For countless millennia Sisyphus has been assigned the task of rolling a boulder up a mountain. What does he think about? Does he dwell on the luxurious life he led as a king, before he had offended the gods? Does he long for the mortal pleasures of that life, or has the memory lost all emotional affectivity? Does he consider and re-consider the decisions he made which led him to his fate? Perhaps he berates himself -- how differently he would do it if he had it in his power to do again -- or perhaps he exonerates himself -- for after all, it is not his fault, he was only trying to do what seemed right at the time, and everybody has to consider his own welfare, the gods oughtn't to have singled him out for such punishment, should they? Or perhaps he tries to discover the fateful decision, the minute movement from which all else has followed. Or, having ceased to consider the past, does he not reflect only upon his future? How he would like to escape from his torment (elaborate schemes of deception and heroism dogged by the ragged edge of possible failure) or, more modestly, how he would like to diminish that torment (a pair of gloves to protect his hands from the sharp edges and rough surfaces of the rock; a loincloth or even a robe to protect his body against the wind, the rain, the sun, the cold; an easier path uphill; a this, a that...): is he a sniveler? Or does he consider the present? He must be the world's greatest expert on rolling rocks uphill. Does he give imaginary lectures to audiences rapt with fascination at his expertise? Does he hear his name mentioned with respectful awe at the stoa? Does he try to invent strategies of success, a new technique of rolling, perhaps, or is he resigned to perpetual failure? For how long can hope remain steadfast? But for how long, too, can resignation endure? Perhaps he alternates between hope, resignation, and other states as well -- indifference, anger, compassion. Can he feel sorry for the gods? This would be asking much, but would it be asking too much? Does he try to finagle, releasing the rock before he has pushed it as far as he truly can? Does he take pride in his work, or is it just another way to earn immortality?

What does he think of his immortality? Does it turn him into a senseless slug who thinks as little as possible, a drudge-slave who seeks relief in dullness and obliteration? Or is his immortality his only possession, and therefore all the more priceless, to be continually savoured? There are so many Sisyphuses, and are their tales each different, or are they in the end the same?

Sisyphus alive; Sisyphus here; Sisyphus now. If Sisyphus has anything to tell us this is the Sisyphus we must understand. So:

For countless millennia Sisyphus has been assigned the task of rolling a boulder up a mountain. He will do this, he knows, for all eternity. One day as he pushes his boulder uphill, feeling weary, ill, oppressed, downhearted, it occurs to him to wonder whether all is static. Is any moment in all eternity equal to any other moment, eternally a moment of Sisyphus bearing with unequaled strength the unbearable weight of a boulder rising inchwise on the slopes of a mountain inevitably too high? Or are there different moments, eternity being polychronotic? At once Sisyphus knows that this is so. For one thing there are those periods of terror after the boulder has slipped from his grasp and he races headlong downhill to avoid being crushed by the careening rock, or else he tumbles head over heels to the bottom before picking himself up to begin all over again. Those moments are different from the time spent inching uphill. For another thing, even in his upward progress -- if such a word can be used -- he knows from knowledge, not from memory alone, that there are times when he feels strong and other times when he is exhausted. There are times when he can look at his handiwork with pride and other times when he would prefer to lie down and sleep, if only such a thing were possible.

He understands that it must be so, for otherwise his punishment would be meaningless, no punishment at all, and eternity would be meaningless, no eternity at all: it would be undifferentiable from a single moment, and a single moment can never be anything at all let alone punishment. Yes, when the truth is told neither his strength nor his attitude are unwavering. He has known his moods: defiance, humility, bravery, despair. Each torment has been the worst of them all. What, then, has kept him going? It can only be his sole possession: immortality.

Is it worth having?

Suddenly Sisyphus feels alive, alert, and strong. A moment before he had felt that the weight of both the boulder and the questions he was asking himself were too great for his frail arms to bear. Indeed, for some time he has been experiencing an inexplicable loss of strength and a general malaise. Perhaps it was that very weariness that had provoked this line of introspective thought, so unusual for him. He recalls vaguely that at other times he has also felt such dolour. He is not certain whether it was during such times that he has indulged in such unwholesome ponderings, but he thinks so. But such periods always pass, it seems, and his strength and vigour are always freshened and reborn.

Yes, Sisyphus thinks: it's good to have his strength back, after such a period of weakness. Now he can set aside such a morbid line of thought, and he sets his shoulder to his boulder, prepared to resume his task, when for some reason he uncharacteristically glances away from his work at hand to see, almost underfoot, a fresh corpse, and not far away scattered piles of sun-bleached bones. He hadn't realized there was a charnel ground on this mountain: somehow he has blundered into it. How could that be? He pauses and studies the area carefully. The bone heaps mean nothing to him, but there is something compelling about the corpse, making it difficult for him to turn away. Why is that? As a warrior king Sisyphus has certainly seen enough corpses not to be bothered by one more dead body; but this cadaver seems, somehow, different. Sisyphus studies it.

It is clearly the freshly-deceased body of an old man. But in spite of its age the body still retains the signs of a vigorous life, a physical life. There is even a hint of nobility in the body, a bearing to it which before Sisyphus' eyes fades perceptibly as decay sets about its handiwork on the features. But before those features melt, before the eyes turn gelatinous and dull and the face becomes mushy, they reveal a quick secret, if only Sisyphus is fast enough to understand. But no -- he has missed it, somehow, despite (or is it because of?) his freshened vigour; and even as he watches, whatever it was in the corpse that has attracted Sisyphus' attention fades into nothingness. Sisyphus stands only a moment longer and then, the spell being broken, he turns back to his boulder and again sets his shoulder to it. And as he pushes uphill, his eyeballs distended by the effort of his entire body, he reflects just once more how peculiar it is that that corpse should bear a diagonal scar across the whole of its belly -- peculiar because he too wears just such a scar, acquired in battle in the days when he was king: perhaps the only permanent possession he has, other than his immortality.

For countless millennia Sisyphus has been assigned the task of rolling a boulder up a mountain. Once as he is partway up the mountain he meets a stranger heading downhill. Never before, in all his labours, has Sisyphus set eyes on another human being. He stops. The stranger also stops. With one hand Sisyphus holds the boulder in place; with the other he wipes his brow. He glances upwards into the clear azure sky. The gods are not watching him at this moment; he can tell. Something about the unbrokenness of the azure convinces him that this is so. He likes to sneak rests whenever he is sure it is safe to do so. He has never been caught. Is he very clever, or is it that the gods don't really care?

The stranger is dressed in brown robes: Sisyphus as ever wears nothing. In Greece this is regarded as neither shameful nor demeaning. Over one shoulder the stranger has a small cloth bag, well-filled, and also another bag containing an ordinary clay bowl: Sisyphus leans against his boulder. The stranger bears a staff and is of upright bearing. He is thin, even boney, so that each joint is protuberant, like a knobby gourd. Sisyphus is muscular and slightly stooped from his labours. Most startling to Sisyphus is the stranger's shaved face and head. Several days growth reveal that he is not merely bald. Sisyphus wears a full beard and his hair hangs over his shoulders. In some cities men are shorn as a minor punishment. To have no head hair or facial hair is somewhat demeaning: only small boys and old men are seen in suchwise; but this stranger is middle-aged. Yet the stranger seems unaware of the shamefulness of his state. Rather, he seems to be of pleasant demeanour and upon seeing Sisyphus he seems to be glad of the encounter, but only in a friendly wise rather than as a seeker of aid or of succour. Sisyphus does not know whether the stranger finds him as outlandish as he finds the stranger; to meet anyone on this mountain is sufficient cause for surprise. So they regard each other with mutual astonishment for some moments before any word is spoken.

"You must be Sisyphus," the stranger suggests. "I have heard tell of you. I am called Rakkhita, but that of course is only a name. I come from a very distant land, but that of course is only a place. Such details don't really matter, so let us set aside such matters. I have wandered far, perhaps too far, and now find hills strange to my eyes. But since arriving in this land I have heard of both you and many others who like you have become legends. In my land we also have our legends, though I have never met any, and sometimes they are so similar to your own that I wonder if they might not be the same other than in name. But we tell no tales of anyone who has suffered as strange a fate as you, so I'm quite glad to have this chance to meet you. I wasn't actually seeking you out, but since we have now met, let us talk briefly before we go our separate ways. Perhaps something can be said that will help us both to walk with a lighter step."

"Well said, Rakkhita. Spoken with skills that would have been admired in my court. But what is it that we might discuss that would lighten either of our steps? For I must admit that I couldn't recommend any part of my life for your emulation; yet however honourable and praiseworthy your own life may be -- I cannot judge, for I know naught of it -- yet I am not at liberty to do anything other than to follow my own footsteps, as has been prescribed for me."

"True enough, Sisyphus. So it is for all. Each must follow his own nose. And yet it seems to me there is more than one way to follow one's nose, and whether our steps are light or heavy will depend at least as much on how we proceed as on whither we are directed."

"I listen to your words with pleasure, Rakkhita," says Sisyphus, glancing up at the still-unbroken azure sky. "But since our conversation may perhaps be not a long one, please explain your words without further preamble. What is this 'how' of which you speak?"

"I mean," says Rakkhita, "that we can perform our tasks in such a way as to increase our sufferings or to decrease them, and even to end them altogether. And to abide by your request for brevity, I mean specifically that we can increase our sufferings if we are heedless, if we are inattentive to what we are doing, if our mind is full of hatred, envy, and suchlike states. On the other hand...."

"Ah, pardon me, sir, for interrupting your noble speech," says Sisyphus, "but what you have already said leaves me puzzled, so perhaps I might question you as to that before further words leave me lost in an inescapable labyrinth. You know, there is another legendary figure, an architect named Daedalus who...."

"Yes, I've heard of him and his son Icarus, and they too in their ways are both symbols of the human condition -- entrapped in a labyrinth, wax wings melting when flying too high, and all that -- but what is your problem?"

"My problem, sir, is that my sufferings do not come from being heedless, inattentive, and so on. My sufferings come from having to push a boulder up this mountainside for all eternity. And whether I am heedless or attentive yet I must perform this base drudgery. And as for anger," -- and here Sisyphus lowers his voice and glances upwards -- "you can hardly expect that in all eternity I will never become angry, even enraged, at the gods who have condemned me to this fate while they live a life of endless ease and pleasure. The most they ever do is to hurl a lightning bolt at me from time to time; and as for envy, yes indeed, I envy them greatly, how else could it be when...." And Sisyphus stops speaking, nearly terror-stricken at the realization that he has inadvertently raised his voice, perhaps too loudly for safety.

"Nobody doubts it, Sisyphus: you have a hard life. But when I spoke of heedfulness and so on I did not mean simply that you should keep your mind on your work and never allow yourself a moment's respite, not at all. Indeed, I would like you to discover how your respite might become not merely partial but total and ceaseless. But one must begin at the beginning, and the beginning of solving any problem must always be in the first place to recognize the problem and, more importantly, to recognize the nature of the problem."

"And is the nature of my problem not perfectly clear?"

"You blame your problem on the gods, and I can see how you might readily reach this conclusion. But to apportion blame is not to understand the problem; rather, that is merely to accept the problem on its own terms."

"Now you truly confuse me."

"Let me give you an example. Take your friend Daedalus, since you mentioned him. He was trapped in a labyrinth, and for as long as he accepted that maze on its own terms -- as long as he allowed its pathways and meanderings and dead ends to circumscribe his perspective -- he was trapped. His escape became possible only when he could rise above that viewpoint -- quite literally, in his case -- and see a different point of view."

"Actually, I'd heard quite a different tale -- that Daedalus was only the architect of the labyrinth, not its prisoner, and that it was Theseus who escaped by some sort of trickery involving a ball of twine."

"Perhaps that is so. I had thought it was Daedalus who had made wax wings and flew out of the maze. Perhaps there are different versions, or perhaps I've misunderstood. You know, there are a lot of conflicting stories about you too."

"Ah, don't believe rumours."

"I'll try not to. But since I speak of Daedalus only as an example it doesn't matter which version is in common circulation: take my version as an illustration of what I mean rather than as an historical report, if historical reports can apply to legendary figures. Consider how one who was trapped in a labyrinth might escape by refusing to accept the perspective imposed by his situation -- in this case it is simply a matter of giving up an essentially two-dimensional point of view by adding a third dimension. But in other cases it might be a matter of changing the dimensions, or even of losing a dimension of thought. Can you see what I am getting at?"

"I think I see your point. You mean to say that if I could see my situation from a perspective that was not 'behind the rock', so to speak, I might see a way of escape from that situation as did Daedalus from his."

"Exactly."

"That sounds wonderful in theory. But in practice how is it to be achieved?"

"As I said, one must begin with heedfulness and attention, not so much to the problem as to the nature of the problem."

"That sounds very fine, but you seem to forget that I use all my strength to push this boulder uphill. Where am I to find the time and energy to devote to this heed and attention that you speak of? And no doubt heed and attention are only the first steps towards this fresh perspective you want me to see."

"Quite right. I never meant to suggest it was easy. If you know of an easy way to get out from 'behind the rock', as you put it, then certainly you should attempt that. I can only speak of what I know, and easy or difficult, this is it. But clearly you are trapped by more than just a rock: you are trapped by your whole situation. And just as a diver cannot see the water that surrounds him until he breaks surface, so too to see the situation we are in we have to 'break the surface' or 'get out from behind the rock'. So all I mean to say is that if you can come to understand the essence of your situation, then and only then will it be possible for you to terminate it. This is called 'right view', and it is the only method I know to put an end to pushing rocks, to escaping from labyrinths, to ending any seemingly impossible situation. In order to end situations which appear to us as endless we must see that they are not endless, that nothing is endless, that nothing can be endless. When we see that it must end we will see how it can end."

Sisyphus is silent for long moments. Then: "Ah, I honour your words, Rakkhita. But I am only a legend. How could I hope to ever see beyond the framework of my own tale? I am trapped by my own existence. Your words are fine for others, but as for me...." And Sisyphus shakes his head sadly.

"Do you think it is different for others? Then this thought too is a trap. If you could examine this thought with proper attention you would see it to be so."

"If I had the time perhaps I could. But as you see, I have to devote my days to pushing this boulder. I have no time for applying your advice. Perhaps when I finally get this boulder to the top of the mountain then I'll be able to...." And Sisyphus, dejected, cannot even finish his thought.

Well, Sisyphus, I see that there is nothing more I can say to you. But perhaps our talk was not entirely wasted. At least we spoke with mutual regard and respect, and that's useful in itself, for regard and respect are part of the basis for understanding. So if we have not arrived at understanding at least we have strengthened its basis. Also, it has given you a break from your labours. But" -- and here Rakkhita glances up at the sky -- "I see that there is just a hint of disturbance in the sky, perhaps only a cloud is forming, or perhaps it is more than a cloud. Anyway, since you have such attachment to your work perhaps you'll be wishing by now to return to it. So at this point I bid you farewell, and wish you much happiness."

Sisyphus looks at the sky, whose uniformity does seem to be showing some slight disturbance. "Indeed, Rakkhita, I have very much enjoyed our conversation. Perhaps as a result of it we might both proceed with lighter steps. Now I wish you farewell."

And Rakkhita continues on his own travels, down the mountainside and on to other lands, while Sisyphus again puts his shoulder to his work.

For countless millennia Sisyphus has been assigned the task of rolling a boulder up a mountain. In all that time he has never set eyes on another human being. As he pushes the boulder his mind drifts back to the early days of his labours. The physical hardships were never the most difficult part. At first simple loneliness, desolation, was the greatest pain. He remembers when his heart seemed heavier than his boulder. The mere sight of a living creature would have sustained him. He would dream of a glance of the distant gods, and once he convinced himself that he had glimpsed one of them; but afterwards he had to admit it to be but a figment of his imagination. No, in all his time on this mountain he has never set eyes on a single living thing.

In the early days he would try to escape, to run: oh, then the lightning bolts would flash from the sky and jolt him into unconsciousness. He remembers how he would awake dizzy, unclear, looking for something familiar to orient him, and always there would be his rock. And indeed, a few turns with the stone would clear his head and bring back the pains clear and sharp. Only later did it become more difficult to regain that clarity. Only later did that lost clarity remain no more than a memory. At first that memory was bound up with a sharp sense of longing. Then even the needle of clarity faded, and he found it easier to endure the dull hammer blows of forgetfulness.

But now he remembers those early days. Rage: one of the early emotions. First he only began to suspect the hopefulness of his task, and a vague discontent grew in him as, time after time, he failed to achieve what should have been for him an easy goal: the summit. One day when the shoulder slipped or was perhaps torn from his grasp the truth struck him with a jolt: he was never going to complete his project. Then that gnawing frustration erupted into rage. During those days he would curse the gods at the top of his voice and threaten them, and dare them to match him strength for strength. But all he ever got for his troubles were the lightning bolts and distant raucous laughter. This rage was brief, lasting but a few centuries. It had been part of the clean sharp days, when his emotional states had been fleeting, so transparent were they: fear, rancour, disgust, anxiety.

One day after lightning had struck him he woke up and, rather than cursing the gods, said nothing. Thus began the period of his cunning. To all outward appearances he seemed to be a model legendary figure. But he was scheming, calculating his chances, and when the time seemed right he tried to sneak away. When the sky was clear and unbroken he would leave his boulder firmly propped partway up the mountain and then flit from shadow to shadow, hiding. This strategy never succeeded. Somehow after a long time of panic and dread he would flit to the safety of yet another comfortable-looking boulder only to discover that it was his, that he had wound up back where he had started. Then, half-grateful at the reprieve from the dangers of flight, he would take up his burden where he had left off. In his relief he never noticed the harsh laughter that was almost masked by his stretorous breath. And the day came when he realized that these tactics, too, were unsuccessful and that he would never be free of his burden.

The complex and longer-lived emotional states appeared: envy, boredom, embarrassment, wretchedness, despondency, bitterness, pleading, apprehension, sullenness. He had known them all. They came and went unpredictably. Each time, he remembers, he had thought the fresh perspective would be an eternity to be endured; and each time the emotion had eventually ended and the eternity of a fresh torment had begun. Each fresh emotion had appeared to him at first not as a torment but as a relief, a change for the better, and he had thought he was getting somewhere. Only later, whether gradually or suddenly, did he realize that the pain was no less, only different.

And Sisyphus remembers all of this now -- and more, so much more! -- because now he feels the winds stirring and he senses that soon he will throw off the burden of being careworn -- how long this latest attitude has assailed him now! -- and will embark on a new perception of his condition. And this suspicion itself stirs vague whispers of anxiety. Will he see what he has been missing all these years? Or will he find himself plunged into some old and familiar, yet trackless, agony? It hardly seems his to choose.

It begins with a simple thought: there is no escape from the framework of the myth which holds him. For as long as he remains what he is -- indeed, for as long as he remains anything at all -- he must bear the burden of what he is. And to change from one state of being to another is only to change agonies. This thought, this perception, seems clear to him. But then as its support grows, Sisyphus takes fear, and turns from it to the new thought that in such perception there is only annihilation and madness. And if that is so, then sanity lies in what he is, in being Sisyphus, so that he recognizes -- is it possible that it could be only now for the first time? -- that his welfare lies not in renouncing his identity but in fulfilling it. Yes, that is the only way. And as this realization engulfs him a wave of bliss sweeps over him with such force that it is almost painful, like sharp hunger. He and his boulder -- they've been through a lot together. How could he have ever thought of running away? Now at last he has won. He heaves on his boulder with such effort that his eyes bulge from their sockets and liquids drip from his nose and mouth. Sweat runs into his eyes, stinging, and turning vision into a series of fractured images. He hears his blood pounding, singing, and feels the rasping touch of his boulder, the boulder that -- he knows it now -- he loves. His laboured breath comes so harshly that it roars in his ears and sounds like harsh laughter. With the love comes a sense of bliss that -- he is sure of it -- will be eternal and unchanging. At last he has found what he has sought all these centuries. It must be so, so intense is his conviction, and he knows that he is finally victorious. Yes.

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