DON'T SAY "NEXUS;" SAY "CONNECTION" : WHY I DON'T LIKE PRETENTIOUS LANGUAGE

AN ESSAY

During my first year in law school, I had to take a "legal writing course." It was pure misery. The "professor" was really no professor at all, but rather a disgruntled low-level staffer from the Attorney General's office who worked part-time scolding terrified first-semester students for putting one space before a period rather than two. She never praised anyone. And she consciously tried to drain all individuality from everyone's writing. She said: "This is legal writing. It's time to un-learn everything you've ever learned about writing. Right now."

In her defense, legal writing is certainly different from expository writing. It follows distinct conventions and customs that differ from the classic liberal arts essay. It proceeds along identifiable logical pathways and channels arguments to lead ineffably to a conclusion. It is not subtle. Legal writing does not hide anything from the reader. It tells him exactly what he is reading and repeats it about fifty times before it is over. In our legal writing class, we learned how to manufacture these technical baubles. And we got lots of bad grades along the way to remind us that we missed some essential detail or other.

I became a pretty decent legal writer. After all, it isn't difficult. It's just a skill, like baking. There is no artistry to it. You just take a position, organize some arguments to support it and start declaring why you're right. You avoid the passive voice, follow a set sentence structure and repeat your argument over and over again. You make all your sentences declarative and begin each closing line in a paragraph with "thus." Clarity is important. Subtlety is not. And why should it be? After all, if you're writing to a court to win a case, you don't want to leave your fate to interpretation, do you? Hell no. You want to scream why you're right; and you'll be damned if you hesitate in your demand for victory.

But there is irony in all this. Legal writing--like the law in general--leads lawyers to believe that they possess magical powers. After all, lawyers feel exulted because they know that they can influence the machinery of the State to deprive others of property, liberty and even their lives. They influence that machinery through advocacy, including writing. For that reason, lawyers believe that their "legal writing" opens the doorway to power over others.

Yet there is nothing magical about the law or legal writing. In fact, I came to understand that legal writing actually wields very little influence, despite the mythology to the contrary. When I practiced law, my superiors praised my writing. I thought it led courts to make better decisions in particular cases. But time after time, I saw that judges probably had not even read what I had written. Rather, they knew beforehand how they would rule in a case and carried that prejudice with them through the proceeding. No matter how grand my rhetoric or airtight my logic, my writing would never dislodge an entrenched conviction. Just because I nailed all the technical criteria required for "good legal writing" did not mean I would magically win the case.

All this sobered me about the "power of the law." I learned that there was a vast propaganda machine at work perpetuating the idea that "judges were impartial" and that "good arguments always persuade." The cruel fact is that judges and lawyers are just as shortsighted and prejudiced as the next man. They make decisions based upon their cultural intuition, social values and emotional reactions. They can skillfully cite the law to provide a seemingly "neutral" justifications for their decisions. But in the end, "good legal writing"--and even "good arguments"--will almost never change minds.

Nor should it. Legal writing is agonizingly formulaic. I even wonder how judges can even keep their eyes open when they read it. And who really needs to know what one side in a case says? You can pretty much figure out what each side wants in the case simply by looking at the facts. If a person gets injured, he's going to say the other guy is at fault and should pay him money. The other guy will say he's not at fault and shouldn't have to pay. Or maybe he'll say the injured guy caused his own injury, so he's excused. Our legal system is adversarial. That means that you can figure out exactly what each side wants beforehand: Team A wants to make money; Team B wants to save money. Each accuses the other of bad faith and shouts to the court why he should win.

It's not complicated. It's just a game: One team wants to beat the other. You don't need masterful writing to understand how most cases go. Our adversary system explains it all. And chances are a judge will form an intuitive opinion about the dispute long before he reads what either team has to say about it. So nothing either team says will change the result.

Yet lawyers love their writing, even if it does not ultimately influence anyone. Worse, they scold lower-level employees who do not use the right words in court papers. This may seem meaningless--after all, why insist on particular words if the writing does not affect the outcome in the end?--but it happens. It is as if lawyers understand that their writing will change no one's mind, yet they adhere to rigorous standards merely to show that they can. This is sheer pretentiousness, and I don't like it. Moreover, it is pretentiousness without reason; for even when lawyers use all the right formats, phrases and page headings, their writing will not influence the judge. He has already taken an intuitive notion about the case.

Take this example: In legal writing class, we learned that you must always recite a legal rule exactly as it appears in a case. Over the centuries, pretentious judges have written pretentiously (and sometimes very poorly) about the law. When they lay down a legal rule in a particular case, they enshrine bad writing for generations to come. But in legal writing class, you must cite the rule exactly as it appeared. I recall an example about some lawyer being disciplined for neglecting his client. Once upon a time, a court said there had to be a "nexus" between the lawyer's conduct and resulting harm in order to determine whether an attorney should be disciplined for client neglect.

What the hell is a "nexus?" In law school, I remember thinking: "What a pretentious, unnecessary word. You can just use the word 'relationship,' or even 'connection' to express the same idea without sounding like a complete SAT-word-dropping douchebag.'" So in my brief, I cited the rule without using "nexus." I changed it to "connection." I thought it sounded more accessible. It sounded less arcane. I did not want to sound like a spell-casting sorcerer when I wrote. I wanted my reader to understand immediately what the law said.

But I got a bad grade on that paper because I did not literally use the word "nexus" in reciting the legal rule. It did not matter that my formulation expressed the rule better than the judge's legalese. No, details are important in legal writing, even really bad details that do nothing to improve communication or style.

Still, at the time I had not yet recognized that the law cared nothing for style. I had always prided myself on making my writing as clear and as accessible as possible. It was difficult for me to comprehend that clarity and style did not matter in this new discipline. I resented the formality and structure in legal writing. Ultimately, I learned to do it with the best of them. But it was just imitation. I never believed that legal writing possessed any intrinsic merit over my traditional, expository style.

Recently, I have begun to see legal writing in a larger context. Now, its rigidity and pretentiousness make sense: They reflect the law's effort to construct a fanciful aura of authority and inaccessibility.

Courts and judges--as well as the governments that institute them--benefit from a population that fears the law. People fear things they do not understand. They cower before institutions that speak in a hard-to-understand way. It makes them obedient and respectful. That is why courts want words like "nexus" instead of "connection." If they used words like "connection," people might understand what they were saying. If that happened, more people might see through the law's charades and disrespect it. They might not even need lawyers to translate all the legal rubbish.

In this light, pretentiousness in legal writing makes some sense. It is a smoke-and-mirror routine. It is Wizard of Oz stuff. It looks impressive. But in the end it's all nonsense. Men behind velvet curtains are still men, even if they use befuddling synonyms for common words.

And the ultimate irony is that even the best legal writing will not impress the men behind the velvet curtain. They already know what they plan to do each day. Lawyers can talk and write until they are blue in the face. It won't change anything.

LAWYERS : WHAT'S IN A NAME? MORE THAN YOU THINK

AN ESSAY

Lawyers are always in the news. They like talking to the press. And the press likes talking about them. They always have something to say; lawyers are pretty glib. They like free advertising, too. So they are happy to speak up when cameras roll.

But no matter how much press lawyers get, it's usually bad. In most cases, news stories involving lawyers discuss their avarice, moral bankruptcy, hypocrisy or outright criminality. Most recently, for instance, several newspapers reported on the proposed settlement between New York City and 9/11 workers. Apparently, the lawyers in that case (it's a big class action suit) advised the 9/11 workers to settle for around $675 million. That would give the lawyers at least 33%, or $225 million. The 30,000 workers would get the rest. A judge rejected the proposal. The press described it like this: "Judge refuses to bow to greedy lawyers. Rejects 9/11 settlement."

People expect lawyers to be greedy in America. That's their reputation. That's what they do. They intervene in private disputes, work mysterious magic behind the velvet curtain then take their fee. That's just how it works. At the same time, people expect lawyers to break rules as often as they enforce them. Vulgar punners like to cross the word lawyer with "liar;" and the pun is not too far off the mark. When hearing about lawyers, people expect elusiveness, craftiness, dishonesty, theft and nasty-spiritedness. It's all part of the public image. It is no wonder that the public does not respect lawyers. Viewed in the abstract, they are a lousy bunch.

But it's all part of the trade. Lawyering is a lousy business. Government tries its utmost to cultivate respect for the law as a beneficial social construct designed to bring about good. Yet a quick brush with lawyers undermines any respect a citizen might have developed for the law. With lawyers, it's not about doing good. It's about winning. And if winning means subverting good--or even allowing evil to prevail--then so be it. That's business. After all, that's what the client wants. As law firms like to say: "We are result-oriented." How true: Lawyers get results for their clients, even if those results seem despicable to everyone else on earth. The word "result," after all, does not necessarily imply "good" or "ethical." Results depend on who's getting them. A good result for the labor baron is a bad result for the workers. A good result for the State is a bad result for the Defendant. A good result for the employer is a bad result for the employee.

Lawyers sell results. They get them however they can. That is why people don't respect lawyers; they are crass partisans who zealously go to bat for scoundrels. In the process, they milk everyone for money and accuse everyone of lying--except themselves.

Maybe our language has something to do with lawyers' poor reputation in America. Yesterday I thought about the word "lawyer," as well as its interchangeable synonym, "attorney." Then I thought about the German word for lawyer, Rechtsanwalt. I have often uncovered compelling conceptual relationships among English words by comparing their equivalents in foreign languages. Perhaps I could understand why lawyers have such a bad reputation in America by making some linguistic comparisons.

Literally, Rechtsanwalt means "rights advocate." That sounds somehow more detached than "lawyer." Although lawyers are not the most respected members in German society, either, their name reveals something more transcendent than "lawyer." After all, a "rights advocate" is someone who stands up for rights. Rights are principles that mean something greater than individual self-interest. Rights stand for something beyond commerce and winning. Rights symbolize personal worth against government intrusion. Rights are somehow "sacred" and "inviolable." When someone violates a right, the aggrieved person has a claim against the violator. We enshrine rights. They exist beyond life. They encapsulate our deepest values. They express our fundamental expectations as individuals in society. Men have gone to war over rights. They have written philosophical treatises about the "Rights of Man" and launched revolutions to secure "inalienable rights." While rights may just be a human invention, they nevertheless represent something larger in people's lives. People willingly fight for rights. While it is ignoble to die for money, it is noble and just to die for rights.

In this light, a "rights advocate" seems a much nobler name than "lawyer." While lawyers in America--just like Rechtsanwälte in Germany--make their living by defending clients' "rights," their name suggests something far less honorable. "Lawyer" is embarrassingly common. It says nothing about "advocating for rights." Rather, it sounds like just another petty craftsman. In English, after all, the suffix "-yer" historically connotes a street-level artisan, like a "sawyer" (man who crafts wood with a saw) or "bowyer" (man who makes bows). Linguistically, then, lawyers fit into this tradition as "petty craftsmen who bend the law just as a journeyman bends a bow."

This interpretation goes beyond mere mockery. It is surprisingly appropriate in describing the lawyer's role in America. After all, lawyering is all about results in America. It is commercially straightforward. It is no different than manipulating tools to saw planks or build bows. People who want to buy plywood and bows don't care about others' rights. They merely want products to be crafted and built. And lawyers hawk the law in stores, just as sawyers hawked sawcraft in old England.

In a word, the word "lawyer" perfectly expresses the commercial nature of legal practice in America. It is not about "transcendent rights for all." Rather, it is about tailor-made products for particular clients who want particular results. The word's origin conceptually places lawyers exactly where they belong: Among street peddlers and common craftsmen.

But what about "attorney?" Does the synonym save the concept "lawyer" from moral destitution? To determine this, we must examine its etymology. "Attorney" derives from French. It takes its form from the French verb "tourner," meaning "to turn," then adds the Anglicized prefix "at-", meaning "to" or "toward." In French, the past participle of "attourner" is "attourné," meaning "turned to." The suffix "-ey" indicates that at some point an Englishman changed the French past participle into letters he could pronounce: He transformed the foreign-looking "é" into "-ey." Behold: Attorney. Literally: "Person turned to."

So how does this differ from "lawyer?" Is it any "better?" Not much. If anything, the word "attorney" refers to the lawyer's role as confidant and advisor in times of trouble. People need to "turn to" others when something bad happens to them. In some sense, the word "attorney" is paternalistic because it implies that people are too weak to fend for themselves and they need a "father-like" lawyer to shepherd them through difficulty. But in another sense, "attorney" implies that a lawyer is a partisan mercenary who will do anything his client tells him. After all, why would you "turn to" a lawyer if not to win your case at all costs?

In my view, the word "attorney" represents the lawyer's role as adversary in the American system. People "turn to" lawyers when they have a commercial problem. They expect their lawyers to vigorously advance their interests, even if those interests stand at odds with all the world. As a partisan, the attorney will "bend the law" in whatever way he can to win. In this way, the words "attorney" and "lawyer" mutually reinforce the commercial--and result-oriented-- nature of legal practice in America. People expect lawyers to do their bidding, so they "turn to" them. And once they do, they expect lawyers to sell them a ready-made product without quibbling over larger issues like conscience or ethics.

This is not to say that some American lawyers are not "rights advocates." On many levels, they are. Every legal case involves rights. But not all rights are noble. In fact, most legal rights involve contracts, property and other social mechanisms designed to maintain private ownership. As a consequence, legal rights perpetuate unfairness because those who can assert them generally have much more power than those who do not. To speak broadly, those with more riches often have substantially more legal rights than those without riches.

But these are merely "technical," private legal rights. There are public rights, too. And those rights have a largely positive connotation. Most people think about public (constitutional) rights when they hear the word "rights," like the right to free speech and the right to equal protection under law. That is why the German word Rechtsanwalt conveys a more positive connotation with regard to the law than the English words "lawyer" and "attorney." It focuses on rights, not commerce or craftsmanship.

In America, people "turn to lawyers." Yet that is the reason why lawyers always get bad press. No one likes a crafty, small-minded, contentious partisan who bickers and backstabs for a fee. Yet that is what lawyers do here. They are crafty craftsmen who bend bows for a set price, not noble "rights advocates." They sell products, just like any other peddler. But unlike other peddlers, they are paid to fight for one person's "rights"--and trample you if you get in their way.

MIDWEEK BREAK ON A SNOW DAY

Early this week, I spilled much ink discussing the Supreme Court. Today, I am a little more tired than usual. I am also a little intellectually spent, so I decided to take a rest until tomorrow. Believe it or not, I am not feeling too satirical. I still have a list of potential satires to craft, but nothing really sparks my fire today. I don't write unless I feel that spark first. Uninspired writing isn't worth my time--or yours. It's OK to be uninspired when serving an economic master for pay. But not when you're investing your passion in art.

Yesterday I saw something funny. They just opened a Filene's Basement bargain store on 14th Street, near the Whole Foods between Broadway and University Place. As I walked past, I noticed this sign: "FILENE'S BASEMENT - TAKE THE ESCALATOR UP TO THE SECOND FLOOR."

I didn't know you could ever go up to get to a basement from street level. But I guess you can. After all, companies need to work with the real estate they can scrounge, even if it doesn't sync with their names.

On the other hand, "Filene's Second Floor Mezzanine" just doesn't have the same ring as "Filene's Basement." So basements can be on the second floor, at least on 14th Street.

Now I'm looking for an attic on the lower level. I'm sure I'll find one sooner or later. What's in a name, anyway?

See you tomorrow!

Oesterhoudt

SHAME OR GUILT : WHAT'S THE DIFFERENCE?

AN ESSAY

I tried to answer this question during a conversation I had with one of my best friends. We often talk about philosophy and power, and we both agreed that "shame" and "guilt" are "kindred spirits." They are both strongly negative words. No one likes to feel guilty or shameful. They both imply that you have done "wrong." But are they really the same? That's the question.

Both "shame" and "guilt" flow from an acknowledgment of power. We only feel shameful or guilty when we recognize that we have failed to conform to a standard that we probably did not make. Someone else made the standard, someone we recognize as "superior" to us. In this sense, both guilt and shame emanate from below; the person who makes the rules that induce guilt or shame at most feels "disappointed" that his "subject" broke a rule. Shame and guilt, then, are for those who occupy an inferior power position. This is why Nietzsche called shame and guilt Sklavenmoral--Slaves' Morality. The rule-maker (or "master") does not feel them. Rather, he causes others to feel them because they do not adhere to his standards. They solidify his grasp over them.

But this does not mean that a single "superior person" causes others to feel guilt or shame. While a "superior person" may have originally laid down external standards, in most cases today external standards proceed from institutions. After all, power is deeply entrenched. It emanates from manifold places. It operates in virtually every conceivable manner, whether subtle or overt. Power radiates in families, in schools, in laws, in social settings and in professional relationships. It exists in commerce and in property. Most relationships involve a party with advantages and a party without them. That disparity provides an opportunity for dominance by one party over the other. And this is the setting in which guilt and shame flourish.

Guilt is more extrinsic that shame. Although both guilt and shame flow from an acknowledgment of power, the power that induces guilt is predominantly external. When we feel guilty, we feel bad because we know we have transgressed against some common rule or understanding. Our negative emotion springs from our awareness that we have violated an external expectation. This includes everything from the criminal law (an external authority about which we are conscious) to our parents (an external authority whose commands we respect). A person feels guilty when he steals or when he knowingly fails to attend a dinner he promised his parents he would attend. In both cases, the person knew he was obligated to do something by some external authority, yet he failed to adhere to the obligation. That conscious failure creates guilt.

With guilt, then, the inquiry is external. We feel guilty only when we acknowledge that some external authority holds power over us. When we break its rules, we feel guilt to the extent that we deviate from the "expected standard." Guilt requires an acquiescence to "superior" people or ideas. It necessarily makes the subject "inferior" to the standard he violates. And unlike shame, it can be objectively measured: The "superior" party can declare a subject "guilty" because the subject verifiably deviated from an external standard. This is why the law uses the term "guilt" rather than "shame." Guilt is a conclusion as well as an emotion. You just need to see whether a person met the standard.

Not so with shame. Although shame might feel similar to guilt, it flows from an entirely different conceptual source. Shame has internal origins. A person feels ashamed when he fails to meet a standard that he expects from himself, not a standard some external authority set for him. An external authority might encourage a person to expect certain behavior from himself. But in the final analysis, only an individual can decide whether to adhere to certain principles or beliefs. In this sense, shame intertwines with honor. An honorable person swears to himself that he will not act in a certain way to achieve certain results. He expects certain behavior from himself. He commits himself to certain principles and beliefs. When he fails to act in the way he expects, he feels shame, not guilt. He failed to meet his own standard, not an external one.

Consider a man who commits himself to respecting others and telling the truth. He makes these commitments because he personally believes that respect and truth are honorable principles. If one day he lies and disrespects a competitor to win a job, he deviates from his own standard. If he truly has honor, he would feel ashamed for breaking his own commitments to good principles. He might also be guilty of violating some external standard against perjury or untruthfulness, but that has nothing to do with his own internal transgression. And that internal violation creates shame. In short, shame is ethical (internal), while guilt is legal (external).

But shame still requires an "inferior" mental outlook. Although an honorable person decides for himself whether to believe in certain principles, in many cases he does not decide freely. The decision whether to believe certain things often depends on social circumstance and expectation. An external rulemaker has as great an interest in creating strong internal shame in his subjects as he does in crushing them under external guilt. A rulemaker wants his subjects to decide to believe in principles that could induce individual shame. All this inures to his benefit. For example, a person learns to believe that "it is good to respect private property." He also learns that it is "illegal to steal." If he steals something, he suffers both shame and guilt: On the one hand, he failed to meet his own internal standard about respecting private property; on the other, he knowingly violated the external command not to steal others' property.

Both emotions are negative. They flow from different sources. But in the end, they both serve to reinforce the "superior rulemaker's" control over his subjects. Guilty and shameful people are easier to manage than willful ones.

Shame seems purer than guilt. It is more individual than guilt because it depends on the individual's own moral ordering. But if a person's own moral ordering is not voluntary--and if individual moral ordering merely substitutes for external rulemaking--then the net effect of shame is no different than guilt: They both reinforce dominant values by inducing negative emotions in those bold enough to "transgress."

YOUR ENTIRE LIFE IS AN EXTERNALITY

AN ESSAY

When I studied property law, I learned the word "externality." Before law school, I understood the word to mean what it says: "external to something else." But I soon found out that in the law, words do not always mean what they say in plain English. No, they function as shorthand for other concepts. And sometimes those concepts bear no relationship at all to the word that signifies them.

In both legal and economic terms, an "externality" refers to the effect on others when two people conduct a lawful transaction. It also refers to the effect on others when one person lawfully uses his land. To be blunt, "externalities" mean the shit everyone else has to endure because others act within their legal rights. After all, the law empowers certain people to act in more sweeping ways than others. An oil company has much more power to act in sweeping ways than some private farmer next door. And when more powerful people act within their rights, they can produce an enormous--though not intentional--effect on others' lives.

In property law, "externalities" are both obvious and subtle. As a general rule, our society holds up land ownership as a talisman. Everyone strives to own his own patch of earth to do as he wills with it. Yet by "doing what he wills" with his own land, our archetypal landowner may unintentionally injure someone else. How can this be? Well, what if he wants to open an industrial tannery on his land? He's master of his land, right? He wants to make money on his land, right? Isn't that what we're supposed to do in America, make as much money as possible from our land?

If he opens a tannery, he exercises his rights as a property owner. Yet he makes noise, produces foul odors and makes life miserable for everyone else around him. Those are externalities that flow from his lawful land use.

He's not breaking the law; he's living the American dream. Problem is, when some people live their American dream, they give people around them nightmares. That's what externalities are all about.

But I'm not writing today to put down property owners. As a cynic, I am prepared to believe that most people will use their land only to enrich themselves. If they make everyone else's life difficult in the process, they could care less. As long as they don't face a nuisance suit for using their land as they wish (ie, that would cost more money than merely continuing the objectionable land use), they will keep on using it in a way that brings in the most cash. That's American life: Cost-benefit analysis. Effects on others rarely come into the equation unless those effects would result in greater costs than benefits. Even courts subscribe to this view. They won't let a few poor neighbors complain about pollution from a nearby auto plant because the auto plant keeps people employed. Sure, the land use might be horrible--and it might make the neighbors' existence miserable--but their suffering is a "bearable cost" given the "ultimate benefits" that flow from it. Shutting down the auto plant might solve the neighbors' ills, but it would cost hundreds more their jobs. So the law lets the more powerful landowner use his land as he pleases, externalities or not. That's just the way our society values things.

But externalities do not just exist in property law. They are all over our lives. After all, we are consuming animals. There are not enough resources to go around. By living well for ourselves--even innocently--we might deny others the chance to live well. For example, if a person gets sick, he becomes an externality on everyone who must care for him. His life drags others down with it. It imposes costs. It strains emotions. By living his life, he makes it difficult for others to live theirs.

In essence, sometimes just staying alive on this planet produces a burdensome effect on others. Every time one person enjoys a meal, he eats food that will not go to someone else who needs it. Every time one person falls in love with another, he denies that person's love to someone else who wants it. Every time one person gets a job offer, someone else had to get a rejection letter. Every time a corporate board awards bonuses to its members, it reduces the available funds for employee raises. Whenever a child is born, it imposes a staggering financial, emotional and social burden on the family.

These are all perfectly lawful things to do. Yet they produce negative effects on others' lives. People don't mean to produce these effects on others. People are simply trying to survive in a world that requires consumption. But these effects are inevitable because resources are limited. When one person succeeds, another must fail. When one person relaxes, another must toil.

Yet where would we be if we constantly worried about externalities? I think we must merely accept the fact that our continued existence will impose substantial difficulty on many people, both far and wide. To some extent, we must resort to selfishness in order to feed ourselves and to secure our bodily health. This may sound bleak. But if you think about it, human bodily existence is quite bleak. There is nothing grandiose about our biological processes: We eat, excrete, grow hair, breathe, make money, buy things, strive to experience positive emotions, have sex, groom ourselves and do our best to avoid pain. These are our "goals" as living creatures. And when we fulfill them, we necessarily impose costs on others. For every goal we reach, someone else did not make it.

True, we rarely want to make others suffer by pleasing ourselves. But that is the price of survival in a world of limited resources. We must simply accept the fact that our own quest for comfort and happiness in life impacts many other people.

DOMINIC CARTER, EVIDENCE LAW, HEARSAY AND TRUTH : IT IS NEVER EASY TO SAY WHAT "ACTUALLY HAPPENED"

AN ESSAY

Earlier this week, I read about Dominic Carter, a disgraced New York TV anchorman. Last year, authorities charged Mr. Carter with domestic abuse after his wife complained that her husband tried to strangle her during a fight. She later recanted her story, claiming that a mysterious "day laborer" was the assailant, not her husband. That did not faze the prosecutor. He proceeded with the case against Mr. Carter.

Mr. Carter appeared in Queens County court to answer the charges last week. In addition to flatly denying that he "had done anything wrong," he begged the judge to dismiss the case because he was "too important" and had "many friends in New York State government." He dropped several names, including Judith Kaye, the Chief Judge of New York's highest court. The judge was flabbergasted, admonishing Mr. Carter: "Don't drop names in here! You know better than that!" She did not dismiss the case. Mr. Carter's employer publicly condemned his conduct and appeared ready to fire him.

Mr. Carter decided to fly to Kansas City after his hard week back home. While waiting to take off, he stood up and made his way toward the restroom. Although no one exactly knows what happened next, a flight attendant screamed: "I want this man off the plane. He tried to assault me." Mr. Carter vigorously denied the accusation, explaining that he "must have bumped into her" while "bending over to tie his shoes." In any event, the flight attendant won the debate and Mr. Carter was ejected from the plane.

Police arrived to investigate the complaint. They determined that the flight attendant caused the altercation. They did not file charges. Mr. Carter took the next flight without incident.

I recount this story because it made me think about proving things. Evidence law represents our legal system's attempt to inscribe past events with "truth." I have written many times that it is impossible to know "the truth" about anything without being personally present to perceive it with our own senses. Yet we must rely on reports to formulate our beliefs about almost every event in our lives. We cannot sense everything that happens on earth. So we must put our trust in stories. Evidence law tries to assign credibility to stories. It also tries to screen out information likely to confuse the truth rather than find it.

Consider Mr. Carter's relatively banal story. The question is "what happened on the plane as he walked down the aisle?" Did he "deliberately assault" the flight attendant? Or did he really bend over to tie his shoes? Was it an accident? How do we know? We certainly weren't there. I read about the conflicting stories in the newspaper. How, then, can we satisfy ourselves about "what actually happened?"

Let's suppose the authorities decided to put Mr. Carter on trial for assault. To prove assault, the State would have to show that Mr. Carter intended to touch the flight attendant in a harmful or offensive way, and that he did touch her in such a way. From a philosophical standpoint, it is extremely difficult to prove intent, because intent exists solely in another person's mind. When threatened with punishment, a person rarely confesses to what he "actually intended to do," so evidence law requires us to look to external factors to "infer" intent. In other words, we must look to observable facts (ie, behavior, words) to conclude an unobservable fact (the actor's intent).

Mr. Carter's defense would depend upon his ability to show he did not "mean" to offensively touch the flight attendant. That is an intent defense. But to prove his intent, he would have to point to external factors. The best way to do that would be to call witnesses who directly perceived the event, preferably from a close distance. They could say what they saw: Did he slap the woman? Did he raise his arms in a threatening way? Did he "look angry?" Did it "look like he meant to hit her?" These are visual perceptions, and they carry the most weight when attempting to convince a listener to adopt "the truth" about a particular event.

But what about words? We can correctly infer a person's intent based upon his verbal conduct. What people say (and how they say it) can lead us to guess what they feel, intend and think. Still, whenever words enter an evidence question, the analysis becomes much more complicated. Everyone knows the word "hearsay," but fewer know the legal definition. In popular understanding, "hearsay" simply means "reported speech from someone else." In evidence law, however, it has a much more technical meaning. It means any "out-of-court statement offered to prove the truth of the matter asserted." See Federal Rule of Evidence 801(c). "Statements," in turn, mean "oral or written assertions or nonverbal conduct of a person, if intended by the person as an assertion." See Fed. R. Evid. 801(a). Applying these definitions, we see that even the defendant's own words can be hearsay if he repeats them in court. In short, hearsay does not have to come from "someone else," nor does it even have to be verbal.

This introduces a serious problem in criminal cases in which the defendant tries to explain what he intended to do. At the same time, the prosecution has an advantage over the defendant because another evidence rule permits a "party-opponent" to introduce an "opposing party's statement" against him. See. Fed. R. Evid. 801(d)(1)(A). This means that the opposing party here (namely, the prosecutor) could use Mr. Carter's statements against him, but Mr. Carter could not use his own statements to defend himself. For example, if Mr. Carter wanted to prove that he said "I was just bending over to tie my shoes" after the flight attendant accused him, he could not testify that he said it because it is "hearsay." But if the prosecutor brought in a witness who said Mr. Carter exclaimed: "Get outta my way, biatch" on his way down the aisle, it would be fully admissible against Mr. Carter as a "statement by a party-opponent."

This is a bizarre result. It almost seems unfair. After all, shouldn't people get to say what they said on earlier occasions in order to explain themselves? When the question involves individual intent, the individual is really the only one who can confirm or deny it. Yet evidence law turns away from this "best source" because it presumes that accused individuals will not tell the truth.

Thankfully, evidence law offers another way for Mr. Carter to get his statements before the jury. Although he could not testify that he said: "I was just bending over to tie my shoes" after the flight attendant accused him, a different witness could. Federal Rule of Evidence 803(3) provides an exception to the hearsay rule for statements relating to the "declarant's then-existing state of mind," including their "intent." In this case, if a nearby passenger heard Mr. Carter say: "I was just bending over to tie my shoes" immediately after the flight attendant screamed at him, it could be admitted to show that Mr. Carter did not intend to harmfully touch the flight attendant. It would not be hearsay because the defense does not offer it to prove the "truth" that Mr. Carter actually tied his shoes. Rather, it would offer the statement to prove the declarant's (ie, Mr. Carter's) then-existing mental state: Namely, that he did not intend to offensively touch anyone.

I mention all this to show how difficult it is to prove things. It is even more difficult to prove them according to technical evidence rules that prohibit people from explaining what they actually said, yet permit others to use their words against them.

Do all these rules bring us any closer to the "truth?" I don't think so. In the end, ascribing truth to a story depends as much on available evidence as it does to pure intuition. In my view, lawyers make a colossal philosophical blunder when they think they have a greater claim to "uncovering truth" because they apply technical evidence rules. No man-made rule can change the fact that human beings have limited senses. When it comes to believing something that allegedly happened outside those senses, one man's guess is virtually as good as the next man's.

RECRUIT OR HIRE? WHEN DID PRIVATE EMPLOYMENT BECOME A MILITARY CAMPAIGN?

AN ESSAY

Our language is organic. Words that meant something 50 years ago mean something completely different today. Even words that meant something 10 years might have changed. "Gay" and "epic" come to mind. So does "fail." All this interests me because it shows that language is never static. I might complain when words degenerate or mutate because I became accustomed to their older usages. But words change by nature. Language evolves much more quickly than we do. In many ways, we should be thankful for that.

But many linguistic changes deserve condemnation. In particular, I do not like changes that weaken a word's impact or meekly skirt a concept without piercing its heart. Euphemisms fall into this category. To say "collateral damage" when you mean "bombs veered off target and killed 42 children," you are not conveying reality with your language. Put simply, euphemisms reveal discomfort with language. They also reveal a discomfort with the truth, to the extent that we can all agree that something happened at a certain time and place. When a speaker resorts to euphemism, he fears what will happen if he uses truthful language. Euphemism, then, sacrifices linguistic accuracy for the speaker's comfort. In the end, everyone loses; only historians and investigators will find the truth behind meek language.

Euphemisms are not the only linguistic dilutions that obscure truth. In recent years, a nauseating "corporate" language has developed that not only obscures truth, but also fundamentally betrays traditional etymological meaning. This development coincides with rising corporate influence on American government, as well as the hypnotic "career myth" that permeates modern American society. Corporations wield far more power than they like to admit. And they do not just wield economic and social power. Through language, they wield a power over meaning that transcends generations.

In the movie "Into the Wild," the main character is a wanderer who rejects a "traditional approach" to life by venturing into the wilderness. Along the way, an old man encounters him. The old man says something like: "Son, you're 23 years old. Don't you think you should start thinking about getting a job and making something in this life?" The young man responds: "I think the whole modern notion of a career is a 20th Century invention. I choose not to partake in it."

What an interesting line. It matches my view that corporate power in America increased at the same time Americans convinced themselves that "careers were essential" to individual happiness. The wanderer in "Into the Wild" correctly observed that the meaning of the word "career" fundamentally changed in the mid-20th Century. Before 1950, very few people went to college to prepare for a "career" at a private corporation. Instead, they got a basic education and went to work for small businesses (if they lived in cities) or in agriculture (if they lived in the country). A tiny minority went on to college and entered learned professions.

After 1950, however, more and more people abandoned those "old ways" and began following a new paradigm: Go to college, get a job at a private corporation, make lots of money, buy a home live in the suburbs, raise a family and live in relative comfort until pension and death. This was a new life path in 1950. Yet it took hold very quickly; it completely altered America's social landscape. And as more and more people embraced this lifestyle, America's private corporations assumed their commanding influence in American life. Corporations generated the wealth that propelled this new lifestyle. Without them, it would all fall apart.

Against this background, it should come as no surprise that corporations began wielding more power after 1950 than they did before. As America's overall lifestyle changed, so did its habits. Since 1950, the United States has become a voraciously consumer society. Americans spend more money than they have, and that is just the way corporations (and banks) like it. All the while, they depend on private employment with corporations to sustain the money flow necessary to buy all the wonderful things consumer culture has to offer. It is an endless, spiritually vacuous cycle. At the same time, corporations rake in all the profits. They bombard the airwaves with advertising. They speak all the words. And Americans have listened for about 60 years straight. It is no wonder that corporations have assumed power: They have a captive audience that wants to buy all the things they sell.

But I am not writing about advertising or commercial power today. I am writing about language. To illustrate just how much corporate "culture" has infiltrated American life, consider two words: Recruit and hire.

Today, corporations proudly talk about their "recruiting efforts." In 1920, employers used to say: "Doggone it, Joe, we need to hire someone to replace the cashier who quit last week." Now, they say: "Call up the recruiting agency. We need to recruit someone to assume the junior sales associate position following the previous junior sales associate's withdrawal due to personal pressure." In both instances, the employers want to do the same thing: To find a person to do a job for pay. In 1920, the employer says "hire." In 2009, he says "recruit." Why the change? Shouldn't different words have different meanings?

Of course they should. Strictly viewed, "recruit" and "hire" are not synonyms. They are not the same as "crimson" and "red." They involve fundamentally different concepts. "Recruit," for instance, has a genuinely military connotation. The word stems from the Latin "recrescere," meaning to "grow again." According to Webster, the transitive verb "recruit" means: "1. To raise or strengthen (an army, navy, etc.) by enlisting personnel; 2. To enlist personnel into an army or navy; 3. (a) To enlist (new members), as for a party or organization; (b) To hire or engage the services of a person." Webster's New World College Dictionary (4th Ed.). The dictionary defines the intransitive verb "recruit" to mean: "To enlist new personnel, especially for a military force." Id.

In this light, what does "recruit" have to do with private employment? A quick look at the dictionary shows that "recruit" has an almost universally military meaning. It involves "enlisting personnel" for military purposes. Only Meaning 3(b) hints that it might involve private employment. In that meaning, we see a link to the old concept "hire." There is a distinction between "hire" and "recruit." The distinction is a military one. Our language delineates between military "regrowth" and private "hiring."

Yet private corporations have co-opted the verb "to recruit." They like to say "recruit" rather than hire. Why? Is private employment a military campaign? Armies recruit when they suffer casualties in battle. Do private corporations fight battles and incur losses? Certainly not. But this example precisely illustrates how private corporations have infiltrated and plundered the English language. "Recruit" no longer has a distinctly military connotation. Now, it is nothing more than "hiring."

On the other hand, corporations have also stolen another military word in order to describe resignations and firing: "Attrition." The military justifies "recruitment" when "attrition" thins out the ranks. Corporations "recruit" when "attrition" results in open job spots. In the military, "attrition" means guys got their heads blown off and need to be replaced. In private corporations, "attrition" means some guy got up from his desk at the insurance company and said: "Fuck you, I'm outta here." He, too, must be replaced. So the corporation "recruits" a replacement.

What about "hiring?" Why is "hire" insufficient for private corporations? In my view, "hiring" much better describes what private corporations do to replenish their work forces than "recruit." "Hire" is a pure English word with Germanic roots. It is related to the Dutch word "huur" and the German "heuern." Both kindred words mean to "rent out" in a commercial setting. They do not involve the military, nor do they involve "regrowth." No, "hiring" is a commercial word, and it has always been a commercial word. It is only fitting that corporations--as the ultimate commercial actors--should use commercial words to describe their activities. The dictionary defines "to hire" as: "1. To get the services of a person or the use of a thing in return for payment; employ or engage; 2. To give the use of a thing or the services of a person in return for payment." Webster's New World College Dictionary (4th Ed.).

What could be clearer than that? "Getting someone's services for payment" or "employing" them: That's hiring. That's what corporations do. So why must corporations say "recruit" when they mean "hire?" No matter how intensely corporations might pursue "market success," they do not wage military campaigns and they do not suffer casualties in battle. They have no right to use the specialized word "recruit" to describe their purely commercial quest to obtain people's services for a paycheck. The army "recruits" at the "recruiting station." Corporations "hire" at their "offices." There is a distinction in the language that should remain intact.

In my view, corporations have corrupted the word "recruit" and robbed its unique meaning in English. They have succeeded. They hold much more power than Americans care to admit. After all, corporations represent the pathway to "career" and all the miraculous consumer goods that flow from a career's cumulative paychecks.

Most Americans could care less whether corporations commandeer the English language. They just want the paycheck. They don't care whether they are "recruited" or "hired."

I care. I think deeply about language and its transmutations. It saddens me when powerful interests can change our language at will. But I am not normal.

LEGAL "VICTORIES" : PURE EXAGGERATION, AND A BAD WORD CHOICE

AN ESSAY

Law firm websites amuse me. I get priceless satirical material from them. Generally, they take themselves extremely seriously and want to show that they are “winners.” They toss around words like “success,” “results,” “every time,” “reliable,” “professional,” “result-oriented,” “highly successful,” “preeminent,” “unique,” “client-focused,” “team spirit,” “effective” and “experienced.” This all makes me laugh because I know what law firms are like. There is nothing rarefied or glorious about them. They are profit mills in which lawyers pool their efforts to twist the law in their favor. Their “experience,” “results” and “success” flow from their dogged ability to wear down their opponents, then either make money or save money for their clients. For all concerns and purposes, American law practice is an elaborate game. One side wins. The other loses. It is adversarial. And it is seethingly bitter, as all competitive games are.

Big law firms like to report their “recent victories.” After all, “victories” show that the law firm has “won many games,” and potential clients want to win “their game,” too. When betting on a sports team, you want to choose the team most likely to win. You can tell whether a team is more likely to win if you know how often they have won in the past. A law firm’s “past victories” create the impression that it can defeat the opposition again, make money and deliver “success” to a new client. The “victory” metaphor is sport-like, even warlike.

But is law practice supposed to be sport-like? Are legal problems really nothing more than games to be manipulated and won? Or are they miniature wars in which the “enemy” must be hunted down and destroyed? Is this really appropriate rhetoric? After all, law is supposed to provide a rational framework in which to resolve civil disputes. It is supposed to provide reasonable, neutral rules by which to adjudicate problems that might otherwise spur violence. Civilizations invented law to neutralize private violence among citizens intended to redress perceived grievances. In that sense, there is nagging irony in the assertion that lawyers should pursue “victory” for their clients. If law is just and neutral, results should flow as a matter of principle, not as a matter of martial triumph. Law, in other words, is supposed to replace armed conflict as a means to solve problems. Yet the rhetoric of “winning” and “victory” suggests that law is no different from uncivilized, violent struggle. Armies win “victories” by killing those who oppose them in battle. Is this what we expect from lawyers in their “legal battles?”

Let us examine the word “victory.” The word has a decidedly martial connotation. There is nothing detached or nonviolent about it; it involves prevailing over another person or group after a fierce competition or struggle. According to Webster, “victory” means: “1. final and complete supremacy or superiority in battle or war; 2. a specific military engagement ending in triumph; or 3. success in any contest or struggle involving the defeat of an opponent or the overcoming of obstacles.” Webster’s New World College Dictionary (4th Ed.). Two of the three meanings deal specifically with war. The third mentions “success” after “struggling with” and “defeating” an “opponent” in a “contest” with “obstacles.” Victory is a hypercharged, even romantic word. It implies the euphoria that flows from armed triumph over an enemy. It feels good to defeat “opponents” and “overcome obstacles.” It feels good to display “complete supremacy or superiority” over an “enemy in battle or war.” There is nothing more primal than proving domination over an opponent through force. It is crude, animalistic and base. Strong lions overpower weaker ones. They win “victory” over their competitors after a “struggle for supremacy.”

But should lawyers be no different than lions in the wild? Or conquering generals bent on defeating their opponents in battle? I thought law was supposed to elevate us from such violent impulses. I thought law was supposed to replace war with rational principle and reasonable discussion. By using the word “victory” to describe legal “success,” however, lawyers debase themselves. They misunderstand the law. They use it as an arena or a battlefield, not as a rational platform for resolving differences. They approach legal questions like battles, not as opportunities to show their civilized ability to transcend warlike thinking. “Victory” is alluring because everyone likes to “dominate,” “defeat” and “succeed” over a recalcitrant foe. But the question remains: Is law really the right forum to pursue that quest?

Perhaps it is. In the English legal tradition, after all, law functions in an “adversary capacity.” Two sides “face off” against each other. Each side has diametrically opposed interests. One wants land; the other one refuses to give it up. One wants compensation for an injury; the other one refuses to pay. One claims he had a contract; the other says there was never a deal. No matter the facts, “adversary justice” places each side in a “competitive” position. The law assumes that people will make the best arguments—and, ironically, “tell the truth”—in order to satisfy their threatened self-interest. Lawyers step in to vindicate each side’s self-interest. They have only one goal: To defeat the opponent’s arguments and convince the court to grant whatever the client wants.

In this sense, we see that “adversary justice” is profoundly “game-like.” Just as two competitors yearn for “supremacy over the other” in a game, two sides in a legal dispute square off to achieve the same thing. Just as sportsmen must adapt their play to acknowledged rules in their quest for victory, lawyers, too, must contend with “court procedures,” “discovery protocols” and various other “steps” on the road to ultimate success. Each side tries to manipulate the rules to obtain an edge over the other. After all, when “victory” is at stake, you do everything you can to increase your chances to win. In the “adversary system,” competition is fierce. After all, only one side can win; and someone has to lose, too. When money is on the line, the gloves come off. Victory becomes an obsession. Just as two generals struggle violently to obtain an edge over each other in battle, so too do two lawyers savagely grapple with one another for the court’s favor. In all these cases—games, war and “adversary justice”—the breathless quest for victory engenders ruthless competition and narrow-minded commitment to one’s cause, even if it is unjust.

This is all very ugly. We all know who people who insatiably pursue victory in all life’s pursuits. We recoil from those who seek in all things to defeat us. True, sometimes we all enjoy competing for accolades and laurels, whether in games or in life. But there is a limit beyond which we refuse to compete for decency’s sake. Those who compete in everything come off as barbaric and swinish, even if they ultimately win. There is something disgustingly selfish about an endless thirst for victory. After all, victory implies a violent struggle for domination. That is a primal, overweening, animalistic impulse. If we live in a civilized community, we seek to avoid coarse brutishness. Yet the insatiable thirst for victory requires exactly that. Those who publicly broadcast and flaunt their “victories”—like so many law firms—appear wretchedly selfish, even gluttonous and shameless. After all, they are advertising their ability to struggle, fight, brutalize and ultimately dominate their opponents in savage conflicts. That is something Genghis Khan might do, not someone who claims to live in a civilized community.

I think lawyers should excise “victory rhetoric” from their vocabulary. “Victory rhetoric” stems from war. In my view, law should replace armed conflict, not imitate it. But this might be asking too much. After all, even “civilized” human beings retain a lurking instinct to dominate their fellow men. They like the euphoria that springs from “victory,” whether in war, sport or commerce. This is why so many things in our lives—including the law—are “gamelike.” Victory in games provides a primal, emotional charge that humans crave. If they can’t get an emotional charge from battle and physical supremacy over other men, they turn to substitute sources, like games, careers and other competitive fields. All these things provide an opportunity to dominate others, even if without violence.

Yet there is nothing noble about “pursuing victory” and the basely euphoric emotions associated with it. Saint Augustine wrote extensively about games and competition in his Confessions. He confessed before God that he routinely pursued the bestial emotions that flowed from “victory in games” as a child: “In competitive games, I loved the pride of winning…even in [these children’s games] I was overcome by a vain desire to win and was often guilty of cheating. Any breach of the rules I would not tolerate and, if I detected it, would fiercely denounce it, though it was exactly what I was doing to others.” Confessions, at pp. 12, 22 (Oxford University Press 1992). Tellingly, Augustine observed that children are not the only ones who seek “victory in games.” He writes: “Behavior does not change when one leaves behind domestic guardians and schoolmasters, nuts and balls and sparrows.” Id. at p. 22. Rather, adults play games, too, and they seek the same base emotions as children. Just like children at play, they cheat, manipulate rules and engage in hypocrisy. He writes: “[The] amusement of adults is called business.” Id. at 12.

Against that background, should lawyers really crow about their “victories?” Are they no better than children? In sum, we should be very wary about transforming life’s pursuits into competitive games. When we do, we lower ourselves into something resembling animal squalor. I find it both sad and ironic that lawyers—through their ugly “victory rhetoric”—bring the law down to the level of children’s games.

I thought we had come further than this as a civilization. I thought law was supposed to elevate us from violent competitions. Apparently not, at least in the American “legal market.” It’s all just a “win-loss column.” Reason and principle have nothing to do with it, especially if you get an “L” for following them. When you thirst for victory, you do anything for a “W.” Principle is an impediment on that path, not an advantage.

BUSINESS AS USUAL AT GROUND ZERO

A REFLECTION

Three days ago, I walked past the World Trade Center site for the first time since 9/11. In the eight years since that day, I never really had a reason to. I moved to New York in 1996. I have been here ever since, with a five-year interlude in Chicago. During the 1990s, I used to admire the Twin Towers. As a newcomer to the city, I used to orient myself by looking for them. In a strange way, I liked them. They were unique. They looked strong. When you’re a kid in New York, you like the idea that your city is bigger and stronger than any other city. It makes you feel special. The Trade Center conveyed that strength.

I knew that terrorists tried to destroy the towers in 1993. The plan was to blast one tower’s foundation so that it would fall into the other one, knocking them both down. One summer day in 1998, I distinctly remember looking up at the towers from the corner of Park Row and Broadway—near the J&R Music World. From that intersection, you had a perfect view. The south tower was on the left and the north tower was on the right. The corners faced you, and there was a narrow gap between the two structures that cut a vertical line straight into the sky. From that intersection, the towers filled the sky; they dwarfed everything around them. You were just close enough to appreciate their every detail. And you were just far enough to appreciate how massive they really were.

I remember thinking: “Wow, imagine if I were standing here that day they bombed the Trade Center and I saw one tower fall into the other? My God, that would have been frightening. I’ll bet 50,000 people could die if that happened.” At the time, this was just nightmarish daydreaming. I never really thought something would happen to the World Trade Center again. When it did, I was just as awestruck as everyone else. I remember thinking that “New York would never be the same” after that day. And I didn’t mean it in an ominous, symbolic way. I meant that the city would just look different. The Trade Center anchored the whole skyline. It made New York seem like a strong city with those two powerful columns firmly entrenched in the southern tip, like two brawny shoulders. When they collapsed, the city’s image suffered a crushing blow. In an instant, its physical profile changed for all time.

In a strange twist of fortune, I was on vacation outside the city when 9/11 happened. I even took it as a signal to “get out of New York for a while,” so I moved to Chicago. I came back to New York in 2003 and stayed another year. During 2003 and 2004, I went to law school on Worth Street in Tribeca, no more than eight blocks from the World Trade Center site. Yet I never went there. Something held me back. I didn’t really feel the need to see it. In those days, politicians and architects constantly talked about how “a new trade center will rise from the ashes of the past.” They talked about “fearlessness.” They said that terrorists would never “intimidate them.” I was ambivalent; I really did not care. All I knew was that terrorists had struck a damaging blow, and no rhetoric could erase the evidence at Ground Zero. In mid-2004, I drove back to Chicago. At that point in my life, I wasn’t sure whether I would ever come back to New York.

But here I am back in New York. Finally, after eight years, something drew me to the World Trade Center site: I had an interview in the World Financial Center. To get to the World Financial Center by subway, you take the “E” train. The last stop on the “E” train is defiantly called “World Trade Center,” even though the World Trade Center isn’t there anymore. I got off the train at the “World Trade Center” station and walked upstairs. It was about 8 A.M. on a clear July morning. Upon reaching the street, I first noticed blue plywood walls that channeled commuters in particular directions. There was a lot of construction going on. A handwritten sign pointed us toward the “World Financial Center.” Two long columns of commuters passed each other through the plywood corridor. One column headed east, the other west. I headed west.

I looked up to my left and saw sky. There was nothing there. Then a strange feeling came over me: “I remember looking up from here and seeing the towers!” From this distance, the towers used to overwhelm you and blot out the sun. They used to cast enormous shadows that cascaded down the street. But now: Nothing. Just emptiness. It is strange to see empty sky in Manhattan. It strikes you immediately. You accustom yourself to seeing buildings on all sides, some of which rise far up into the sky. Yet at the World Trade Center site, sky is all you see. It was genuinely eerie. I felt like I had just stepped onto historically important ground not long after a historically important event. The emptiness above me only confirmed that something significant happened here.

But the commuters didn’t find it eerie at all. They marched along without looking up, tuned into iPods or iPhones. They had places to be and schedules to keep. They did not want to be late for work. In short, they were doing what commuters probably were doing before the planes arrived on 9/11. On 9/11/01, commuters on this street had to scramble for their lives. But on 7/7/09, commuters on this street shuffled more than scrambled. It was just another day. Something significant happened here eight years ago. Yet it had no effect on the commuters.

I have always been overly sensitive to history. When I know that something historically important happened in a particular place, it affects me. Recently, for example, I learned that English settlers in my hometown in Connecticut murdered 700 Native Americans in a place I know very well. Since learning that, I cannot look at the place in the same way. The same feeling overcame me when I walked past the World Trade Center, but with much greater immediacy. Here, a massacre happened only eight years ago, not in 1637. Here, an event happened that fundamentally changed the way Americans think about themselves and their country. Here, thousands died on an otherwise “regular business day.” You would think that would affect people doing precisely the same thing at the same place eight years later. You would think that would make people question whether it would ever be possible to “get back to normal” after such a monumental event. Apparently, it did not. On 7/7/09 it was “business as usual” at the World Trade Center. History did not intimidate these commuters.

And why should it? After all, 9/11 panicked American society. In the days and weeks following the attacks, Americans really wondered whether they could ever “get back to normal.” They did not know whether society as they knew it was coming to an end. But then the politicians stepped in and assured them: “If you don’t get back to normal, the terrorists win. If you don’t go back to work, the terrorists win.” In essence, a new American rhetoric developed in response to the panic created after 9/11, a rhetoric of “defiant normalcy.” To defy the faceless terrorists who caused so much panic, politicians encouraged Americans to simply live as they always had. They encouraged Americans not to think about 9/11 anymore, except when it was necessary to justify some new encroachment on civil liberties. 9/11 became a justification for drastic governmental action. Yet government cultivated a patriotic vision of 9/11 that carefully avoided mentioning the panic, fear and uncertainty that reigned on the day itself. In short, Americans have been taught to “remember 9/11” in order to reaffirm “normal, working lives,” but not to “remember 9/11” for the profound shock waves it sent through American society. Memory about 9/11, in other words, is “selective.”

On 9/11, nothing really mattered anymore. People really were terrified. They just wanted to survive; they didn’t care about their jobs. But for a government trying to run an international economy, these are unacceptable sentiments. That is why politicians after 9/11 did their best to help Americans forget the terror and uncertainty they felt on that day and its immediate aftermath. On 7/7/09, they clearly had forgotten. It was back to business as usual.

Yet this ignores history. No matter how much President Bush and the Federal government attempted to channel 9/11 fear into a new patriotism of “defiant normalcy,” 9/11 was not a strong moment for America. America took a profound beating on 9/11. After the fact, politicians and pundits contemptuously labeled the attackers “cowards.” Yet this is really because America lost the fight on 9/11. No matter how painful it may be to admit, the 9/11 attackers were not “cowards.” They did not fear death. They did not shrink from bold action. No, they were about as far from “cowardly” as you can get. They ruthlessly organized a plan to crash airliners into skyscrapers, killing themselves in the process. From a linguistic perspective, this is not cowardly at all. In fact, it reflects undaunted courage. Americans simply did not like the results of their courage, so they called it “cowardly.” Courage means fearlessness in the face of danger. Cowardice means fear and panic in the face of danger. Neither word refers to the subject’s political or national affiliation. By these definitions, the 9/11 attackers definitely had courage, not cowardice. This is certainly not a politically popular thing to say in America. But “cowardly” means something in the English language; and it does not describe the actions of men who fearlessly face death to accomplish a political mission.

President Bush and the Federal government transformed shock and embarrassment over “defeat” on 9/11 into a defiant new patriotism. But this patriotism was “reactive;” it arose because America suffered so much humiliation on 9/11 that enraged Americans vowed to avenge it. Their fear turned into anger. Still, no matter how defiant Americans became in 2002 and beyond, this does not change how terrified they were on 9/11. They did not like the way they felt that day. Before 9/11, they had become accustomed to feeling secure and strong. Yet on 9/11, they saw how weak they really could be. Such moments scare anyone, and no one likes to feel weak. That is why America “reacted” to its embarrassing weakness on 9/11 with a cocky new “strength” in its values. Yet no matter how much America defiantly postured after 9/11, it does not change the fact that America suffered a defeat on the day itself.

Very few admit that 9/11 was a defeat. Even fewer reflect on the terror that reigned that day. No one likes to remember bad times. We naturally suppress negative memories. We try to push them away with assumed strength. This is precisely what America has done with 9/11. It is like a bad memory, an uncomfortable experience. It does not fit our collectively strong self-image; it fact, it showed us how vulnerable we are. So we simply ignore it. This is exactly what the commuters were doing on 7/7/09. And they were doing it extremely well. It was commerce as usual at the World Trade Center, just as it was eight years ago. But history has left its mark, no matter how much we choose to ignore it. That empty patch of Manhattan sky speaks for history. Something happened here that forced us to change the way we look at the world. Yet how few actually changed the way they live—or think—as a result?

Unchecked international commerce provoked 9/11. Now it simply grinds on—in exactly the same place it suffered it worst day ever. As I walked to the World Financial Center three days ago, I could not repress that tangible—and profound—irony: “What have we really learned?”

"SEX" IS NOT A BAD WORD ; CENSORSHIP IS

OESTERHOUDT STRIKES

Jeremih’s single “Birthday Sex” should have been just another R&B song about a young man’s assumed romantic prowess. When Def Jam released the single in April, audiences responded with enthusiasm: It went to #1 on the R&B charts and #4 on the pop charts. It fit the “urban love anthem” mold: A man does not buy gifts for his girlfriend on her birthday, so he gives her “birthday sex” as a replacement. And true to the smug, sexually conceited male caricature that so often appears in the R&B canon, Jeremih assures his listener that his sex is better than any material gift.

This is not an uplifting message. In fact, it is laughable. But I am not writing today to mock “Birthday Sex.” I am writing today because mainstream radio stations bleep out the word “sex” when they play the song.

Since when did “sex” become a word “bad” enough to warrant censorship? We all know that the Federal government has power to prevent us from hearing a few “really bad” words during mainstream broadcasts. See, e.g, F.C.C. v. Pacifica Foundation, 438 U.S. 726 (1978). But those “really bad words” are familiar vulgarities, colorful English phrases that go straight to the unrefined truth about sex and the body. We know we are not allowed to hear the words “fuck,” “shit,” “asshole” and “cock” on everyday broadcasts because those words cut to the linguistic quick about sex, excrement and “private parts.” Popular morality teaches us to revile these things, so law provides society a way to protect our ears from them. For better or worse, these traditionally “bad words” have real rhetorical punch. Their strength lies in their unabashed directness. Their strength lies in their pure Germanic derivation. No doctor or scientist mulled a Latin equivalent for these words. They are brutally honest, English core words. And to some extent, that is one reason why popular morality reviles them: Our society has an uneasy relationship with sex and the body, so it recoils from overly honest expressions about them.

But the traditional reasons for banning “bad words” do not apply to the word “sex.” “Sex,” unlike “fuck” or “shit,” is a Latin-based medical coinage, not a vulgarity. When people honestly talk about sexual conduct, they generally do not use medical terms. They use tried-and-true Germanic vulgarities. They do not say: “May we now engage in sexual activity?” In much the same way, they do not use medical coinages when referring to basic bodily functions. People do not say: “I must defecate now.” Latin does not tell the same story as German. Every English speaker knows that “shit” is a more honest word than “defecate.” Yet it ruffles feathers precisely because it so honestly describes “a coarse bodily function.” “Defecate” distances the listener from the body. That is why it is permissible to broadcast “defecate” during a daytime radio show, but not “shit.” The same reasoning should apply to “sex;” it is a medical coinage that distances the listener from the honest truth about sexual contact between human beings. In this case, however, the usual reasoning does not apply.

Why the inconsistency here? You would think that using the word “sex” instead of its coarse Germanic cousins would satisfy the decency police. After all, it purifies the language from uncomfortable honesty. “Sex” inevitably will offend fewer prudes than “fuck,” even though both words refer to precisely the same activity. But in this case, the censors bleeped out “sex,” too. In a way, I pity Jeremih. He tried his best to write a sensual song without using “traditional vulgarities” because he knew those words would be censored. Yet despite his efforts to use satisfactory words, the censors muffled him anyway.

I can only explain this new hostility toward the word “sex” by positing that popular morality does not like sexual conduct in the abstract. Although doctors created the word “sex” to make it easier to discuss sexual conduct without using uncomfortable Germanic vulgarities, apparently the subterfuge isn’t working anymore. The subject matter is apparently so uncomfortable that even Latin circumlocution can no longer suppress the shame. What can explain this if not a profound discomfort with anything concerning sexual contact between human beings? The word “sex” was supposed to disguise the raw, bodily truth about sexual conduct. It is deliberately uncolorful, undescriptive and unmemorable. But now, it is just as bad as the subject matter it was intended to conceal.

This is not just censorship. It is sloppy, incompetent censorship. A good censor has consistent reasons for suppressing certain words. For thirty years, censors at the F.C.C. consistently applied the “traditional vulgarity” test to determine whether a word “could be heard” on the airwaves. That test protected young ears from “overly honest descriptions” about sex and bodily function while preserving some “decorum” during daytime broadcasts. The test was exquisitely formal and categorical: Either the word was on the “dirty words” list or it was not. But now, the F.C.C. has scrapped the categorical approach. “Sex” was never on a “dirty words” list; it is a euphemism calculated to avoid using a word on that list. Yet now it is just as bad as the words it was intended to circumvent.

This is censorship by moral fiat, not reasoned analysis. I argue that such an approach disparages government’s obligation under the First Amendment to “make no law…abridging the freedom of speech.” The Supreme Court has steadily eroded our right to speak as we please under the Constitution. But it has nonetheless always reminded government that it cannot drive certain words from discourse without compelling justifications based in reason. See, e.g, Cohen v. California, 403 U.S. 15 (1971). The Court said that driving “traditionally vulgar words” from discourse could be justified because it was important to “protect children” and “unwilling listeners” from coarse language. F.C.C. v. Pacifica, 438 U.S. 726, 748-750 (1978). But it never said anything about words that are not “traditionally vulgar,” “shocking” or “coarse.” Viewed linguistically, the word “sex” is neither vulgar nor coarse. It is not “shocking,” either. In fact, it is supposed to take the “shock” out of traditionally “vulgar” expressions. Its capacity to give offense lies solely in the subject matter to which it refers, not the honest tone in which it describes the subject matter. By any test ever used to judge “decency” under the First Amendment, “sex” clearly passes. It is therefore shocking that the F.C.C. now decides to rewrite the law to censor a word that violates no legal standard.

If we allow the F.C.C. to drive the word “sex” from discourse, how are we supposed to “properly” talk about sex? What about shows like “Sex in the City” or songs like “Sexual Healing?” Those titles contain the word “sex.” What about a broadcast discussing “sexually transmitted diseases” or “sex therapy?” What about the countless advertisements for products addressing “sexual dysfunction” and “normal sex lives?”

In short, the word “sex” has evolved into an “acceptably neutral” means to express human sexuality without offending the decency police. We rely on it to discuss a profoundly important aspect of our lives. If it suddenly becomes as “bad” as the other “dirty words,” how are we supposed to discuss it? This may sound extreme, but we are on that path. The F.C.C. censored the word “sex” in Jeremih’s song. For all concerns and purposes, government decided that we should not hear the word because it was somehow “bad” or “offensive.” Yet “sex” is not a “bad word.” It was invented in order not to give offense. It is ironic that authorities now seek to suppress a euphemism.

I strongly resent any government attempt to control language. Our Constitution grants American citizens a broad right to speak freely. We should only tolerate restrictions on our language for the most compelling reasons. Moral awkwardness about sex does not even remotely rise to that level. Yet if we do not express our disapproval about censorship when it happens, we tacitly certify government’s power to regulate our language. That is why it is important to oppose censorship whenever it appears. “Birthday Sex” may be stupid, juvenile and absurd. But if we don’t say something to oppose government’s attempt to outlaw a perfectly legitimate word in our language, we empower government to take even more steps to muzzle us. In this case, government has applied its own moral queasiness to suppress a neutral word we all have a right to use. Moral queasiness is no justification for ignoring the First Amendment, no matter how many supersensitive mothers call to complain.

America has deep and fundamental social problems with sex. But those problems should not be allowed to impact our rights under the First Amendment. Censorship should worry us all, no matter where it appears. Our language existed before the Constitution and before the government. It is ours. As long as we do not use it to injure others or foment violence, government has no right to trespass against it. When government targets our language, we all lose expressive possibilities. Without expressive possibilities, we do not truly enjoy our rights as individuals. That is why I detest ungrounded censorship. It is not just an attack on the speaker’s expressive powers. It is an attack on us all.

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.