The street on which I look out on while writing this is a busy one. Lined with cafes and boutiques and antique shops, it’s rarely quiet. And needless to say, one of the most common types I see is a parent pushing a buggy (mainly women, but one does see the occasional man). I have to admit that at this point I need to calm myself from launching into a tirade, but there’s no denying that the smug expressions on the faces of those buggy-pushers taps into my worse feelings of contempt and anger. The expressions of pure self-satisfaction and moral self-righteousness on display irritate me beyond belief. What exactly is it that these people believe they have achieved? Once again, a man has ejaculated into the vagina of a woman and, lo and behold, nine months later a helpless screaming creature is discharged into the world. And we are all meant to feel joy at this? We are supposed to congratulate the progenitors? Worse again, society appears ready to grant superior moral status to those that have reproduced over those who have not. Doubtless, there is a form of evolutionary explanation (the genes of the tribe are reproduced etc.) but on a moral level, it’s abhorrent, and screw evolution anyway.
I sometimes wonder if the pleased expression on the faces of parents comes from the fact that apart from semen and eggs they’ve also discharged their existential burden. They no longer need worry about purpose and meaning. They’ve escaped from angst, however, in the worst possible way: by dumping the burden on someone else, ie. their offspring. How often does one hear the nauseating expression ‘I never knew the meaning of life until I became a parent’. Or in other words, ‘I’ve played by the rules of nature like every other sap, and now I’m being rewarded by receiving the validation of my fellow-drones and, furthermore, I’ve got a contrived purpose in my life now’. Thus Nature plays on with her mindless game of birth, reproduction and death. As the great Louis-Ferdinand Celine said, we are indeed the dupes of infinity.