A REFLECTION
This morning I thought about how fast some things change. Sometimes history can change in an instant. So can our lives as individuals. Developments are not always measured or even reasonable. Sometimes we deserve things; sometimes reason scolds us because we "should have anticipated results." Yet sometimes events strike from the blue and change everything overnight. There is no logic in these sudden changes. They defy the notion that life can be planned. In large part, they strengthen my belief that something beyond reason and "chance" works in our lives.
In 1942, the Japanese were winning the Pacific War. In May, a Japanese fleet was steaming toward Midway Island. The Japanese planned to destroy America's aircraft carriers and take the island. Japanese pilots were far superior to the Americans at this stage in the war. They had experience. They had high morale. They had never lost a battle. They had every reason to think they would win the upcoming battle.
But they did not. By chance, the Japanese had to switch their bombers from ground attack mode after they discovered American ships nearby. For twenty minutes, all their bombers stood dangerously exposed on carrier flight decks while crew members switched torpedoes to bombs. Fuel was strewn all over the place. At that precise moment, an American bomber squadron was overhead. They had no idea the Japanese were refueling and rearming. The American bombers swooped down at this critical moment. They sank three of Japan's four mightiest carriers in five minutes. It was pure luck. Japan never recovered from this catastrophic blow. For better or worse, America did not win the Battle of Midway by skill. They won because they profited from fortune.
Such moments do not just occur in war. They occur in everyday lives, too. Consider my life partner's story. One night two years ago, he walked into a gym. At that moment, he was healthy and had everything to live for. He suffered a freak burn accident in the gym. He spent 15 days in an ICU and almost died several times. Since then, he has never been the same. One moment he was healthy. The next moment, he was crippled. Bizarre accidents happen to many people; I report this incident because I know about it. I have seen how (mis)fortune can radically transform individual lives in an instant.
Things do not always change gradually. Sometimes they change without reason, defying our expectations. Our assumptions can transform in an instant. Sometimes fortune strikes for the better. Other times, it strikes for the worse. No matter how fortune falls, it defies our logic. We cannot account for "randomness," yet "random" events change history and our own lives in equal measure. Some say that we can predict events based on circumstances from which to make "educated guesses" about the future. Yet no one could have made an "educated guess" about the Japanese refueling their planes at the moment the American bombers were overhead, nor could I have made an "educated guess" about the disaster that befell my life partner. When fortune falls, our logic appears woefully inadequate.
Should we then embrace destiny? Does some other power ordain these seemingly random events? I have written that destiny appeals to me--even as an empiricist--because my all-too human senses can neither prove nor disprove it. I am content to believe that there are things I cannot know. This does not mean I subscribe to a particular religion. Rather, studying history and experiencing life both teach me that it is mature to acknowledge limitations to our capacity for knowledge in this world. By the same token, I am deeply skeptical of anyone who claims that "he can know" anything in life. He obviously has not suffered a random misfortune.
On the other hand, perhaps everything is truly random. There is no way to say one way or the other. Yet that is a disheartening thought.
Showing posts with label Destiny. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Destiny. Show all posts
Wednesday, September 2, 2009
Thursday, June 18, 2009
ART : TASTE, POPULARITY, DISCOVERY, FAME...WHAT DOES MERIT HAVE TO DO WITH IT?
AN ESSAY
What makes art great? Is it the color? The brushstroke? The imaginativeness? The originality? Does effort help? Is there some checklist to follow? Can you learn how to create great art? Or are great artists merely “chosen,” as if by fate? Why does a van Gogh sell for more than some unknown artist from the same era with a comparable style? Why are Basquiat’s dribblings worth more than an unknown artist from the same era who generated similar dribblings? In other words, what makes “great art” so special?
There is no way to objectively answer these questions. In fact, they are profoundly troubling. I am sure that art historians and university professors can lecture me on the myriad reasons why a Picasso is “better” and “worth more” than “lesser known” artists’ works from the same period. But I reject all attempts to objectively qualify art. Art has nothing to do with objectivity. And artists achieve fame because someone discovers them, not because they have “objective talent.” “Great art” did not become “great” because of some magical gift in the artist. Rather, it became “great art” because influential people liked it at the time and vigorously promoted it. Ironically, these influential people have never been artists, nor have they lived artists’ lives. Mostly, they have been bourgeois liberals with enough spare money to buy paintings, then yap about them to their bourgeois friends at wine-drenched gallery openings.
Art appeals to taste. Everyone has different tastes. While many people share tastes, no one can rightfully assert that their taste is better than another person’s. One person likes Limburger cheese. Another does not. One person likes pop art. Another hates it and doesn’t even consider it “art” at all. There is no way to objectively measure “artistic value,” because “artistic value” is a taste question; it is in the eye of the beholder—or perhaps, we should say, the tongue of the taster. Art represents an individual’s expression through imagery. Some will call it beautiful. Others will call it ugly. If enough people call it beautiful, they might make it famous. But maybe they won’t. The viewer is not bound to do anything. Viewing art is subjective; and the viewer is the ultimate judge. There is no objective standard: People either like your art or they don’t.
Art goes nowhere without viewers and their reactions. Once art appeals to a certain person’s taste, he might become enthusiastic about it. If he is a bum, it won’t matter. A bum doesn’t have influential friends or money to buy paintings. But if he is a lawyer, doctor or philanthropist, the possibilities grow. Well-heeled bourgeois know other well-heeled bourgeois. They talk to one another. They spend money together. They go to art auctions. If a rich dentist sees a painting he considers “fantastic,” he might tell his securities broker friend about it. The friend may agree, then tell his father, a retired banker with disposable income. In this way, art becomes “popular” among people in a position to make it “famous.” Once art achieves some popularity, promoters get involved. They spread the word even more, leading undifferentiated viewers to look at the art. “Wow,” think these new viewers. “If this painting is so popular, it must be good.” More and more people buy prints. The prints become famous.
Popularity, then, is a prerequisite for “greatness.” What begins as the fickle taste judgment of an individual bourgeois becomes the kernel for “great art.” Artists themselves have no power over reactions to their work. They simply live at a particular moment in time, express their feelings in visual form, then present their works. They cannot control whether they become popular. If Jean-Michel Basquiat had lived during van Gogh’s time, his works may not have generated as much buzz as they did in New York in the 1980s. And if Picasso were born in 1981, his works may not have generated as much buzz in Paris as they did because he was born in 1881. Artists become popular because they are born into particular times and places. Certain tastes exist at those times and in those places. Their work appeals to those tastes. When enough “influential people” become enthusiastic about their work, artists become famous. And once artists are famous, people start using the word “great” to describe them. Enough people like them. Enough people find their work beautiful. Yet they did not intend these results. The artist just went about his business. Fate blessed him with admirers who happened to find his work beautiful. He had no power to influence whether people would like him. They just did.
Some great artists got lucky during their lifetimes. Others did not. No matter whether they achieved fame before or after death, they never orchestrated it. In fact, most artists start off poor, wretched and despised. Artists do not “fit in” because they do not find “traditional work.” In western society, that is a sure way to attract scorn, both from society at large and from one’s own family. Picasso lived in an unheated Parisian flat when he was 20. Van Gogh bumbled aimlessly around Holland and Belgium, earning virtually nothing. Basquiat illegally spray-painted New York City subway trains; he was a “vagrant.” These were not “successful men.” They were outcasts, men who did not belong. They did not find “traditional employment” because they had larger things on their minds. They did not follow the “traditional life program.” According to bourgeois mythology, they should have come to ruin. Yet in each case, they became wildly famous. Why? Because some well-placed people liked their art, bought it, promoted it and made it popular. Gertrude Stein patronized and promoted the young Picasso. Andy Warhol patronized and promoted the young Basquiat. And numerous local bourgeois patronized and promoted van Gogh, although his fame did not mature until after he died.
But what made these men so special? Surely there must have been other tramps with artistic ability who simply did not have the good fortune to run into Gertrude Stein or Andy Warhol. If artists become famous because their work appeals to “influential tastes,” then blind luck plays a role in their success. After all, it is a matter of pure chance whether an “influential person” encounters a future “great artist.” Perhaps there have been other Picassos throughout history, but no wealthy barons saw their paintings in time. This is a disheartening thought. Yet I cannot escape it because “great art” depends on discovery. If some “influential person” does not discover an artist, no one will ever know about his genius. He will just die; no one will remember him. In fact, no one ever learned about him in the first place. In this sense, merit and genius have less to do with “great art” than good fortune. Picasso, Basquiat and van Gogh had sufficient merit to appeal to influential people’s tastes. But they also were lucky enough to have been discovered by the right people. Bums did not discover them. Bankers, lawyers, aristocrats, princes and wealthy dentists did. That is why we hail them as “geniuses” today. And that is why their paintings cost millions each.
“Great artists” owe their fame to their handlers. Fame, notoriety and popularity do not depend on intrinsic merit. They depend on others’ judgments. A person is not famous because he is intrinsically “the most talented” or “the smartest.” He is famous because enough people know about him. It is about numbers. If enough people know about you, you are famous. If they know about you because you supposedly create “great art,” then you are a “famous artist.” That does not mean that you are “intrinsically talented.” It simply means that your work appeals to many people’s tastes. To achieve fame, it is all about knowing the right people. Picasso, Basquiat and van Gogh luckily encountered people who had the power to effectively spread the word about them. Their work happened to please the right people’s tastes, and these people, in turn, told their friends about the art. Like wildfire, their popularity took off. Did their talent have anything to do with it? Perhaps. But talent alone did not lead to fame. Influential people did, along with their influential social networks. Put simply, “artistic talent” (if such a thing exists in the abstract) without discovery is like gold buried beneath the ocean floor—it is worthless. Only a determined miner can realize its potential. And the miner is the handler, not the artist. Without a handler and a promoter, the artist—talented or not—lies buried.
For all these reasons, I am deeply suspicious about assertions that certain art is “great.” When I look at art, I engage in an individual inquiry. I let art affect my own tastes. My tastes are my own; no one else controls them. I don’t care what art critics or professors say. If it pleases my tastes, I like it. If it doesn’t, I don’t. In many cases, I like art that has been labeled “great.” But I don’t like it because someone else told me it was great. I like it because my own tastes happen to match the majority’s. In essence, I remember that art is about subjective taste, not objective merit. And I remember that most art in famous museums or at Sotheby’s is only there because some wealthy promoter happened to really like it a long time ago.
All these things should deeply bother an artist. If I were an artist, I know they would bother me. After all, artists express themselves, no matter what people expect from them. They live dangerous, risky, unconventional lives. Yet no matter how powerful or meaningful their expression, they have no control over their popularity. They must surrender their fate to the subjective tastes of bourgeois art collectors and patrons, who all lead lives categorically different from the artist’s rebellious existence. Artists do not decide whether a millionaire banker likes their brushstrokes or paint splashes. The banker likes what he likes; it is not for the artist to say. The banker may hate the painting and walk out. Or he may fall in love with it, tell his colleagues about it, make the artist rich and attract an art museum’s attention.
What did the artist have to do with these reactions? Nothing. His “artistic ability” merely provided an opportunity for an “influential person” to react. But the power to react resides in the “influential person.” And fame does not result without a precise chain of lucky events that begins with discovery. Merit does not trigger this chain of lucky events. Merit merely provides an opportunity to appeal to an influential person’s tastes. That is only the first step toward fame—and possible “greatness.”
For better or worse, “greatness” in any endeavor depends on fame. No man is great if no one knows about him. Fame, in turn, depends on many lucky events, including the identity of the person who makes the initial discovery. “Great art” is great because the right people liked it at the right time. It is “great” because enough people who liked it were enthusiastic enough to promote it to others. Did the artist influence these reactions? No. He just painted what he saw in his mind. He expressed himself. He did not “make himself great.” Others did that for him. And they only did it because he appealed to their tastes, not because he had some magical talent that entitled him to greatness. In this light, “artistic ability” is at best overrated and at worst irrelevant. Put simply, “artistic greatness” derives from historical accident and dominant taste judgment, not self-revealing abstractions.
If Picasso had not encountered Gertrude Stein, he would have struggled on, alone and unknown. And if van Gogh’s paintings did not appeal to some wealthy patrons in Amsterdam, no one would ever have known about him, either. Their talents would simply have evaporated into the vastness of time and human experience, like so many others we never discovered. In sum, when it comes to “artistic greatness,” promotion and luck beat natural talent any day.
What makes art great? Is it the color? The brushstroke? The imaginativeness? The originality? Does effort help? Is there some checklist to follow? Can you learn how to create great art? Or are great artists merely “chosen,” as if by fate? Why does a van Gogh sell for more than some unknown artist from the same era with a comparable style? Why are Basquiat’s dribblings worth more than an unknown artist from the same era who generated similar dribblings? In other words, what makes “great art” so special?
There is no way to objectively answer these questions. In fact, they are profoundly troubling. I am sure that art historians and university professors can lecture me on the myriad reasons why a Picasso is “better” and “worth more” than “lesser known” artists’ works from the same period. But I reject all attempts to objectively qualify art. Art has nothing to do with objectivity. And artists achieve fame because someone discovers them, not because they have “objective talent.” “Great art” did not become “great” because of some magical gift in the artist. Rather, it became “great art” because influential people liked it at the time and vigorously promoted it. Ironically, these influential people have never been artists, nor have they lived artists’ lives. Mostly, they have been bourgeois liberals with enough spare money to buy paintings, then yap about them to their bourgeois friends at wine-drenched gallery openings.
Art appeals to taste. Everyone has different tastes. While many people share tastes, no one can rightfully assert that their taste is better than another person’s. One person likes Limburger cheese. Another does not. One person likes pop art. Another hates it and doesn’t even consider it “art” at all. There is no way to objectively measure “artistic value,” because “artistic value” is a taste question; it is in the eye of the beholder—or perhaps, we should say, the tongue of the taster. Art represents an individual’s expression through imagery. Some will call it beautiful. Others will call it ugly. If enough people call it beautiful, they might make it famous. But maybe they won’t. The viewer is not bound to do anything. Viewing art is subjective; and the viewer is the ultimate judge. There is no objective standard: People either like your art or they don’t.
Art goes nowhere without viewers and their reactions. Once art appeals to a certain person’s taste, he might become enthusiastic about it. If he is a bum, it won’t matter. A bum doesn’t have influential friends or money to buy paintings. But if he is a lawyer, doctor or philanthropist, the possibilities grow. Well-heeled bourgeois know other well-heeled bourgeois. They talk to one another. They spend money together. They go to art auctions. If a rich dentist sees a painting he considers “fantastic,” he might tell his securities broker friend about it. The friend may agree, then tell his father, a retired banker with disposable income. In this way, art becomes “popular” among people in a position to make it “famous.” Once art achieves some popularity, promoters get involved. They spread the word even more, leading undifferentiated viewers to look at the art. “Wow,” think these new viewers. “If this painting is so popular, it must be good.” More and more people buy prints. The prints become famous.
Popularity, then, is a prerequisite for “greatness.” What begins as the fickle taste judgment of an individual bourgeois becomes the kernel for “great art.” Artists themselves have no power over reactions to their work. They simply live at a particular moment in time, express their feelings in visual form, then present their works. They cannot control whether they become popular. If Jean-Michel Basquiat had lived during van Gogh’s time, his works may not have generated as much buzz as they did in New York in the 1980s. And if Picasso were born in 1981, his works may not have generated as much buzz in Paris as they did because he was born in 1881. Artists become popular because they are born into particular times and places. Certain tastes exist at those times and in those places. Their work appeals to those tastes. When enough “influential people” become enthusiastic about their work, artists become famous. And once artists are famous, people start using the word “great” to describe them. Enough people like them. Enough people find their work beautiful. Yet they did not intend these results. The artist just went about his business. Fate blessed him with admirers who happened to find his work beautiful. He had no power to influence whether people would like him. They just did.
Some great artists got lucky during their lifetimes. Others did not. No matter whether they achieved fame before or after death, they never orchestrated it. In fact, most artists start off poor, wretched and despised. Artists do not “fit in” because they do not find “traditional work.” In western society, that is a sure way to attract scorn, both from society at large and from one’s own family. Picasso lived in an unheated Parisian flat when he was 20. Van Gogh bumbled aimlessly around Holland and Belgium, earning virtually nothing. Basquiat illegally spray-painted New York City subway trains; he was a “vagrant.” These were not “successful men.” They were outcasts, men who did not belong. They did not find “traditional employment” because they had larger things on their minds. They did not follow the “traditional life program.” According to bourgeois mythology, they should have come to ruin. Yet in each case, they became wildly famous. Why? Because some well-placed people liked their art, bought it, promoted it and made it popular. Gertrude Stein patronized and promoted the young Picasso. Andy Warhol patronized and promoted the young Basquiat. And numerous local bourgeois patronized and promoted van Gogh, although his fame did not mature until after he died.
But what made these men so special? Surely there must have been other tramps with artistic ability who simply did not have the good fortune to run into Gertrude Stein or Andy Warhol. If artists become famous because their work appeals to “influential tastes,” then blind luck plays a role in their success. After all, it is a matter of pure chance whether an “influential person” encounters a future “great artist.” Perhaps there have been other Picassos throughout history, but no wealthy barons saw their paintings in time. This is a disheartening thought. Yet I cannot escape it because “great art” depends on discovery. If some “influential person” does not discover an artist, no one will ever know about his genius. He will just die; no one will remember him. In fact, no one ever learned about him in the first place. In this sense, merit and genius have less to do with “great art” than good fortune. Picasso, Basquiat and van Gogh had sufficient merit to appeal to influential people’s tastes. But they also were lucky enough to have been discovered by the right people. Bums did not discover them. Bankers, lawyers, aristocrats, princes and wealthy dentists did. That is why we hail them as “geniuses” today. And that is why their paintings cost millions each.
“Great artists” owe their fame to their handlers. Fame, notoriety and popularity do not depend on intrinsic merit. They depend on others’ judgments. A person is not famous because he is intrinsically “the most talented” or “the smartest.” He is famous because enough people know about him. It is about numbers. If enough people know about you, you are famous. If they know about you because you supposedly create “great art,” then you are a “famous artist.” That does not mean that you are “intrinsically talented.” It simply means that your work appeals to many people’s tastes. To achieve fame, it is all about knowing the right people. Picasso, Basquiat and van Gogh luckily encountered people who had the power to effectively spread the word about them. Their work happened to please the right people’s tastes, and these people, in turn, told their friends about the art. Like wildfire, their popularity took off. Did their talent have anything to do with it? Perhaps. But talent alone did not lead to fame. Influential people did, along with their influential social networks. Put simply, “artistic talent” (if such a thing exists in the abstract) without discovery is like gold buried beneath the ocean floor—it is worthless. Only a determined miner can realize its potential. And the miner is the handler, not the artist. Without a handler and a promoter, the artist—talented or not—lies buried.
For all these reasons, I am deeply suspicious about assertions that certain art is “great.” When I look at art, I engage in an individual inquiry. I let art affect my own tastes. My tastes are my own; no one else controls them. I don’t care what art critics or professors say. If it pleases my tastes, I like it. If it doesn’t, I don’t. In many cases, I like art that has been labeled “great.” But I don’t like it because someone else told me it was great. I like it because my own tastes happen to match the majority’s. In essence, I remember that art is about subjective taste, not objective merit. And I remember that most art in famous museums or at Sotheby’s is only there because some wealthy promoter happened to really like it a long time ago.
All these things should deeply bother an artist. If I were an artist, I know they would bother me. After all, artists express themselves, no matter what people expect from them. They live dangerous, risky, unconventional lives. Yet no matter how powerful or meaningful their expression, they have no control over their popularity. They must surrender their fate to the subjective tastes of bourgeois art collectors and patrons, who all lead lives categorically different from the artist’s rebellious existence. Artists do not decide whether a millionaire banker likes their brushstrokes or paint splashes. The banker likes what he likes; it is not for the artist to say. The banker may hate the painting and walk out. Or he may fall in love with it, tell his colleagues about it, make the artist rich and attract an art museum’s attention.
What did the artist have to do with these reactions? Nothing. His “artistic ability” merely provided an opportunity for an “influential person” to react. But the power to react resides in the “influential person.” And fame does not result without a precise chain of lucky events that begins with discovery. Merit does not trigger this chain of lucky events. Merit merely provides an opportunity to appeal to an influential person’s tastes. That is only the first step toward fame—and possible “greatness.”
For better or worse, “greatness” in any endeavor depends on fame. No man is great if no one knows about him. Fame, in turn, depends on many lucky events, including the identity of the person who makes the initial discovery. “Great art” is great because the right people liked it at the right time. It is “great” because enough people who liked it were enthusiastic enough to promote it to others. Did the artist influence these reactions? No. He just painted what he saw in his mind. He expressed himself. He did not “make himself great.” Others did that for him. And they only did it because he appealed to their tastes, not because he had some magical talent that entitled him to greatness. In this light, “artistic ability” is at best overrated and at worst irrelevant. Put simply, “artistic greatness” derives from historical accident and dominant taste judgment, not self-revealing abstractions.
If Picasso had not encountered Gertrude Stein, he would have struggled on, alone and unknown. And if van Gogh’s paintings did not appeal to some wealthy patrons in Amsterdam, no one would ever have known about him, either. Their talents would simply have evaporated into the vastness of time and human experience, like so many others we never discovered. In sum, when it comes to “artistic greatness,” promotion and luck beat natural talent any day.
Tuesday, June 16, 2009
COMMITMENTS ARE UNREALISTIC AND USUALLY UNREASONABLE
AN ESSAY
We hear about “commitments” all the time. When we hear that a person has “commitments,” we tend to admire him. In the abstract, we link commitments with positive ideas, such as “a commitment to justice” or “a commitment to goodness.” But we make and break commitments all the time. They do not typically involve lofty ideals or premises. Rather, they concern the forgettable grist of life: Commerce, fleeting relationships, petty plans, timing, instrumental networking—stuff that ultimately no one remembers. Generally, there is nothing intrinsically special about commitments. Rather, they force human beings into a losing game, because commitments try to buck natural changes in life. Just live a few years to learn nothing stays the same for long in this world. That’s why it’s unrealistic—and usually unreasonable—to commit to anything. And in most cases there is nothing we can do about it.
So why do we admire commitments in the abstract? Let us start with the word. “To commit” has many meanings in English. For our purposes, the word’s most relevant meaning involves “pledging, obligation and assurance” to undertake future action or believe future thoughts. Dictionary.com specifies: “4. To bind or obligate, as by pledge or assurance.” A commitment, then, is a statement or promise to do or believe something long in advance. It obligates the speaker to do what he says, even if future events turn out in a completely unexpected way. It forces him into a dilemma between “his word” and the pressures of unforeseen reality. By making a “commitment,” the speaker takes a huge gamble that life will not twist away from him in the time it takes to keep his promise. If he loses the gamble and reneges on his commitment, others label him “dishonorable” and “unreliable.” If he wins the gamble and fulfills his word before circumstances turn on him, others label him “honorable,” “steadfast” and “resolute.” In both events, commitments are risky. If a commitment is long-term, there is a greater chance that intervening reality will undermine the circumstances necessary to fulfill it. But if it is short-term, life has a smaller window in which to unravel it.
Yet our society encourages us to make commitments all the time. In so doing, it leads us into dangerous territory. It insists that we “honor our word” to do things. But if life gets away from us and makes it impossible—or at least extremely difficult—to honor our word, we suffer excoriation for failure. The law adds more thematic baggage to the unofficial “dishonor” stigma that accompanies failure to fulfill commitments. In “regular life,” we make “unofficial” commitments. The law, however, recognizes special “official” commitments called “contracts.” While “regular life” penalizes our failure to adhere to commitments with social stigma and derision for “dishonor,” the law penalizes us in a highly technical way. In so doing, it gives official approval to the prevailing social convention that “commitments are good,” and “word-breaking is bad.” If a commitment fits the legal requirements of “contract,” it is more than just a commitment. It becomes a “cause of action” for money damages when some unlucky soul does not fulfill his word. Fault and circumstance have nothing to do with it. If a person does not do what he promised, the law penalizes him, no matter what the situation may be.
Whether in life or in law, commitments are troublesome. They ask us to ignore and defy inevitable changes that pursue us. In my view, it is not only unrealistic to make certain commitments, but also unfair. This is not to say that it is not admirable to make long-term commitments. It is merely to say that life changes far too much—and men are far too weak—to realistically deliver on many promises. In this sense, life and law overlap. Consider long-term mortgage contracts. Generally speaking, mortgage customers commit—both legally and grammatically—to pay a bank a certain amount every month for 30 years or more. Consider what can happen in one year, let alone thirty. Someone could get sick. Someone could get run over by a train. Someone could suffer crippling depression and lose their job. The economy could tank, causing widespread unemployment. A disaster could strike, destroying the house. Someone could get laid off. Someone could take a pay cut. Someone could have a crisis of conscience and refuse to take a paycheck from a corrupt organization. Someone could lose a limb. Someone could commit a crime and go to prison. Someone could cheat on a spouse, leading to marital strife, divorce, acrimony and reduced income. Someone could lose their parents, causing emotional turmoil. Or someone could just lose interest in life and commit suicide.
All this could happen in one year. Think about what can happen in thirty. Life whips us with unrelenting pressure, from both inside our souls and from the outside world. Yet the bank could care less: You made a commitment. You must pony up the payment every month—like you said you would—no matter what dramatic, unforeseen circumstances you might face. It doesn’t matter that you did not foresee trouble 15 years down the road. You made a commitment. The fact that both popular judgment and the law favor the bank’s position in this situation strikes me as fundamentally unfair—and unrealistic in the extreme. Realistically speaking, we cannot adhere to commitments. Life changes too much. What was normal on the day we signed the contract may no longer be normal five years later. But commitments bind us to our word even when it would be painful or absurd to continue following it. All this ensues because we “pledged ourselves” to an action. When we make commitments, we entirely assume the risk that life will not turn against us in the time it takes to fulfill our word. That is not smart.
Commitments, then, are unrealistic because they ask us to defy inevitable, unforeseen change in life. That is unreasonable because a reasonable person does not take action that is sure to fail. Reasonable people use their sense, experience and memory to judge future actions. If sense, experience and memory reveal that a certain action will likely not yield success, a reasonable person will refrain from engaging in it. Sense, experience and memory quickly reveal to us that life is unpredictable and volatile. What appears tranquil one day may be disrupted and toxic the next. Only a naïve person could ignore that. Why, then, do we continue to make doomed commitments every day? Simple: Because in many cases power plays a role in commitment.
We do not live in an equal society. In our commercial world, we need “things” that we do not have. In order to get what we don’t have, we must deal with people who do. That means we must enter into relationships with people who hold advantages over us, whether they are lenders, merchants, schools or retailers. These people want to make a profit on us, and it is easy to make a profit when you can define the rules of the relationship. If we want money from a bank because we can’t afford a home, they give it to us only if we commit ourselves to paying them back every month with twice as much interest. If we want money from a lender to go to school because we can’t afford tuition, they give it to us only if we commit ourselves to paying them back every month with three times as much interest. When we make our commitment, we do not really think about the future. What do we know what the future holds? We just need the money now, in 2009. We hope that we will have income to pay it back in 2014, 2024 and 2034. We don’t know what disaster might strike in 2013. We don’t know if we’ll lose our job in the financial crisis of 2021. We gamble that we will have the money every month to pay the bank because we made a commitment. Yet that commitment puts the risk on us that our lives will not inalterably change at some time before we fulfill our word. That is a huge risk. And it is an unreasonable one. We take it only because we must. In that sense, our commitments may be unrealistic and unreasonable, but we have little choice in the matter. Either we make an unfair, unrealistic or unreasonable commitment, or we do not get our tuition money. We gamble that we will have a better shot at life with an education, so we take the bet. In this sense, we make commitments in many cases because the relationship is skewed: The powerful party sets the terms, and we must follow.
Not all commitments reflect unequal commercial relationships. Emotional commitments, for instance, do not strictly involve money. Nonetheless, emotional commitments are just as unrealistic and unreasonable as financial commitments. Commitments are commitments, no matter the subject matter. They ask us to defy inevitable, unforeseen changes in life. In emotional commitments, changes can strike from the outside. But more often they originate in human weakness and inconstancy. Human beings’ tastes and desires vacillate as violently as the weather. When two people commit to each other emotionally, they play a dangerous game. They gamble that one or the other will not develop affections for anyone else at any time. They gamble that one or the other will not suffer injury or lose interest in the relationship at any time. They gamble that external pressures will not cause emotional rifts between them.
As was true in financial commitments, these are losing bets. Human beings are weak. They lust for others, no matter what commitments they have made to their mates. Their circumstances change over time, altering the way they look at their partners. The same goes for the other partner. Human beings do what makes them feel happy, not what enables them to fulfill their word. Naturally, this makes emotional commitments extremely difficult to maintain. After all, if the only thing maintaining an emotional relationship is the abstract desire to “keep one’s word” at the expense of happiness, it does not take a psychiatrist to understand that the bond will soon break. The quest for happiness is individual, not joint. It changes with time and circumstances. That leaves a lot of room for mischief in a “committed relationship.” In short, a lot can go wrong over time between two individual people who each want to be happy in their own way. That is why emotional commitments are just as unrealistic and unreasonable as financial commitments. No matter the subject matter, commitments defy change and time. That is why they are losing propositions.
I am certain that readers will find my premise here too pessimistic. My rhetoric might lead readers to think that I have no faith in commitments. This is not entirely true. I think that some commitments can work, and I admire people who adhere to their word no matter what curveballs life throws at them. Honor and commitment do go hand in hand; honorable people do what they promise. But in many cases honor has less to do with it than blind fortune. Some people live relatively changeless lives. Some people do not regularly suffer terrible upheavals or reversals. Some people make plans and no intervening events foil them. They can fulfill their commitments without complaint because nothing bad happens in the meantime. Is it honorable that they fulfill their word? Certainly. Nonetheless, they benefited from stability and changelessness. They could be honorable because nothing forced their hand. We cannot all be so lucky. Our choices do not always define our path in life. Sometimes we suffer reversals and hardship even if we make all the right moves. By contrast, sometimes everything turns out well even if we repeatedly make asinine decisions. Change affects us all differently. And that is really what determines whether we can fulfill commitments.
Honor means that we adhere to principle no matter the circumstances. It means that we take our commitments seriously. I like to think that I have honor. But I won’t deny that life has its own plan. More often than not, life interrupts our plans, alters our values and forces us to change our assumptions. We see things differently from year to year. And sometimes one year will deal us a disaster that fundamentally disrupts everything we thought was true about life. Time poses these challenges to us all. Thus, while it is good to have honor and to adhere to our word, I do not think it is wrong to modify our commitments when life chops the foundations out from under us. There is nothing honorable or spectacular about adhering to commitments when the very reason for those commitments has vanished. In fact, that would be unreasonable.
Yet honor wields a bothersome mystique. It tells us to feel guilty when we must abandon our word, even if life forces our hand in the matter. But should we feel guilty about reneging on a commitment that was unfair and unrealistic in the first place? Or are we to blame for making the commitment to start? At this point, I cannot ignore power. All too often we make commitments under pressure; and powerful parties use our own honor against us to make us feel bad about failing to live up to their unfair conditions. When we give our word to do something under unfair disadvantages, I do not think it dishonorable to renege if we lose the rigged game.
Of course, the law sees it differently. And the house always wins. “You made a commitment....we don't care what happened to you. Tough luck."
But for the grace of God go we all.
We hear about “commitments” all the time. When we hear that a person has “commitments,” we tend to admire him. In the abstract, we link commitments with positive ideas, such as “a commitment to justice” or “a commitment to goodness.” But we make and break commitments all the time. They do not typically involve lofty ideals or premises. Rather, they concern the forgettable grist of life: Commerce, fleeting relationships, petty plans, timing, instrumental networking—stuff that ultimately no one remembers. Generally, there is nothing intrinsically special about commitments. Rather, they force human beings into a losing game, because commitments try to buck natural changes in life. Just live a few years to learn nothing stays the same for long in this world. That’s why it’s unrealistic—and usually unreasonable—to commit to anything. And in most cases there is nothing we can do about it.
So why do we admire commitments in the abstract? Let us start with the word. “To commit” has many meanings in English. For our purposes, the word’s most relevant meaning involves “pledging, obligation and assurance” to undertake future action or believe future thoughts. Dictionary.com specifies: “4. To bind or obligate, as by pledge or assurance.” A commitment, then, is a statement or promise to do or believe something long in advance. It obligates the speaker to do what he says, even if future events turn out in a completely unexpected way. It forces him into a dilemma between “his word” and the pressures of unforeseen reality. By making a “commitment,” the speaker takes a huge gamble that life will not twist away from him in the time it takes to keep his promise. If he loses the gamble and reneges on his commitment, others label him “dishonorable” and “unreliable.” If he wins the gamble and fulfills his word before circumstances turn on him, others label him “honorable,” “steadfast” and “resolute.” In both events, commitments are risky. If a commitment is long-term, there is a greater chance that intervening reality will undermine the circumstances necessary to fulfill it. But if it is short-term, life has a smaller window in which to unravel it.
Yet our society encourages us to make commitments all the time. In so doing, it leads us into dangerous territory. It insists that we “honor our word” to do things. But if life gets away from us and makes it impossible—or at least extremely difficult—to honor our word, we suffer excoriation for failure. The law adds more thematic baggage to the unofficial “dishonor” stigma that accompanies failure to fulfill commitments. In “regular life,” we make “unofficial” commitments. The law, however, recognizes special “official” commitments called “contracts.” While “regular life” penalizes our failure to adhere to commitments with social stigma and derision for “dishonor,” the law penalizes us in a highly technical way. In so doing, it gives official approval to the prevailing social convention that “commitments are good,” and “word-breaking is bad.” If a commitment fits the legal requirements of “contract,” it is more than just a commitment. It becomes a “cause of action” for money damages when some unlucky soul does not fulfill his word. Fault and circumstance have nothing to do with it. If a person does not do what he promised, the law penalizes him, no matter what the situation may be.
Whether in life or in law, commitments are troublesome. They ask us to ignore and defy inevitable changes that pursue us. In my view, it is not only unrealistic to make certain commitments, but also unfair. This is not to say that it is not admirable to make long-term commitments. It is merely to say that life changes far too much—and men are far too weak—to realistically deliver on many promises. In this sense, life and law overlap. Consider long-term mortgage contracts. Generally speaking, mortgage customers commit—both legally and grammatically—to pay a bank a certain amount every month for 30 years or more. Consider what can happen in one year, let alone thirty. Someone could get sick. Someone could get run over by a train. Someone could suffer crippling depression and lose their job. The economy could tank, causing widespread unemployment. A disaster could strike, destroying the house. Someone could get laid off. Someone could take a pay cut. Someone could have a crisis of conscience and refuse to take a paycheck from a corrupt organization. Someone could lose a limb. Someone could commit a crime and go to prison. Someone could cheat on a spouse, leading to marital strife, divorce, acrimony and reduced income. Someone could lose their parents, causing emotional turmoil. Or someone could just lose interest in life and commit suicide.
All this could happen in one year. Think about what can happen in thirty. Life whips us with unrelenting pressure, from both inside our souls and from the outside world. Yet the bank could care less: You made a commitment. You must pony up the payment every month—like you said you would—no matter what dramatic, unforeseen circumstances you might face. It doesn’t matter that you did not foresee trouble 15 years down the road. You made a commitment. The fact that both popular judgment and the law favor the bank’s position in this situation strikes me as fundamentally unfair—and unrealistic in the extreme. Realistically speaking, we cannot adhere to commitments. Life changes too much. What was normal on the day we signed the contract may no longer be normal five years later. But commitments bind us to our word even when it would be painful or absurd to continue following it. All this ensues because we “pledged ourselves” to an action. When we make commitments, we entirely assume the risk that life will not turn against us in the time it takes to fulfill our word. That is not smart.
Commitments, then, are unrealistic because they ask us to defy inevitable, unforeseen change in life. That is unreasonable because a reasonable person does not take action that is sure to fail. Reasonable people use their sense, experience and memory to judge future actions. If sense, experience and memory reveal that a certain action will likely not yield success, a reasonable person will refrain from engaging in it. Sense, experience and memory quickly reveal to us that life is unpredictable and volatile. What appears tranquil one day may be disrupted and toxic the next. Only a naïve person could ignore that. Why, then, do we continue to make doomed commitments every day? Simple: Because in many cases power plays a role in commitment.
We do not live in an equal society. In our commercial world, we need “things” that we do not have. In order to get what we don’t have, we must deal with people who do. That means we must enter into relationships with people who hold advantages over us, whether they are lenders, merchants, schools or retailers. These people want to make a profit on us, and it is easy to make a profit when you can define the rules of the relationship. If we want money from a bank because we can’t afford a home, they give it to us only if we commit ourselves to paying them back every month with twice as much interest. If we want money from a lender to go to school because we can’t afford tuition, they give it to us only if we commit ourselves to paying them back every month with three times as much interest. When we make our commitment, we do not really think about the future. What do we know what the future holds? We just need the money now, in 2009. We hope that we will have income to pay it back in 2014, 2024 and 2034. We don’t know what disaster might strike in 2013. We don’t know if we’ll lose our job in the financial crisis of 2021. We gamble that we will have the money every month to pay the bank because we made a commitment. Yet that commitment puts the risk on us that our lives will not inalterably change at some time before we fulfill our word. That is a huge risk. And it is an unreasonable one. We take it only because we must. In that sense, our commitments may be unrealistic and unreasonable, but we have little choice in the matter. Either we make an unfair, unrealistic or unreasonable commitment, or we do not get our tuition money. We gamble that we will have a better shot at life with an education, so we take the bet. In this sense, we make commitments in many cases because the relationship is skewed: The powerful party sets the terms, and we must follow.
Not all commitments reflect unequal commercial relationships. Emotional commitments, for instance, do not strictly involve money. Nonetheless, emotional commitments are just as unrealistic and unreasonable as financial commitments. Commitments are commitments, no matter the subject matter. They ask us to defy inevitable, unforeseen changes in life. In emotional commitments, changes can strike from the outside. But more often they originate in human weakness and inconstancy. Human beings’ tastes and desires vacillate as violently as the weather. When two people commit to each other emotionally, they play a dangerous game. They gamble that one or the other will not develop affections for anyone else at any time. They gamble that one or the other will not suffer injury or lose interest in the relationship at any time. They gamble that external pressures will not cause emotional rifts between them.
As was true in financial commitments, these are losing bets. Human beings are weak. They lust for others, no matter what commitments they have made to their mates. Their circumstances change over time, altering the way they look at their partners. The same goes for the other partner. Human beings do what makes them feel happy, not what enables them to fulfill their word. Naturally, this makes emotional commitments extremely difficult to maintain. After all, if the only thing maintaining an emotional relationship is the abstract desire to “keep one’s word” at the expense of happiness, it does not take a psychiatrist to understand that the bond will soon break. The quest for happiness is individual, not joint. It changes with time and circumstances. That leaves a lot of room for mischief in a “committed relationship.” In short, a lot can go wrong over time between two individual people who each want to be happy in their own way. That is why emotional commitments are just as unrealistic and unreasonable as financial commitments. No matter the subject matter, commitments defy change and time. That is why they are losing propositions.
I am certain that readers will find my premise here too pessimistic. My rhetoric might lead readers to think that I have no faith in commitments. This is not entirely true. I think that some commitments can work, and I admire people who adhere to their word no matter what curveballs life throws at them. Honor and commitment do go hand in hand; honorable people do what they promise. But in many cases honor has less to do with it than blind fortune. Some people live relatively changeless lives. Some people do not regularly suffer terrible upheavals or reversals. Some people make plans and no intervening events foil them. They can fulfill their commitments without complaint because nothing bad happens in the meantime. Is it honorable that they fulfill their word? Certainly. Nonetheless, they benefited from stability and changelessness. They could be honorable because nothing forced their hand. We cannot all be so lucky. Our choices do not always define our path in life. Sometimes we suffer reversals and hardship even if we make all the right moves. By contrast, sometimes everything turns out well even if we repeatedly make asinine decisions. Change affects us all differently. And that is really what determines whether we can fulfill commitments.
Honor means that we adhere to principle no matter the circumstances. It means that we take our commitments seriously. I like to think that I have honor. But I won’t deny that life has its own plan. More often than not, life interrupts our plans, alters our values and forces us to change our assumptions. We see things differently from year to year. And sometimes one year will deal us a disaster that fundamentally disrupts everything we thought was true about life. Time poses these challenges to us all. Thus, while it is good to have honor and to adhere to our word, I do not think it is wrong to modify our commitments when life chops the foundations out from under us. There is nothing honorable or spectacular about adhering to commitments when the very reason for those commitments has vanished. In fact, that would be unreasonable.
Yet honor wields a bothersome mystique. It tells us to feel guilty when we must abandon our word, even if life forces our hand in the matter. But should we feel guilty about reneging on a commitment that was unfair and unrealistic in the first place? Or are we to blame for making the commitment to start? At this point, I cannot ignore power. All too often we make commitments under pressure; and powerful parties use our own honor against us to make us feel bad about failing to live up to their unfair conditions. When we give our word to do something under unfair disadvantages, I do not think it dishonorable to renege if we lose the rigged game.
Of course, the law sees it differently. And the house always wins. “You made a commitment....we don't care what happened to you. Tough luck."
But for the grace of God go we all.
Monday, May 18, 2009
LUCKY OR HAPPY? WHAT'S THE DIFFERENCE?
AN ESSAY
I often write about happiness and unhappiness. In my view, human beings long to experience good, positive feelings as much as they can in life. Freud thought the same: “What do [men] demand of life and wish to achieve in it? They strive after happiness; they want to become happy and remain so.” Civilization and its Discontents, p. 25. Yet people say they want to be “happy” without really knowing what it means. All they know is that they want to feel good more than they feel bad—or at least more than they feel physical pain. Still, “feeling happy” is complex, especially in American life. Many people cannot feel happy unless they first achieve some “subsidiary aims,” such as making money, owning property or obtaining the “right life mate.” They exhaust themselves seeking these “subsidiary aims” to such an extent that they lose sight of the end goal: Happiness. Instead, they endless obsess over the “subsidiary aims.” In short, “a means” to happiness replaces the “end.”
Money is the best example. Money is a medium; it is a means to obtain other things, things that will ostensibly bring happiness. Yet many people forget this when they set out upon “the money-making life.” Even Aristotle recognized this 2500 years ago. Interestingly, both Freud and Aristotle agree that men seek happiness in life: “…[What] is it that we say…is the highest of all goods achievable by action? Verbally there is very general agreement; for both the general run of men and people of superior refinement say that it is happiness, and identify living well and doing well with being happy.” Ethics, Book I, Ch. 4. But Aristotle expressly ruled out “money-making” as a pathway to true happiness: “The life of money-making is one undertaken under compulsion, and wealth is evidently not the good we are seeking; for it is merely useful and for the sake of something else.” Ethics, Book I, Ch. 5. In other words, Aristotle understood that money is a “subsidiary aim” that is “merely useful…for the sake of something else,” namely, “happiness.” Despite Aristotle’s warning, however, many Americans live their lives for money. They think it will categorically bring them happiness. In so doing, they are “barking up the wrong tree.” Perhaps that explains why so few Americans think they are happy. If “living for money” categorically cannot win happiness, then there is no way a true “money-maker” will ever find happiness.
If money does not bring happiness, what does? In truth, we can forgive many Americans for their error. After all, we are merely sensory creatures. We believe what we see and hear. Our senses tell us that money appears to make wealthy people happy. They appear to want for nothing. They do not worry about their rent or their bills. They drive beautiful cars, go on exotic vacations and do what they want every day. This stands in stark contrast to our own lives, in which money is a constant worry. When money is a worry, it dominates our outlook. It provides too many opportunities for suffering. In these circumstances, we cannot feel the “strongly positive emotions” that mark happiness. Freud said that the “presence of unpleasure” makes happiness impossible. Cf. Freud, Civilization and its Discontents, p. 34. To paraphrase Bobby McFerrin: When we worry, we cannot be happy. Nonetheless, we believe that if we only cast off the “money yoke,” our worries would disappear, leaving our minds free to finally experience “strongly positive emotions.” From our perspective, the rich have that freedom. That is why we think they must be happy. And that is why we think that money will automatically make us happy, too.
But this is a delusion. One must merely pick up a tabloid newspaper to see that even mega-rich superstars are not happy, either. They might not worry about bills and health care, but they find other sources for “unpleasure” in their lives: Cheating boyfriends, bitter divorces, cancer, lost contracts, sagging boobs, wrinkles, potbellies, baldness, betrayals, Oscar snubs, humiliations, criminal prosecutions for disorderly conduct, drunk driving or domestic abuse… the list goes on. Money did not cause pain here. These unhappy stars have plenty of money. Yet they clearly are not happy, either. They simply experience unpleasure from a different source than the rest.
Where are the happy people, then? If wealth does not bring happiness, what does? In America, commerce is King. This is not just left-wing rhetoric: We really think we can buy anything. Why can’t we buy happiness, too? It seems like a cruel joke. If we seek happiness but we can’t buy it, what is all this chatter about “becoming successful” and “working hard?” If neither success, nor hard work, nor money can categorically create happiness, what is the point? We work hard and attempt to become successful because we want the power to buy things. But if we can’t buy happiness, what do we have? Aristotle and Freud say that we all want happiness. At the same time, American life tells us we need to be successful. Yet the two are not consistent. Success and money do not automatically create happiness. They may provide a means to it, but they are not replacements for happiness. Happiness comes from somewhere else, somewhere within ourselves.
Or does it? Can we fool ourselves into happiness no matter our external circumstances? Can we manipulate our attitudes so that we always feel “strongly positive emotions?” To answer that question, we must examine language. While we colloquially understand that “happiness” means a prevalence of “strongly positive emotions” over “negative feelings, stress and pain,” does that mean that external circumstances play no role in the analysis? Or can we become happy by sheer force of will, despite all the ills that fate throws upon us? In other words, are happy people simply “lucky?” If they are, what does that say about all our frantic efforts to “become happy” in life? If happiness is basically just a crapshoot, why bother even trying to “find happiness” in the first place?
This is not a small concern. In English, there is a very close relationship between the concepts “happiness” and “luck.” “Happy” is an ancient English word. It derives from the root “hap,” which in turn stems from the Old English “haep” and Old Norse “happ,” meaning “convenient” or “suitable.” Webster’s New World College Dictionary, 4th Ed. “Hap” means “chance, luck or lot,” or at least an “occurrence or happening.” “Hap” gives rise not only to “happy,” but also to “happen” and “happenstance.” All these words imply purely random, chance occurrences over which human will appears to have little influence. Looking more closely at “happy,” the dictionary tells us that the word means: “1. favored by circumstances; lucky; fortunate; 2. having, showing or causing a feeling of great pleasure, contentment, joy, etc., joyous, glad, pleased; 3. exactly appropriate to the occasion.” Id. A “happy person,” then, appears to have made little effort in life. Rather, he is merely “favored by circumstances” and “fortunate” to feel the way he does. He feels “great pleasure, contentment and joy” because circumstances favor him. But why do circumstances favor him? Because he is simply “lucky?” If he is “just lucky,” does that mean he played a role in his own happiness? Or did “fate” just randomly bless him? Here, we can already see the trouble brewing. To be “happy,” our “circumstances” must “favor us.” We must be “lucky” and “fortunate.” We must benefit from “chance occurrences” and “happenstance” to be “happy.” Our own efforts seem irrelevant to the task. Put simply, “happiness” requires “luckiness.”
So what does “lucky” mean? According to Webster, “lucky” means “having good luck; fortunate.” Webster’s New World Dictionary, 4th Ed. Again, we see “fortune” at work in these concepts. Fortune involves random chance, not purposeful action. And what about “good luck?” “Luck,” like “hap,” is an ancient English word. It derives from the Indo-European root “leuk,” meaning “what bends together” or “what occurs.” That root evolved into the Middle Dutch “luk” and the German “Glück.” In German, “Glück” translates not only to “luck,” but also to “happiness.” Bertelsmann’s Deutsches Wörterbuch tells us that “Glück” means: “1. favorable, fortunate circumstances or a turn of events; a coincidence; 2. the success that comes from that turn of events; 3. a feeling of inner satisfaction and joy, especially after accomplishing sought-after wishes; 4. favorable chance (my translations).” In English, Webster says that “luck” means: “1. the seemingly chance happening of events that affect someone; fortune; fate; 2. good fortune; success; prosperity; advantage.” Webster’s New World College Dictionary, 4th Ed.
In all these words, we see an undeniable link between “chance,” “luck” and “happiness.” In German, the link is intrinsic; “Glück” means both “luck” and “happiness.” It describes not only “chance events” and “favorable occurrences,” but also the “feeling of inner satisfaction and joy” that springs from them. It is no coincidence that the English “luck” relates to “Glück.” Although the English definition for “luck” does not list “the feeling of inner satisfaction and joy” that springs from chance events, the word “happy” directly implies “luckiness.” See “happy” definition, supra. And both words relate back to the Indo-European notion that “luck” merely means that things “bend together” for a person’s benefit. Put another way, luck is random. Human will does not affect it. It blesses its beneficiaries without regard to their efforts, intentions, wishes or merits.
In this etymological light, does it make any sense to “pursue happiness?” It appears not. After all, it seems that happiness depends on luck. Luck blesses at random; it does not favor those who “really want to be happy” or who “work really hard” at it. Without “chance occurrences,” “fortune,” “coincidence,” “turns of events,” “fate” and “favorable circumstances,” we will never truly fit the “happy” definition. The word “pursue” implies purposeful action directed toward a particular object. Yet when we “pursue happiness,” we attempt to secure something that eludes human intention altogether. We cannot really “pursue” something that will happen by chance. Our best and most intensive efforts will not cause something to occur at random. At the most, we can “hope” for such events; we do not “pursue” them. We can boldly struggle to mold our circumstances by effort and toil. But if chance stands against us, it seems that we will never find happiness. Ironically, however, a person may be happy even if he makes no effort at all. As long as “fortune” and “luck” meet on his side, he will experience the “joy and contentment” that arise from his “lucky circumstances.” On some level, we all know this. We have seen examples. This is why we contemptuously dismiss some “happy people” as “lucky bastards.” It just doesn’t seem fair that circumstances “bent together for them,” but not for us. After all, we think we did more, earned more and worked more than they did. Yet they became happy because they got lucky, while we slave away without fortune’s blessings. And we certainly do not experience “great contentment or joy,” because our circumstances are not “favorable.”
But fairness and happiness do not go hand in hand. To use a cliché, life is not fair, just as random events, chance occurrences and “fortune” do not reward us all equally. This perplexes us. We learn that hard work, determination and rational behavior will bring us success, then happiness. We think we have rational control over our feelings and our destinies. We think we should be rewarded for “making all the right moves” and “paying our dues.” Yet “circumstances favor” certain people over others without regard to their merit, effort, ability or zeal. It is no answer to say that some “really hard working people” generate their own circumstances. To some extent, life unfolds without regard to human choice or will. Certain people benefit from totally random occurrences. They meet the right people at the right times. They have the right idea in the right decade. Or they simply happen to please the right person, who happened to live at the right moment in history. Others are simply born with great advantages. No calculation can presage these “chance” occurrences. Yet “luck” bestows them on some, and not others. Blessed with luck, they relish the “feeling of inner satisfaction and joy” that flows from their circumstances: They are “happy.” But they were “lucky” first.
Where does this leave us? In a word, it leaves us with the disheartening impression that we do not have total control over our lives. Benjamin Franklin and other enterprising Americans throughout our history disparaged luck, claiming that hard work and “good decisions” “manufactured” luck for them. They said: “Anyone can make it as long as they work hard.” But this, I fear, is propaganda. In my view, men like Benjamin Franklin benefited from luck and chance, no matter how hard they worked. Lord knows how many hard working people have lived on this planet who never benefited from “lucky chances.” They never became successful, famous or even happy. The lucky ones will always say: “This is how I did it… and you can do it, too!” That statement defies the very nature of luck. Luck only chooses some, not all. And it has nothing to do with talent or merit. Talent does not even increase the chances that “luck will strike.” Random means random. There is no way to influence it.
At this point, I cannot avoid discussing destiny as opposed to pure reason. I must confess that I believe in destiny, at least to the degree than I cannot rationally account for certain chance events in life. I cannot verify with my senses why I met certain people in life, why certain people lived, and others died. Quite simply, luck plays a huge role in life. And grammatically speaking, it is a prerequisite for happiness. Thus, it is a matter of chance and coincidence whether we become happy, since nothing can control the “random events” that will generate the circumstances necessary to experience the “strongly positive emotions” that flow from those lucky circumstances. Or perhaps it is destiny that determines who benefits from “chance events,” if they are even “chance events” at all. What do I know? If destiny chooses the people who benefit from chance events—and thus become happy—does that not sound like quasi-religion? There are chosen ones and there are the damned.
We all want happiness. We all want to feel good more than we feel bad. We listen to philosophers and heroes who offer us ways to find it. Yet we cannot escape grammar. Happiness turns largely on luck. Lucky people are happy. Unlucky people are not. Think about it. If some truly unlucky event befalls you, are you happy? Definitely not. Chance did not favor you. But if a lucky event befalls you, are you happy? Absolutely. You benefited from chance. It changed your circumstances and you feel great about it. Did you influence the chance events? Probably not. They would not be “chance events” if you did.
I suppose the only way to cope with luck is to cultivate a healthy respect for uncertainty in life. Maybe we will be happy. Perhaps we won’t. Yet we can spare ourselves heartbreak if we refrain from pursuing it. After all, we cannot pursue luck. And without luck, there is no true happiness. In America, this is a hard way to live. We learn that we can control our lives and we can buy anything. Yet no store sells luck or happiness. Luck can give us money, but money can’t give us luck. By the same token, money can’t give us happiness. You need luck for that.
I often write about happiness and unhappiness. In my view, human beings long to experience good, positive feelings as much as they can in life. Freud thought the same: “What do [men] demand of life and wish to achieve in it? They strive after happiness; they want to become happy and remain so.” Civilization and its Discontents, p. 25. Yet people say they want to be “happy” without really knowing what it means. All they know is that they want to feel good more than they feel bad—or at least more than they feel physical pain. Still, “feeling happy” is complex, especially in American life. Many people cannot feel happy unless they first achieve some “subsidiary aims,” such as making money, owning property or obtaining the “right life mate.” They exhaust themselves seeking these “subsidiary aims” to such an extent that they lose sight of the end goal: Happiness. Instead, they endless obsess over the “subsidiary aims.” In short, “a means” to happiness replaces the “end.”
Money is the best example. Money is a medium; it is a means to obtain other things, things that will ostensibly bring happiness. Yet many people forget this when they set out upon “the money-making life.” Even Aristotle recognized this 2500 years ago. Interestingly, both Freud and Aristotle agree that men seek happiness in life: “…[What] is it that we say…is the highest of all goods achievable by action? Verbally there is very general agreement; for both the general run of men and people of superior refinement say that it is happiness, and identify living well and doing well with being happy.” Ethics, Book I, Ch. 4. But Aristotle expressly ruled out “money-making” as a pathway to true happiness: “The life of money-making is one undertaken under compulsion, and wealth is evidently not the good we are seeking; for it is merely useful and for the sake of something else.” Ethics, Book I, Ch. 5. In other words, Aristotle understood that money is a “subsidiary aim” that is “merely useful…for the sake of something else,” namely, “happiness.” Despite Aristotle’s warning, however, many Americans live their lives for money. They think it will categorically bring them happiness. In so doing, they are “barking up the wrong tree.” Perhaps that explains why so few Americans think they are happy. If “living for money” categorically cannot win happiness, then there is no way a true “money-maker” will ever find happiness.
If money does not bring happiness, what does? In truth, we can forgive many Americans for their error. After all, we are merely sensory creatures. We believe what we see and hear. Our senses tell us that money appears to make wealthy people happy. They appear to want for nothing. They do not worry about their rent or their bills. They drive beautiful cars, go on exotic vacations and do what they want every day. This stands in stark contrast to our own lives, in which money is a constant worry. When money is a worry, it dominates our outlook. It provides too many opportunities for suffering. In these circumstances, we cannot feel the “strongly positive emotions” that mark happiness. Freud said that the “presence of unpleasure” makes happiness impossible. Cf. Freud, Civilization and its Discontents, p. 34. To paraphrase Bobby McFerrin: When we worry, we cannot be happy. Nonetheless, we believe that if we only cast off the “money yoke,” our worries would disappear, leaving our minds free to finally experience “strongly positive emotions.” From our perspective, the rich have that freedom. That is why we think they must be happy. And that is why we think that money will automatically make us happy, too.
But this is a delusion. One must merely pick up a tabloid newspaper to see that even mega-rich superstars are not happy, either. They might not worry about bills and health care, but they find other sources for “unpleasure” in their lives: Cheating boyfriends, bitter divorces, cancer, lost contracts, sagging boobs, wrinkles, potbellies, baldness, betrayals, Oscar snubs, humiliations, criminal prosecutions for disorderly conduct, drunk driving or domestic abuse… the list goes on. Money did not cause pain here. These unhappy stars have plenty of money. Yet they clearly are not happy, either. They simply experience unpleasure from a different source than the rest.
Where are the happy people, then? If wealth does not bring happiness, what does? In America, commerce is King. This is not just left-wing rhetoric: We really think we can buy anything. Why can’t we buy happiness, too? It seems like a cruel joke. If we seek happiness but we can’t buy it, what is all this chatter about “becoming successful” and “working hard?” If neither success, nor hard work, nor money can categorically create happiness, what is the point? We work hard and attempt to become successful because we want the power to buy things. But if we can’t buy happiness, what do we have? Aristotle and Freud say that we all want happiness. At the same time, American life tells us we need to be successful. Yet the two are not consistent. Success and money do not automatically create happiness. They may provide a means to it, but they are not replacements for happiness. Happiness comes from somewhere else, somewhere within ourselves.
Or does it? Can we fool ourselves into happiness no matter our external circumstances? Can we manipulate our attitudes so that we always feel “strongly positive emotions?” To answer that question, we must examine language. While we colloquially understand that “happiness” means a prevalence of “strongly positive emotions” over “negative feelings, stress and pain,” does that mean that external circumstances play no role in the analysis? Or can we become happy by sheer force of will, despite all the ills that fate throws upon us? In other words, are happy people simply “lucky?” If they are, what does that say about all our frantic efforts to “become happy” in life? If happiness is basically just a crapshoot, why bother even trying to “find happiness” in the first place?
This is not a small concern. In English, there is a very close relationship between the concepts “happiness” and “luck.” “Happy” is an ancient English word. It derives from the root “hap,” which in turn stems from the Old English “haep” and Old Norse “happ,” meaning “convenient” or “suitable.” Webster’s New World College Dictionary, 4th Ed. “Hap” means “chance, luck or lot,” or at least an “occurrence or happening.” “Hap” gives rise not only to “happy,” but also to “happen” and “happenstance.” All these words imply purely random, chance occurrences over which human will appears to have little influence. Looking more closely at “happy,” the dictionary tells us that the word means: “1. favored by circumstances; lucky; fortunate; 2. having, showing or causing a feeling of great pleasure, contentment, joy, etc., joyous, glad, pleased; 3. exactly appropriate to the occasion.” Id. A “happy person,” then, appears to have made little effort in life. Rather, he is merely “favored by circumstances” and “fortunate” to feel the way he does. He feels “great pleasure, contentment and joy” because circumstances favor him. But why do circumstances favor him? Because he is simply “lucky?” If he is “just lucky,” does that mean he played a role in his own happiness? Or did “fate” just randomly bless him? Here, we can already see the trouble brewing. To be “happy,” our “circumstances” must “favor us.” We must be “lucky” and “fortunate.” We must benefit from “chance occurrences” and “happenstance” to be “happy.” Our own efforts seem irrelevant to the task. Put simply, “happiness” requires “luckiness.”
So what does “lucky” mean? According to Webster, “lucky” means “having good luck; fortunate.” Webster’s New World Dictionary, 4th Ed. Again, we see “fortune” at work in these concepts. Fortune involves random chance, not purposeful action. And what about “good luck?” “Luck,” like “hap,” is an ancient English word. It derives from the Indo-European root “leuk,” meaning “what bends together” or “what occurs.” That root evolved into the Middle Dutch “luk” and the German “Glück.” In German, “Glück” translates not only to “luck,” but also to “happiness.” Bertelsmann’s Deutsches Wörterbuch tells us that “Glück” means: “1. favorable, fortunate circumstances or a turn of events; a coincidence; 2. the success that comes from that turn of events; 3. a feeling of inner satisfaction and joy, especially after accomplishing sought-after wishes; 4. favorable chance (my translations).” In English, Webster says that “luck” means: “1. the seemingly chance happening of events that affect someone; fortune; fate; 2. good fortune; success; prosperity; advantage.” Webster’s New World College Dictionary, 4th Ed.
In all these words, we see an undeniable link between “chance,” “luck” and “happiness.” In German, the link is intrinsic; “Glück” means both “luck” and “happiness.” It describes not only “chance events” and “favorable occurrences,” but also the “feeling of inner satisfaction and joy” that springs from them. It is no coincidence that the English “luck” relates to “Glück.” Although the English definition for “luck” does not list “the feeling of inner satisfaction and joy” that springs from chance events, the word “happy” directly implies “luckiness.” See “happy” definition, supra. And both words relate back to the Indo-European notion that “luck” merely means that things “bend together” for a person’s benefit. Put another way, luck is random. Human will does not affect it. It blesses its beneficiaries without regard to their efforts, intentions, wishes or merits.
In this etymological light, does it make any sense to “pursue happiness?” It appears not. After all, it seems that happiness depends on luck. Luck blesses at random; it does not favor those who “really want to be happy” or who “work really hard” at it. Without “chance occurrences,” “fortune,” “coincidence,” “turns of events,” “fate” and “favorable circumstances,” we will never truly fit the “happy” definition. The word “pursue” implies purposeful action directed toward a particular object. Yet when we “pursue happiness,” we attempt to secure something that eludes human intention altogether. We cannot really “pursue” something that will happen by chance. Our best and most intensive efforts will not cause something to occur at random. At the most, we can “hope” for such events; we do not “pursue” them. We can boldly struggle to mold our circumstances by effort and toil. But if chance stands against us, it seems that we will never find happiness. Ironically, however, a person may be happy even if he makes no effort at all. As long as “fortune” and “luck” meet on his side, he will experience the “joy and contentment” that arise from his “lucky circumstances.” On some level, we all know this. We have seen examples. This is why we contemptuously dismiss some “happy people” as “lucky bastards.” It just doesn’t seem fair that circumstances “bent together for them,” but not for us. After all, we think we did more, earned more and worked more than they did. Yet they became happy because they got lucky, while we slave away without fortune’s blessings. And we certainly do not experience “great contentment or joy,” because our circumstances are not “favorable.”
But fairness and happiness do not go hand in hand. To use a cliché, life is not fair, just as random events, chance occurrences and “fortune” do not reward us all equally. This perplexes us. We learn that hard work, determination and rational behavior will bring us success, then happiness. We think we have rational control over our feelings and our destinies. We think we should be rewarded for “making all the right moves” and “paying our dues.” Yet “circumstances favor” certain people over others without regard to their merit, effort, ability or zeal. It is no answer to say that some “really hard working people” generate their own circumstances. To some extent, life unfolds without regard to human choice or will. Certain people benefit from totally random occurrences. They meet the right people at the right times. They have the right idea in the right decade. Or they simply happen to please the right person, who happened to live at the right moment in history. Others are simply born with great advantages. No calculation can presage these “chance” occurrences. Yet “luck” bestows them on some, and not others. Blessed with luck, they relish the “feeling of inner satisfaction and joy” that flows from their circumstances: They are “happy.” But they were “lucky” first.
Where does this leave us? In a word, it leaves us with the disheartening impression that we do not have total control over our lives. Benjamin Franklin and other enterprising Americans throughout our history disparaged luck, claiming that hard work and “good decisions” “manufactured” luck for them. They said: “Anyone can make it as long as they work hard.” But this, I fear, is propaganda. In my view, men like Benjamin Franklin benefited from luck and chance, no matter how hard they worked. Lord knows how many hard working people have lived on this planet who never benefited from “lucky chances.” They never became successful, famous or even happy. The lucky ones will always say: “This is how I did it… and you can do it, too!” That statement defies the very nature of luck. Luck only chooses some, not all. And it has nothing to do with talent or merit. Talent does not even increase the chances that “luck will strike.” Random means random. There is no way to influence it.
At this point, I cannot avoid discussing destiny as opposed to pure reason. I must confess that I believe in destiny, at least to the degree than I cannot rationally account for certain chance events in life. I cannot verify with my senses why I met certain people in life, why certain people lived, and others died. Quite simply, luck plays a huge role in life. And grammatically speaking, it is a prerequisite for happiness. Thus, it is a matter of chance and coincidence whether we become happy, since nothing can control the “random events” that will generate the circumstances necessary to experience the “strongly positive emotions” that flow from those lucky circumstances. Or perhaps it is destiny that determines who benefits from “chance events,” if they are even “chance events” at all. What do I know? If destiny chooses the people who benefit from chance events—and thus become happy—does that not sound like quasi-religion? There are chosen ones and there are the damned.
We all want happiness. We all want to feel good more than we feel bad. We listen to philosophers and heroes who offer us ways to find it. Yet we cannot escape grammar. Happiness turns largely on luck. Lucky people are happy. Unlucky people are not. Think about it. If some truly unlucky event befalls you, are you happy? Definitely not. Chance did not favor you. But if a lucky event befalls you, are you happy? Absolutely. You benefited from chance. It changed your circumstances and you feel great about it. Did you influence the chance events? Probably not. They would not be “chance events” if you did.
I suppose the only way to cope with luck is to cultivate a healthy respect for uncertainty in life. Maybe we will be happy. Perhaps we won’t. Yet we can spare ourselves heartbreak if we refrain from pursuing it. After all, we cannot pursue luck. And without luck, there is no true happiness. In America, this is a hard way to live. We learn that we can control our lives and we can buy anything. Yet no store sells luck or happiness. Luck can give us money, but money can’t give us luck. By the same token, money can’t give us happiness. You need luck for that.
Thursday, February 26, 2009
IF YOU BELIEVE IN DESTINY, YOU CAN'T "MAKE IT HAPPEN"
AN ESSAY
For the last two years, I have grappled with the concepts “fate” and “destiny.” I always heard these words in movies and on television: “It’s your destiny;” “I was fated to do this;” “You can’t escape fate;” “You were destined for greatness.” I never really paid much attention to them. They did not make any sense to me because I believed that I had total control over my life. I made decisions and those decisions led me places. I did not grow up with religion. My father was an engineer and I learned that reason solved problems, not faith. In fact, my family rejected churches and I cultivated a strong distaste for religious institutions. By the time I was 13, I was already calling priests hypocrites and laughing at invitations to “let us pray.” In my world, study and sense yielded real results. Life seemed to be discernible. I felt like I had control.
But things changed as I got older. Through no choice of my own, I met people who took my life in different directions. I created plans and abandoned them, even after I thought my plans would never change. Calamities struck with no reasonable explanation. When I was 28, my father developed cancer and died virtually overnight. A few months later, I lost all desire to practice law after I saw what really motivated lawyers. The next year, my life partner suffered a devastating accident and almost died, leaving me to care for him for the rest of his life. During these trials, I began to wonder whether reason and study really could affect my life’s course. After all, I felt that I always made reasonable decisions in life, yet these calamities struck anyway. I began to reflect deeply on my assumptions about life. Maybe I had been wrong all along. No matter the ultimate answer, my thinking changed. I still trusted my reason in many circumstances. But I did not give it full authority anymore. Life had shown me that things happen for no apparent reason. And I began to approach life with a new openness about truth.
“Destiny” refers to a belief that all events in life have been preordained. For example, if you get up one morning and meet the person with whom you will spend your life, a believer in “destiny” would say that the meeting was “destined;” your choices or “luck” had nothing to do with it. In “destiny,” nothing is incidental. “Fate” refers to a similar belief that events have been planned in advance, leaving us to experience them as the plan unfolds. To a believer in reason, these concepts sound absurd. Reason implies that all truth flows from human sense and the inferences we can make based upon our senses. A reasonable person would reject destiny because there is no way to verify whether some “higher power” planned or ordained events. Reason requires verification. When something cannot be verified, it cannot be believed. To that extent, reason and destiny cannot coexist. Destiny posits that something beyond our senses controls the course of our lives and the world. Reason cannot perceive this “controlling power,” so reason rejects destiny as “superstition” or “irrationality.”
Yet if something cannot be perceived, does that mean it does not exist? This is the core weakness of reason. Reason works only to the extent we assume that all truth must be perceptible to the senses. But suppose there are powers that cannot be perceived. Reason has nothing to say about them. Destiny is an appealing idea because the senses can neither prove nor disprove it. A reasonable man can freely say: “Destiny does not exist because I cannot perceive it.” Still, the same reasonable man cannot counter an argument that destiny exists beyond human sense. If human sense is the only language reason can use to counter arguments, then it has nothing at all to say about phenomena that may exist beyond human sense. That is the reason why I cannot confidently say that destiny is nonsense. I cannot say for certain whether it does or does not exist. My senses do not provide the answer. For a man who once fully trusted reason to answer life’s quandaries, this was a very disturbing thought.
My confusion deepens when I consider my life’s course. Looking back over the years, events seem to have occurred with seamless precision, as in a crafted theatrical plot. I met a person with whom I’ve spent my life. I studied law. I had encounters and experiences that changed my perspective, even though I did not choose to have them. My father died suddenly and I had to reevaluate what life really meant. My values shifted. I began to think that perhaps I really was not in control after all. Perhaps something planned this course beyond my knowledge. What did I know? My senses could not tell me one way or the other. Yet life keeps moving forward with some vague design. I like to think that my choices have an influence on its course. But how do I know whether I was not “destined” to make certain choices? I may or may not believe that. No matter what I believe, I cannot disprove it.
Destiny both comforts and confounds. It comforts because it removes our responsibility for choices. After all, if everything is planned in advance, then nothing we choose will alter the result. Thus, if we accidentally kill someone while driving, nothing we could have done would have changed the outcome. How can we be responsible if it was our “destiny” to kill this person? In a less severe example, suppose we do not get a job we want. How can we blame ourselves for the result if destiny mandates that we do not achieve the goals we intend to achieve?
Destiny confounds because it undermines responsibility and choice. Our society relishes blame. We constantly search for “culprits,” “wrongdoers,” “negligence” and “fault.” Yet fault implies that someone made an improper choice. Because he had the opportunity to choose correctly, we can justifiably punish him when he chooses incorrectly. But if destiny applies, then the “culprit” really had no choice at all; he was “destined” to make the wrong choice. How can we punish someone who simply does what fate intended? How can responsibility exist if a person is destined to be irresponsible? Destiny confounds social order. Social order depends upon enforcing “proper choices” that accord with dominant values. Yet destiny teaches that choice is an illusion. If people have no real capacity to make choices, then it would be perverse to punish them for merely following their allotted course. How could we justify condemning a murderer for “choosing to kill a man” if he really had no choice to make? He was “destined to kill that man.” That was his “allotted course.” Can we punish him for fulfilling his allotted course? Obviously our society cannot countenance this idea, even if it is true. For administrative convenience, the law punishes people for “wrong choices,” even though it cannot verify whether destiny controls people’s choices.
Destiny and fate leave us tantalized. The longer we live, the more it seems that our life’s course follows some prearranged logic. The longer we live, we encounter more and more unexplainable experiences. Why did we have an accident? Why did we meet this person? Why was I standing on that corner that day? Why did my father die? Why did this have to happen NOW? We cannot grasp the reasons. We may vaguely think we have an idea, but our reason cannot supply the answer. And it is difficult to reconcile destiny with social values that tell us we “are in control of our lives” and that we “are responsible for our actions.”
Commercial life embraces the notion that we are in control. Managers’ rhetoric encourages employees to “get out there and make it happen.” Commerce implies purposeful action. It implies that human volition can make a difference in events. On the surface, that appears true. After all, “successful people” all seem to work hard and force their way through to victory. But what about destiny? Was it really their choices that created the result? Or did they make their choices according to a higher power that arranged the sequence? Did they “make it happen,” or were things going to happen in their favor no matter what? Perhaps there was someone with as much drive, intelligence and spirit as Alexander Graham Bell, but destiny chose Bell to invent the telephone, not the unknown man who ended up lonely, misunderstood and forgotten. How do we know? Did Bell’s choices make the difference? Or did destiny intend his choices to make the difference?
Put simply, anyone who believes in destiny must reject the invitation to “go out there and make it happen.” If events and results are preordained, then no frantic effort will alter the course. A successful man may well say: “I got to my position because I worked hard and made all my own choices.” Yet can he also say that he was not destined to make those choices? What placed him in the position to meet the right people and say the right things? What caused his parents to meet and raise him the way they did? Did he control those things, too? In a word, he cannot disprove whether destiny played a role in creating the circumstances that led to his success.
These are truly elusive ideas. True, it is pure speculation whether destiny exists. On the other hand, speculation is our only tool when dealing with imperceptible phenomena. Many people squarely reject destiny because it is a dangerous idea. If they started to believe in destiny, they would lose their vigor for life. They would lose “control,” and people do not like losing control. People cling to the notion that their choices matter because they think their choices define them. Without the power to choose, people cease to be subjects; they become the objects of destiny. Nonetheless, renouncing destiny is more stubbornness than a categorically correct choice. One can reject destiny but not disprove it. By refusing to believe in it, an individual merely manifests his subjective impression that it does not exist; but belief alone does not objectively prove or disprove destiny.
If we even partially embrace destiny, life suddenly seems more bearable. We no longer must blame ourselves when our hopes and dreams do not materialize, for destiny intended a different result. Destiny obviates regret, since it makes no sense to second-guess ourselves for choices we really had no volition to make. Destiny removes the sting from life’s choices because we genuinely have no control over the outcome. If life’s course will be the same no matter what decisions we make, how can we feel bad about our decisions? In short, destiny comforts as much as it confounds.
It is impossible to refute destiny. At the same time, it is extremely difficult to fully embrace it. I try to steer a middle course. I like to think that my choices influence the general course of my life, even if some imperceptible power places me in situations where those choices can make a difference. On the other hand, life’s apparently irrational twists belie the contention that our choices have absolute control over events. Our choices will not save us from life’s inexorable course. Fortune and misfortune follow their own, unknowable path. Experience reveals that we do not have absolute control. And we never will, no matter who tells us to “go make it happen.” I think it best to have faith in our decisions, respect others and try to make ourselves happy, all the while remembering that there are some things we will never know. We can steer that course by at least winking at destiny. In other words, we need not take our hands off the wheel to believe that our final destination may be completely beyond what we reasonably envisioned.
We can try our best to “go make it happen.” But if it doesn’t, we should not regret it.
For the last two years, I have grappled with the concepts “fate” and “destiny.” I always heard these words in movies and on television: “It’s your destiny;” “I was fated to do this;” “You can’t escape fate;” “You were destined for greatness.” I never really paid much attention to them. They did not make any sense to me because I believed that I had total control over my life. I made decisions and those decisions led me places. I did not grow up with religion. My father was an engineer and I learned that reason solved problems, not faith. In fact, my family rejected churches and I cultivated a strong distaste for religious institutions. By the time I was 13, I was already calling priests hypocrites and laughing at invitations to “let us pray.” In my world, study and sense yielded real results. Life seemed to be discernible. I felt like I had control.
But things changed as I got older. Through no choice of my own, I met people who took my life in different directions. I created plans and abandoned them, even after I thought my plans would never change. Calamities struck with no reasonable explanation. When I was 28, my father developed cancer and died virtually overnight. A few months later, I lost all desire to practice law after I saw what really motivated lawyers. The next year, my life partner suffered a devastating accident and almost died, leaving me to care for him for the rest of his life. During these trials, I began to wonder whether reason and study really could affect my life’s course. After all, I felt that I always made reasonable decisions in life, yet these calamities struck anyway. I began to reflect deeply on my assumptions about life. Maybe I had been wrong all along. No matter the ultimate answer, my thinking changed. I still trusted my reason in many circumstances. But I did not give it full authority anymore. Life had shown me that things happen for no apparent reason. And I began to approach life with a new openness about truth.
“Destiny” refers to a belief that all events in life have been preordained. For example, if you get up one morning and meet the person with whom you will spend your life, a believer in “destiny” would say that the meeting was “destined;” your choices or “luck” had nothing to do with it. In “destiny,” nothing is incidental. “Fate” refers to a similar belief that events have been planned in advance, leaving us to experience them as the plan unfolds. To a believer in reason, these concepts sound absurd. Reason implies that all truth flows from human sense and the inferences we can make based upon our senses. A reasonable person would reject destiny because there is no way to verify whether some “higher power” planned or ordained events. Reason requires verification. When something cannot be verified, it cannot be believed. To that extent, reason and destiny cannot coexist. Destiny posits that something beyond our senses controls the course of our lives and the world. Reason cannot perceive this “controlling power,” so reason rejects destiny as “superstition” or “irrationality.”
Yet if something cannot be perceived, does that mean it does not exist? This is the core weakness of reason. Reason works only to the extent we assume that all truth must be perceptible to the senses. But suppose there are powers that cannot be perceived. Reason has nothing to say about them. Destiny is an appealing idea because the senses can neither prove nor disprove it. A reasonable man can freely say: “Destiny does not exist because I cannot perceive it.” Still, the same reasonable man cannot counter an argument that destiny exists beyond human sense. If human sense is the only language reason can use to counter arguments, then it has nothing at all to say about phenomena that may exist beyond human sense. That is the reason why I cannot confidently say that destiny is nonsense. I cannot say for certain whether it does or does not exist. My senses do not provide the answer. For a man who once fully trusted reason to answer life’s quandaries, this was a very disturbing thought.
My confusion deepens when I consider my life’s course. Looking back over the years, events seem to have occurred with seamless precision, as in a crafted theatrical plot. I met a person with whom I’ve spent my life. I studied law. I had encounters and experiences that changed my perspective, even though I did not choose to have them. My father died suddenly and I had to reevaluate what life really meant. My values shifted. I began to think that perhaps I really was not in control after all. Perhaps something planned this course beyond my knowledge. What did I know? My senses could not tell me one way or the other. Yet life keeps moving forward with some vague design. I like to think that my choices have an influence on its course. But how do I know whether I was not “destined” to make certain choices? I may or may not believe that. No matter what I believe, I cannot disprove it.
Destiny both comforts and confounds. It comforts because it removes our responsibility for choices. After all, if everything is planned in advance, then nothing we choose will alter the result. Thus, if we accidentally kill someone while driving, nothing we could have done would have changed the outcome. How can we be responsible if it was our “destiny” to kill this person? In a less severe example, suppose we do not get a job we want. How can we blame ourselves for the result if destiny mandates that we do not achieve the goals we intend to achieve?
Destiny confounds because it undermines responsibility and choice. Our society relishes blame. We constantly search for “culprits,” “wrongdoers,” “negligence” and “fault.” Yet fault implies that someone made an improper choice. Because he had the opportunity to choose correctly, we can justifiably punish him when he chooses incorrectly. But if destiny applies, then the “culprit” really had no choice at all; he was “destined” to make the wrong choice. How can we punish someone who simply does what fate intended? How can responsibility exist if a person is destined to be irresponsible? Destiny confounds social order. Social order depends upon enforcing “proper choices” that accord with dominant values. Yet destiny teaches that choice is an illusion. If people have no real capacity to make choices, then it would be perverse to punish them for merely following their allotted course. How could we justify condemning a murderer for “choosing to kill a man” if he really had no choice to make? He was “destined to kill that man.” That was his “allotted course.” Can we punish him for fulfilling his allotted course? Obviously our society cannot countenance this idea, even if it is true. For administrative convenience, the law punishes people for “wrong choices,” even though it cannot verify whether destiny controls people’s choices.
Destiny and fate leave us tantalized. The longer we live, the more it seems that our life’s course follows some prearranged logic. The longer we live, we encounter more and more unexplainable experiences. Why did we have an accident? Why did we meet this person? Why was I standing on that corner that day? Why did my father die? Why did this have to happen NOW? We cannot grasp the reasons. We may vaguely think we have an idea, but our reason cannot supply the answer. And it is difficult to reconcile destiny with social values that tell us we “are in control of our lives” and that we “are responsible for our actions.”
Commercial life embraces the notion that we are in control. Managers’ rhetoric encourages employees to “get out there and make it happen.” Commerce implies purposeful action. It implies that human volition can make a difference in events. On the surface, that appears true. After all, “successful people” all seem to work hard and force their way through to victory. But what about destiny? Was it really their choices that created the result? Or did they make their choices according to a higher power that arranged the sequence? Did they “make it happen,” or were things going to happen in their favor no matter what? Perhaps there was someone with as much drive, intelligence and spirit as Alexander Graham Bell, but destiny chose Bell to invent the telephone, not the unknown man who ended up lonely, misunderstood and forgotten. How do we know? Did Bell’s choices make the difference? Or did destiny intend his choices to make the difference?
Put simply, anyone who believes in destiny must reject the invitation to “go out there and make it happen.” If events and results are preordained, then no frantic effort will alter the course. A successful man may well say: “I got to my position because I worked hard and made all my own choices.” Yet can he also say that he was not destined to make those choices? What placed him in the position to meet the right people and say the right things? What caused his parents to meet and raise him the way they did? Did he control those things, too? In a word, he cannot disprove whether destiny played a role in creating the circumstances that led to his success.
These are truly elusive ideas. True, it is pure speculation whether destiny exists. On the other hand, speculation is our only tool when dealing with imperceptible phenomena. Many people squarely reject destiny because it is a dangerous idea. If they started to believe in destiny, they would lose their vigor for life. They would lose “control,” and people do not like losing control. People cling to the notion that their choices matter because they think their choices define them. Without the power to choose, people cease to be subjects; they become the objects of destiny. Nonetheless, renouncing destiny is more stubbornness than a categorically correct choice. One can reject destiny but not disprove it. By refusing to believe in it, an individual merely manifests his subjective impression that it does not exist; but belief alone does not objectively prove or disprove destiny.
If we even partially embrace destiny, life suddenly seems more bearable. We no longer must blame ourselves when our hopes and dreams do not materialize, for destiny intended a different result. Destiny obviates regret, since it makes no sense to second-guess ourselves for choices we really had no volition to make. Destiny removes the sting from life’s choices because we genuinely have no control over the outcome. If life’s course will be the same no matter what decisions we make, how can we feel bad about our decisions? In short, destiny comforts as much as it confounds.
It is impossible to refute destiny. At the same time, it is extremely difficult to fully embrace it. I try to steer a middle course. I like to think that my choices influence the general course of my life, even if some imperceptible power places me in situations where those choices can make a difference. On the other hand, life’s apparently irrational twists belie the contention that our choices have absolute control over events. Our choices will not save us from life’s inexorable course. Fortune and misfortune follow their own, unknowable path. Experience reveals that we do not have absolute control. And we never will, no matter who tells us to “go make it happen.” I think it best to have faith in our decisions, respect others and try to make ourselves happy, all the while remembering that there are some things we will never know. We can steer that course by at least winking at destiny. In other words, we need not take our hands off the wheel to believe that our final destination may be completely beyond what we reasonably envisioned.
We can try our best to “go make it happen.” But if it doesn’t, we should not regret it.
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