Dostoevsky and Camus: The Absurdity of Gratitude

The Absurdity of Gratitude in a Conformist Society

I’ve been told to be grateful my whole life. It’s a mantra I heard growing up, one echoed in classrooms, family dinners, and even the quiet moments when I dared to question the world around me. But the more I’ve lived, the more gratitude has felt less like a gift and more like a cage—a set of invisible bars designed to keep me in line, to make me accept what I’m given, even when it’s not enough.

This tension is at the heart of my song “No Right or Wrong” from Meta Trap Vol. II, released on May 30, 2025.

The lyrics came from a place of defiance:

“There is no law that says you should be thankful.”

I wrote those words because I’ve felt the weight of that expectation, the way it presses down, demanding compliance. Society tells us gratitude is a moral duty we owe to the world. But what if it’s just a tool—a mechanism to keep us from asking for more, from demanding what we truly deserve?

Ivan Karamazov’s struggle

I found echoes of this struggle in literature, a place I often turn to when the world feels too heavy. In Fyodor Dostoevsky’s The Brothers Karamazov, there’s a character named Ivan Karamazov who wrestles with the foundations of morality. Ivan says something that struck me like a lightning bolt: “If God does not exist, everything is permitted.” To be clear, I am not saying that this is Dostoevsky’s personal belief—I think he used Ivan to explore a dangerous idea, one that leaves us questioning whether Ivan was truly freed by this thought or simply left adrift in nihilism.

Ivan Karamazov talking to the Devil in his chamber

Ivan’s words cut to the core of my own questions about gratitude. If there’s no divine law, no cosmic arbiter of right and wrong, then where do these obligations come from? Why am I expected to be thankful for a job that drains me, a system that overlooks me, or rules that bind me to someone else’s idea of morality?

Ivan’s argument suggests that without a higher power, these expectations—like gratitude—are human inventions, constructs meant to control us. They’re not universal truths; they’re chains we’ve been taught to wear willingly. Yet, there’s a lingering doubt: did Ivan find liberation in this realization, or was he consumed by the emptiness of a world without absolutes?

I felt this in my own life, growing up in a world that prized stability above all else. I was told to be grateful for a steady path—a predictable life, a safe one. But that stability came at a cost. It meant silencing the parts of me that wanted more, that craved freedom over comfort. Gratitude, in that context, wasn’t a feeling I chose; it was a demand I was meant to meet, a way to keep me from questioning why I had to settle.

Albert Camus calls life absurd

Albert Camus, another voice that shapes my thinking, calls life absurd. He argues there’s no inherent meaning, no grand design—just existence, raw and unfiltered. If that’s true, why should I thank the world for its chaos? Why should I feel obligated to express gratitude for a life that often feels indifferent to my struggles? This absurdity isn’t just Camus’ domain—it echoes in the works of Roberto Bolaño, whose characters often grapple with a world that defies meaning, searching for truth in the chaos. Camus’ philosophy aligns with Ivan Karamazov’s in a way that feels freeing: without objective morality, gratitude becomes a choice, not a requirement. But society doesn’t see it that way. It demands thanks, especially when we’re given the bare minimum, as if we should bow for scraps.

This expectation of gratitude is a tool, one I’ve seen used to maintain order. It keeps us in line, stops us from demanding better. Be thankful for what you have, they say, even when what you have is a fraction of what you need. It’s a way to make us accept less, to quiet the voice inside that knows we deserve more. I’ve felt that voice in my own gut, a hunger that refuses to be silenced, the same hunger that drives my music.

I’m not saying gratitude is always wrong. When it’s genuine—when it rises naturally from a place of true appreciation—it can be beautiful. But when it’s demanded, when it’s a “should,” it loses its authenticity. It becomes a burden, a weight we carry to prove we’re good, moral, acceptable. That’s the cage I’m talking about—the one I refuse to enter.

The Brothers Karamazov and the hope of redemption

Ivan Karamazov’s struggle in The Brothers Karamazov is a haunting one. He’s torn by the idea that without God, there are no moral absolutes. It’s a thought that either liberates him or leaves him stranded in nihilism—a question Dostoevsky doesn’t fully resolve. But Dostoevsky himself, by the end of the novel, offers a different perspective. A devout believer in the Russian Orthodox Church, he suggests through characters like Alyosha that faith can be a path to redemption, a way to find meaning despite life’s chaos. Dostoevsky’s own journey—returning to faith after years of doubt—shines through in this hope, a counterpoint to Ivan’s uncertainty.

What if we only gave gratitude where it’s earned, not where it’s expected?

Imagine a world where you don’t owe thanks for the bare minimum—where you’re free to feel what you feel, without guilt. Ivan Karamazov’s idea—that everything is permitted—means we can choose what matters to us. Gratitude doesn’t have to be one of those things.

I’ve been thinking about this a lot lately, especially as I hear from others who feel the same weight. What’s one thing you’ve been told to be grateful for that you secretly resent? For me, it’s the idea that I should be thankful for a life that often feels like it’s holding me back. I’d love to hear your story—share it in the comments below.

This is for those who feel the pressure of “shoulds,” the ones who know there’s a difference between what society demands and what they truly feel. Let’s break the cage together. Let’s define our own right and wrong.