On Terror; The Incomprehensible Sublime
“There is something at work in my soul, which I do not understand.”
The fascination with the Sublime is an innate piece of every poet’s soul; a burning, unruly desire to tear apart the incomprehensible fabric of Gaia and feebly find the words to describe the elevation of ones very soul. It is a concept unheeded by an unromantic gaze, one that does not adhere to concrete and fluorescence, to the mundane, but to something far deeper than the inertia of our making.
The Sublime is, as Edmund Burke dutifully put,
“whatever is fitted in any sort to excite the ideas of pain, and danger, that is to say, whatever is in any sort terrible, or is conversant about terrible objects, or operates in a manner analogous to terror, is a source of the sublime; that is, it is productive of the strongest emotion which the mind is capable of feeling .... When danger or pain press too nearly, they are incapable of giving any delight, and [yet] with certain modifications, they may be, and they are delightful, as we every day experience.” (Burke, 111)
that is to say, as much as the world has sought to squander it from existence, chase it like rabbits from a warren, it is as inherent to our humanity as pain.
Sublime is terror.
It is the terror of the unknowing; the looming dread of an expression we cannot sense via our physical being. Invisible to our feeble frames, it is a thing felt but unexplainable.
Like many a Lovecraftian Great One — of which touches on this philosophy — we as mere mortals simply cannot comprehend it; Lovecraft exercises this concept and theorises that should the Sublime enter our system in a visceral, physical manner and allow us to truly absorb it with our mortal senses, it should surely turn us mad.
Dear Shelley, like many romantics, delved into the murky waters of this idea. Her novels are riddled with sublime descriptions of nature through the eyes of dreamers and sufferers alike; all wading through the waist-high waters of an author’s dire imagination, collecting anguish like seaweed. Most memorably does she use these flowing sentences of divine pulchritude in Frankenstein, or The Modern Prometheus; a favourite of your author.
“I remembered the effect that the view of the tremendous and ever-moving glacier had produced upon my mind when I first saw it. It had then filled me with a sublime ecstasy, that gave wings to the soul, and allowed it to soar from the obscure world to light and joy. The sight of the awful and majestic in nature had indeed always the effect of solemnising my mind and causing me to forget the passing cares of life. I determined to go without a guide, for I was well acquainted with the path, and the presence of another would destroy the solitary grandeur of the scene.” (Shelley, 95)
Your author herself has experienced this particular “solemnising [of] my mind and causing me to forget the passing cares of life”. I have mentioned it in my The Gentle Wonderment of Watership Down, but I too have succumbed to the sanctitude Mother Nature hath granted. There are grander details in that post.
I recall standing upon the edge of the ocean alongside my dad. We were in a comfortable silence, basking in the dying sun, absorbing the roar of each and every wave, feeling with purpose the chill of the sea. I do not know when it was we realised this, but it felt as though with each ebb and pull of the tide, the water consumed our worries and worldly concerns and drifted them off into the endless unknown.
“I just love it here,” my dad said after a while, keeping his eyes fixed on the horizon. “I love it. Just feels so — hah… you know? Like I was stressing over work stuff earlier, but now I just think… doesn’t matter, does it?”
Inarticulate, as expected, for there is no word nor string of words that can truly encompass the Sublime. I agreed profusely and vaguely described the Sublime as much as philosophical concepts can be explained when drunk with beauty. I write this to remember that moment, for true sublime — the kind untouched by human beings — is a rarity.
Sublime is terror, but it is also release — catharsis, so that we may awaken from rancorous dreams, muted and bitten, and weep, weep, weep.
In less poetic terms, the Sublime feels like from 3:07 of At Wits End by Hans Zimmer :)
Thank you so much, dear reader!
This is the first of a new structure to my essays! Simply: a bit more… visuals, if that makes sense.
Anyway, I’m rambling, I hope you enjoyed!
What a beautiful way to explore a - by its nature - very incomprehensible concept. To not *be able* to understand something is downright terrifying, but absolutely adore your allegory of you and your dad standing by the sea - an allegory of how it can also equally bring you comfort, that life and this world is larger than we are. We can't get our brains around it, but we can bask in it and let our problems float away into it all the same! Beautiful gorgeous post and such wonderful, visual writing!! (Love the new structure also it looks fantastic!!)
This is my favourite concept to see explored in media. The idea that there are some things we can never understand is both terrifying because it feels like they will consume and yet what a relief to know there is something bigger than us on this earth, it takes some of the responsibility off! You captured this beautifully.