The modern-day equivalent would be I guess skiing or tobogganing or sliding down a bannister, except the purpose of these largely pointless activities is fun and the going down is more exhilarating; the appeal lasting only as long as the body is willing to exert itself. Sisyphus, unfortunately, doesn't have that freedom. His task is simple but ceaseless. And the rewards are few, if any.
I refuse to say there were none because of the manner in which we now perceive rewards: as being greater in value than the task set or the punishment dealt out to us. Residing in a more material world than Sisyphus could ever have imagined we expect rewards to be, at the very least, visible or realizable as in concrete; few anticipate, or would accept, for example, reward in thought alone. That would almost be religious, romantic or cissy.
And yet I think Sisyphus must have found some rewards of this sort in his labour. Which, I gather, some prisoners do (or used to be able to) if they dug deep whilst confined to a cell, a solitary cell, though with overcrowding and the noise that accompanies such conditions I guess rumination is far less likely. How do you atone when you don't get the chance to be alone with your thoughts? For many that would be their idea of Hell for the mind can torment you like nothing else can. But if remorse comes of it and a realisation of what's been committed then that truth is inescapable and justice is served. The guilt eternal, the stain on one's character permanent.
Is that not how it should be? Am I saying that second chances or forgiveness are not permissible? Yes, to the former, and no, not at all to the latter. The crime has to be proven beyond reasonable doubt, the punishment deserved. Second chances have to be earned, they are not, if someone's committed a wrong, an automatic human right. Remorse is not (or it shouldn't be) a tick box exercise, and those affected by the actions or decisions of another shouldn't be forced to forgive. However, on a self-serving note, holding onto anger is not healthy, unless it's goal-directed and may, in the long-run, assist others.
Sisyphus' misdeeds were not those of today and accounts of these vary, as does the opinion of them, but the report of the punishment is always the same: the mountain, the huge rock, the roll and push upwards, the rush of the rock downwards and Sisyphus' trudge after it. A repetitive labour not unlike the rhythms of life itself – at home and in work.
It's the punishment itself and not why it was given that has been made much of by those philosophically-minded because of what it suggests: that either this existence is wholly wretched or it engages the mind and body in such a way that in rare moments lucidity follows. The former would bring only laments and sorrow, but the latter could bring joy.
Therefore the details surrounding this myth are of no concern to me because what interests me, as it does in Albert Camus' essay, is the pause: Sisyphus' pivot and descent to the plain. I don't believe the labour he performs is repetitiously futile and hopeless. An effort, yes, where strength and stamina are both called for and where frustration weighs heavy because the aim – for the rock to sit on the summit – seems more impossible the more it's attempted. Failures as guaranteed as the disappointment in their aftermath. But I, like Albert Camus, want to believe Sisyphus found contentment in this task. That in its enactment rare moments to reflect and be thankful for occurred. That the descent was also looked forward to, for the body could then relax and the mind could use the space to think on other matters. That the spirit too might have relished the fresh air or marvelled at the beauty of nature, so that at the foot of the mountain Sisyphus, as a mere mortal, felt not only repentant but revived.
Picture credit: Sisyphus, 1548-1549, Titian
