A story that means something

There’s a legend about a man named Sisyphus. He angered the Greek gods somehow, so they sentenced him to roll a huge stone to the top of a mountain. But each time he attempted to roll it to the top, he would slip, trip, lose his grip, and the stone would roll back down, and he would have to begin again the next day. As it turns out, he had to roll the stone, day after day, for eternity.

From the way I just told that story, it’s hard to tell if I am saying something about how life works by telling it. The story itself is ambiguous--it could mean a number of things, but you don’t know whether I mean any of those things.

Here’s a retelling. I’m using the same basic story, but emphasizing or adding things to make a few points. What does this story say about the way life works?

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Once, there was a man named Sisyphus, infamous for his quick wits, quick fingers and hard heart. Through deception, he became king of a large city. He used his power to become wealthy, and then he died.

His spirit entered the judgment hall, even in death forced to walk while the gods flew far above him in the shadows. Around and around they flew, murmuring his name like a drawn-out hiss from which he cowered. Finally, all but one withdrew to their vaulted alcoves, and the remaining one flew down to loom over Sisyphus. Quietly she said, “In life you stole by trickery. So shall your life in death be an empty trick.”

Her form melted away like a vapor, then the hall melted too.

Sisyphus felt the ground beneath him, but it was dark. He stood still. Finally, a light began to appear behind him, warming his back and throwing his shadow far ahead across endless sand. He turned to see, but he couldn’t tell where the light came from--there was no sun. Surrounded by endless sand Sisyphus stood alone in the world with a great craggy mountain and a rough, round stone he could barely reach around.

The towering mountain rose with angry jags and juts marring its face. It was so narrow and steep that Sisyphus felt as if he could almost see around it to the desert beyond it. He decided to climb.

In life, Sisyphus had never had to exercise to get what he wanted, and he was not a fit man. In death, he was disappointed to find that he had grown weaker. For hours lasting ages, he toiled up the steep mountain. At last, he pulled himself onto the summit, breathing hard in the dry, heavy air. The summit was perfectly flat, perfectly round, and about four feet across. In its center was a round depression, about the size of the circle of his arms--about the size of the stone.

A crazy idea came to him. Maybe if he could place the stone in the depression, he would be released from this empty desert. A pang of excitement shot through him as he began to descend, more quickly now than he had ascended. Suppose he could trick the gods who had tried to make his life an empty trick. Suppose he could escape. He clambered down to the base of the mountain, and just as his foot struck the sand of the desert, it was dark. The light was gone.

He stood still.

The light came again, showing before him the rough round stone, his hope of deliverance. He staggered as he hefted it and began to climb. He grimaced as it scraped his arms, but he kept climbing. His chance lay in his throbbing arms, his throbbing heart urging him onward.

He went too quickly. Just below the summit, at the steepest point, he stumbled, and would have fallen if he had not released the stone to catch himself. He watched it fall in agony, hoping that it would not crack in two as it leaped down the mountain. If it cracked, it might not be worthy to fill the depression. He might not be released. Finally, the stone rolled to a stop in the desert far below. It was whole. Sisyphus followed more slowly. Once again, as his foot struck the sand, the light went out.

He stood still.

The light came again--how many hours or days later, he didn’t know. Again, he trundled the boulder up the mountain, careful this time not to stumble. At last, just below the summit, he strained upward with the rock to push it up onto the summit. Just before it tipped up onto the surface, his grip failed. The rock again bounced to the desert. Sisyphus followed again, and again, the light went out.

He stood still.

Light came, then a climb, then a fall, then the dark. Hot, heavy breath, in and out. The cycle repeated. In and out.

As the cycles passed, Sisyphus grew stronger, and his hope surged. What if he just needed to become strong enough to overcome the mountain?

Yet as the cycles passed, Sisyphus also saw the stone become larger with every return of the light. He denied it at first. His arms might have gotten shorter as his muscles expanded. Perhaps he had never truly been able to reach all the way around the stone. But when the stone was as high as his waist, he could not deny it: the stone grew to match his strength.

Hot, heavy breath, in and out. Light, stagger-climb, fall, dark. His life in death was an empty trick.

He stood still.