It is the recognition of a thing’s finitude that moves one all the more violently to cherish it, the realization that its joys are not endlessly relished that gives to it its effervescence. Upon turning the last page of a brilliant literary work, one is struck with a dull, resounding ache, a sickening turn of stomach—an ache and turn at once both completely devoid of hope and yet overflowing with meaning. That all great works inevitably end, that their greatness must wrestle always with their finitude: this realization doesn’t steal from literature its vitality; rather just the opposite. Art is beautiful precisely because it is finite. And so too with love, so too with life. It isn’t until we can come to terms with our own mortality that we can learn to live. Far from rendering life meaningless, death is what gives to life its radiant significance.
It’s possible to experience finitude and not die also, both at the same time.
I don’t agree with your OP.
Of course. I referred to this experience of finitude as a coming to terms with one’s mortality, not as one’s literal death. One doesn’t actually need to die to come to terms with the fact that one will die.
Yes, but then you just pick up another book…
I would say scarcity (finitude) isn’t the source of value (beauty), rather, it is a value itself - it contributes the composition that is considered when assessing something’s complete value.
I’ll stick with your analogy. Let’s say you’re considering the value of two books. Book ‘A’ has 1000 pages and is available in 1000 stores. Book ‘B’ has 100 pages, and is available in 100 stores.
We can immediately see ‘A’ is less scarce than ‘B’.
However, let’s say ‘A’ is a book about philosophy written by a god and ‘B’ is a book with 100 pages of scribble. Surely ‘A’ is more valuable than ‘B’… but it’s not scarcity, that gives it this value.