28

 "Tyger, tyger, burning bright,

  In the forests of the night;"

                                                      – Wm. Blake

Issue 28

July 16, 2016



It has been called the problem of pain. It is the human experience of physical pain but also anguish, despair, misery, tragedy, sorrow; of all that brings some kind of suffering into this life. It is the way of the world,  a practical problem for everyone. But it is a logical problem for only a certain class of people, and for them it is a totally unsolvable problem, a mystery, an antinomy.

 

Pain and suffering is for all of us absolutely unavoidable, more or less, during our mortal life. We may be in agony most of our life, or we may have been free of physical pain but in deep emotional pain. We may have enjoyed a fairly tranquil life in all respects, or we may have been torn time and again. One way or another, everyone must endure some suffering.  

 

For those who believe there is not, as it is sometimes put, a higher power, there is no logical problem. Life is the way it is. Water goes downhill. People suffer. End of story.  But for those who do accept a ‘higher power’, there is a problem. Why does God permit—or cause—pain and suffering? Why, even, is there any discord and disorder at all in the universe? There seems to be no satisfactory answer in spite of millennia of philosophical and theological deliberation, and while William Blake  did not try to answer the unanswerable, perhaps no one put the question more forcefully than he did in his famous poem (1794), The Tyger

 

Tyger Tyger burning bright, 

In the forests of the night; 

What immortal hand or eye, 

Could frame thy fearful symmetry? 

 

In what distant deeps or skies. 

Burnt the fire of thine eyes? 

On what wings dare he aspire? 

What the hand, dare seize the fire? 

 

And what shoulder, & what art, 

Could twist the sinews of thy heart? 

And when thy heart began to beat, 

What dread hand? & what dread feet? 

What the hammer? what the chain, 

In what furnace was thy brain? 

What the anvil? what dread grasp, 

Dare its deadly terrors clasp! 

 

When the stars threw down their spears 

And water'd heaven with their tears: 

Did he smile his work to see? 

Did he who made the Lamb make thee? 

 

Tyger Tyger burning bright, 

In the forests of the night: 

What immortal hand or eye, 

Dare frame thy fearful symmetry?


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