code are meaningless, and they're all going to die and be forgotten anyway. He goes so far as to wish everyone but himself and Patroclus dead in the hope that then, their glory might actually endure. It's incredibly bitter, incredibly powerful, and is this trope all over.
Sources: 1 2 3 4 ⚜ More: Notes & References ⚜ Writing Resources PDFs
Hi, here are some references and a literary trope related to existential nihilism. You can also find more examples in the sources linked. Hope this helps with your writing!
Hospitals and Airports are the closest modernity can come to reaching the Divine
Have you noticed how some places seem immune to time and social conventions. Like airports, those monoliths of now. Harsh lights burning and souls criss-crossing, tongues melting together into a writhing throng of humanity, a steaming cesspit of consciousness. Steeped in camaraderie yet drenched in isolation. The electric blue arrivals sign glares with neon brightness at 3am, a beacon that signals the end of the road.
Here comes a family of 4 on their way home, crossing through automatic doors into the balmy drizzle of a British night, carrying their loot of straw hats and cheap pendants, tan lines and peeling red lobster skin. A girl no older than 5 limps after her parents and older brother. She lugs her bright pink unicorn behind her and hugs the hood of lilac pyjamas close, rubs the sleep out of her eyes whilst her mother shouts at her to hurry. Soon she’ll tuck herself into bed, in the attic of their ordinary red brick London row house, and she’ll watch the sun peak over the trees in the back garden for the first time in her life. It will become a core memory she will think fondly back on for years to come.
By the first class lounge they hurried past, a man in an impeccable suit (Sheep’s wool, the finest money can buy. The grey colour of the Thames on an early morning) paces back and forth restlessly, briefcase in hand, phone in another. Gold amber eyes like a hawk, close cropped black hair and neatly trimmed beard, square pocket matching the deep tan of his shoes (authentic leather). He is barking orders to someone in Arabic, closing deals, building empires. A bloodied napkin he used to stop a nosebleed earlier falls out of his pocket and winks up at the scaffolding exposed ceiling, high and arching like the dome of a cathedral. He’ll make the sale, then visit the airport bathroom again before hailing a cab to the closest 5 star. In the morning, the maid who took the job to send money to her ailing mother in the Philippines will find his cold stiff body and scream. She’ll call the police and be taken in for questioning. She never signed up for this.
At the hospital coffee shop – two streets and half a lifetime away - a 4th year med students sips on a cortado like her life depends on it. Caffeine surges through her veins, bracing her for the day ahead. Unbelievable how exhausting trying to take up as little space as possible can be. She hates the spiel, it’s the same every time. A new dawn, a new face, a new team. The introductions, the smiling, the grovelling, the headache. She’s 5ft flat with bright orange hair, aspirations for Neurosurgery and a bright pink notebook, so why would they take her seriously.
It’s 8:30, and she’s scheduled for 9am clinic, so she has time for a hurried breakfast today. (Eating any earlier makes her gag). Small mercies. The off-red stained scrubs she nicked from the theatre changing rooms cling to her like a second skin preparing to moult. She squirms in them, the comfort undeniable. They make her feel like she belongs. They make her feel like an imposter.
Her table – she comes here so often; she thinks of it as hers - sits right by large windows overlooking the main entrance and staircase. She sees it all from here, her quiet unassuming throne. The doctors and nurses, physios and pharmacists. Rushing rushing, running, stressing. Wishing, hoping, waiting, waiting, waiting. For the shift to end, for the time for bed. For this rotation to change, for the exam to pass. We’ll go on that holiday next month, next year. When money isn’t tight, when things are more settled. Before they know it they’ve wished their lives away.
Their patients understand, all too well and all too late. The same father with the IV drip and the metal stand comes down here every morning to see his daughters. They run up to him, he holds them close and beams. But his grip is getting weaker, smile is getting thinner. He doesn’t answer when they ask when he’s coming home. It’s funny what we can’t hear when we’re too busy wearing stethoscopes. Next month she (I) will be stationed on the Psych ward. We’ll have to do it all again, but maybe they’ll hear me this time. Maybe it’ll get easier.
Between them all and among them, if you squint and unfocus your eyes during one of those ungodly hours at the Starbacks across from Boots and WHSmith, leaning against a grey white pillar you might see him.
He is the spectre that haunts airport lounges and waiting rooms alike, the handsome stranger with the black snapback and the beats headphones and the khaki shorts. The one who lives out of a rucksack and wears a travel pillow like a crown. With the kind eyes and crows feet, and honey chestnut curls. He is that boy from your high school everyone liked, with a kind word for everyone; the one with a charmers smile and the charisma to bullshit his way through anything. The one who – when pressed for future plans, would laugh and shake his head, looking down bashfully. “I just want to travel for now, see where it takes me. I want to see the world”, he’d say, eyes twinkling with the possibilities. On someone else, the words would likely merit a telling off, they’d be seen as the paper thin excuse to fuck around and get high. But he seemed so genuine, and his teeth were such a dazzling shade of brilliant white when he smiled, even the strictest careers advisers couldn’t resist.
He lives in those moments, the liminal fabric between worlds that’s so hard to put your finger on. Blink and you’ll miss him in the old alleys of Rome, the spark of his cigarette lighter blending amongst the city lights.
You’ll find him among the most remote hiking trails of the Peloponnese, laughing with local shepherds and German tourists alike, sitting on jutting rocky cliffs and admiring the blue Mediterranean below. If you really pay attention, you’ll see his staff isn’t like the others. Something suspiciously like a pair of snake slithers up and down. You could swear you heard them whispering just now, but when you look again it’s just a wooden stick.
He is the patron of us wanderers and travellers, those of us with movement in our blood and restlessness in our hearts. The ones who beget the will of changing winds and shifting tides. The ones who can’t allow themselves to sit still, lest the dust settle and the coffee get cold. The mortifying ordeal of being seen and known. Or the ones that carry a hearth with them, in the bottom of a suitcase, in the heart of a trailer. The ones who move and weave through the Earth not because they are running but because they are coming home. He dances and jokes with the kids amongst campfires, always welcome, always a pleasure. And if he helps them pick the odd lock, swearing solemnly to secrecy, who are we to judge.
His bronze skin smells of cinnamon and nutmeg, vanilla and cedar and a thousand other spices. He reeks of incense and market stalls, moles and freckles tell the story of trading routes and old silk roads, of cotton shawls from Alexandria and silk from Pekking. His fingers and eyes twinkle with the good-natured mischief of petty thieves and sleight-of-hand magicians, tricksters and circus performers. He picks apples from behind ears, presents jewel necklaces to his lovers.
She sees him now, amongst the patients. He helps an old lady up the steps, pulls a balloon out of his back pocket to the delight of a sick child. She locks eyes with him and they nod at one another She has been seen now, and known. Perhaps she’ll find him again one day, if either stop running.
"Do your own bit of saving, and if you drown, at least die knowing you were headed for shore."
— Ray Bradbury, Fahrenheit 451
But seriously, would did you?
Nothing matters:
Nothing matters:
Death of the Artist. oil on canvas. 2022.
jet le parti on Instagram
We never keep to the present. We recall the past; we anticipate the future as if we found it too slow in coming and were trying to hurry it up, or we recall the past as if to stay its too rapid flight. We are so unwise that we wander about in times that do not belong to us, and do not think of the only one that does; so vain that we dream of times that are not and blindly flee the only one that is. The fact is that the present usually hurts. We thrust it out of sight because it distresses us, and if we find it enjoyable, we are sorry to see it slip away. We try to give it the support of the future, and think how we are going to arrange things over which we have no control for a time we can never be sure of reaching. Let each of us examine his thoughts; he will find them wholly concerned with the past or the future. We almost never think of the present, and if we do think of it, it is only to see what light it throws on our plans for the future. The present is never our end. The past and the present are our means, the future alone our end. Thus we never actually live, but hope to live, and since we are always planning how to be happy, it is inevitable that we should never be so.
Blaise Pascal • Penseés rendered into english by A. J. Krailsheimer