In the Beggarly Style of Imitation Page 5

  And what is more, the world has been in no short supply of works occupied with fractured fraternities of man; one often wonders why this inclination is met with such costive hostility. Can there be a more availing protreptic against the vacillations, the tentativeness of human policies, than in the adventures of Candide in his search for his beloved Cunégonde? Or a more succinct development of these ideas than Mr. Hazlitt’s famous deathblow to hope in the observation that customs will forever prevail over excellence (perhaps the greatest of secret sins that society has ever turned to mawkish account)? Why is it that the anomie of an opposing wind produces such disparate reactions in our fellows’ breasts?

  These misanthropic arguments—especially when rendered in appropriate literary style—are impregnable of doubt and suspicion; whose sun-kissed reasoning is often coruscating, but not to the extent that we may not follow its example. Misanthropy asks if it is not the case that humanity’s lot turns on the aspiration to reposition one’s relationship to others from that of being under the boot heel to that of delivering the pressure (if not in this active form of meting violence, then in abstaining to whatever degree possible), and if there is not something beyond this rudimentary arrangement. There is likely no more insulting an accusation than to be charged with a kind of guileless crudity in one’s worldview if I am not very much mistaken.

  Misanthropic Unavailability, Dread and Exile

  My misapprehension on the subject in part stems from fear of the charge that for all the time I have spent wallowing on this blighted orb, I have not grasped the organization of things well enough to understand how power and wealth are apportioned, how such guarantors of satisfaction work to better and worsen our lives, and always in stark, overbalanced arrangements. But fear is not enough of an incitement to action, incisive though its spurs may be. Fear of being insensate, or of being incorrect in one’s conclusions, cannot carry one to the terminus of applied reason unless one’s life is fulsomely dominated by dread. It is no great feat to witness the malice and perdition that exhaust the spirits of man and to evolve this view into a trenchant cynicism that can summon no witness to hope; it is but a short step to further amplify such views into a bellum omnium contra omnes.

  Indeed, this is one kind of “unavailable” misanthropic response, tempting though it may be, represented abstractly by Molière’s Alceste when he claims he must leave his home rather than endure the false witness of his peers. Exile cannot be deliverance for someone who mistrusts their fellows because her hatred of people who share common failings soon gives way to an abhorrence of herself and of her failure to stomach the polemical barbs of community. The central problem for a misanthrope seems to be how to reconcile her intolerance towards the majority of the world with its intolerance of herself.

  Senecan Compromise

  To put it another way, the Senecan solution to the predicament of whether one must “imitate or hate the world” is both: his sensible but in a way desperate counsel is to retreat inward where possible, but meet with others likely to improve yourself. There is an element of desperation to any compromise, in mitigating one’s humours because it proves untimely or unfashionable; ultimately, in the realization that those who improve our constitution may prove insufferable people (Seneca’s proposition is a convenient way out of the indictment though, that arrogance above mankind, not the hatred of it, is the misanthrope’s true calling in life). This notion that misanthropy and sociability are not two worlds apart is based on the degree that it is presumptuous to state that society, in all its infinite evils, is so damning an influence as to lead one to extinguish all living claim to it. Beyond the fact that it is not clear how one would go about achieving a state of decivilization, what concept of social or personal utility would be rendered by fleeing from the obligations heaped on our backs remains unaddressed.

  It is true, however, that Seneca’s position removes a great many impediments that would otherwise hinder a convincing espousal of misanthropy. The goal of the misanthrope cannot be total abstraction but integration on some level: we must find a place within civilization that does not compromise our understanding, and the only way this can happen is for that relationship to persist. Meaning is best produced in general society, not in the void, and the only way to preserve one’s hate is to renew overflowing justifications for hatred.

  Modern individuals are expected to exercise the agape of a saint, forgiving all manner of calumniation, but surely the indulgence solicited on behalf of one person can be required of the other? To those who feel compelled to ask what justifies my alienation from their lifestyles, and what superciliousness governs my mind in passing judgement on them, one should recall that to suffer my thoughts (and to suffer them with civility and prepossession) is the greatest gift of any friendship, and on that account, can be expected in equal measure even if this hinges precipitously on the temper of minds that grace us for friendship’s sake, and whether a misanthrope to the manner born can palliate her animosity.

  Stockdale and the Undemeaned Existence

  There is another historical positioning of the misanthrope that warrants analysis, and that is the question of whether they are comparable to the historical figure of the sage. It is worth remarking that there are indeed curious symmetries between the outlooks of these erudite hermits who would seek influence among learned corners of the globe, and those who would gladly have nothing to do with them. Misanthropy’s philosophical roots are undoubtedly in self-examination and chastisement, viz. an impeccably Christian temperament. It is no wonder that a figure like Percival Stockdale took monumental strides to root misanthropic sensations in a kind of bifurcated dualism: a “seductive,” obloquious kind of misanthropy in one corner, and a divinely commissioned one, heaven-sent with the sole purpose to beatify, on the other.

  Stockdale is not wrong to make such a division, though the theological imputations of motive force, unsurprising in one whose vocational confidences exposed him to all manner of iniquitous behaviour, are poorly placed (his views shake out to little more than actions not contributing to the glory of God are unworthy of virtuous imitation). Worse than this transgression is the fact that the execution of his reasoning at times amounts to a kind of poor man’s gnomic verse (his propensity for false consolation is astonishing). And yet, despite his failures as a proselytizer, who chose for a target perhaps the most difficult convert of all besides the infidel (such was the quality of its attractiveness), he commands respect for defending the tarnished cause of misanthropy with unyielding enthusiasm and arriving at conclusions that for the most part proved influential (he believed that misanthropy entailed a declaration of will that encouraged strident, necessary responses from its detractors—cheap political exhibitionisms aside—that would eventually lead to productive conversions).

  It would also be neglectful not to acknowledge the fact that Stockdale’s writings emerged from the exalted plane of the First Estate. The dismal prospects advancing behind the standard of the misanthrope could arguably stem from a kind of privileged boredom: a class character affording the ability to make certain “acquisitions” and then to tire of them as we tire of things: of conversations, of arguments, of people. Misanthropy does exist on the shoulders of wanting to be able to remove one’s tethers in favour of a purer, undemeaned kind of existence, but class plays a role in the development of hatred only insofar as having means to channel this animosity and in what desired ways, not in what we choose as objects of scorn. One man’s hatred of imbalance is another man’s raison de vivre—just as one can prove hostile to niggardly social spending while another the entire concept of social insurance wholesale—because nature affords no limitations in the way of variety. It is always man’s temper to hate, feel inadequate and act out jealously; class merely manifests how the means to revenge ourselves of inequity is directed. The misanthropic inclination, if I have argued my point correctly, is in fact cheerily non-denominational.

  Articles of Reason

  Now one must succumb to c
alls heard from both sides of the traverse. My misanthropy has not been advanced so far with any concrete means of the designs I have employed, something curiously absent from most buckram treatises on the subject. Indeed, there is a kind of waggish humour to avowals like, “avoid crowds” or “never engage in conversations in which more than two individuals are present.” I suspect any enumeration of ideal misanthropic action would here begin to take on a farcical quality, but true enough, generatim discite cultus.

  Unregulated Loathing

  Whereas others find tranquillity in meditation, vigorous physical exercise, postprandial conversation and wherever else they chose to find it, I have made my bed in an unregulated domain of loathing. To witness the unadorned meanness of spirit that pervades this century is harmful to one’s constitution, this much is certain (I marvel at how great a store I possess of these same unfortunate qualities). When I prove more domineering than I knowingly wish to be, I understand this to be the true shade and dimension of humanity: all individuals of influence are notoriously unfledged. When ideals are like diversions and principles are but instruments lain dormant for future and fair usage, one can count on a broken destiny of weakness and contingency, where ignorance is borne with honour, misery heralded by triumph, shamelessness captive to no thrall. This produces nothing if not an anti-natalistic calm, and the desire to navigate only the most austere fairways of life.

  Intransigence and Grievance

  I have found it to be a good practice to hold on to grudges—for dear life if possible—despite thirty centuries of philosophical wisdom to the contrary. A grudge is a good way of reminding oneself that mankind never has your interests at the heart of its operations and will serve its priorities first, second and third before ever giving you a jot of consideration. A memory of someone ill-using you is integral in predicting patterns of comportment that tend to subsist among new and old contacts so that before the gavel is even raised, you can know the judgement before you. What better reserve is there than correct anticipation when no foolproof science of the mind is possible?

  There are times when this foreknowledge will deceive you and lead you astray; times when you are willing to peer further into a relationship only to be rebuked; and still others when you back and fill between how best to employ your suspicions; but overall, the perfected mind is one that expects very little from others, apart from an intransigent unwillingness to change. One is proven wrong so infrequently on this count that the instincts can become a tasseography of (and a passport to) the future.

  Not everyone can cast away relations that at one time rejoiced the heart or provided succour to trouble’s heavy sorrows. I would myself not be able to shun others as easily as I do had I not received the same injuries first. We are constantly abused for our time at every turn, never given an allowance of thought. An abuse of time obliges you with returning the favour in kind, and in the end, some frustrated connections are better left that way.

  Economies of Restraint

  In the furore of empty deeds, there are some occupations doomed to the status of dire extravagance more than others; that is to say, they are the most bootless of human enterprises. Having absorbed myself in the unappreciated and contrarian enterprise of writing, I have become intimately acquainted with this reality. Would it not be more discreet to spurn the court of friends for a time when despair does not reign uninhibited? A calculating writer is predisposed to economies of restraint, so she closes her doors when her rancour is stirred to enmity-absorbing levels.

  Living in the metropolis where there are no shortages of agreeable recreations, it becomes iconoclastic to spurn invitations: someone is always dying or being born, one’s neighbours become associates, one’s associates become intimate friends and one’s intimate friends become entwined souls. For sanity’s sake, a repulse can become a salvation, even if it makes us unneighbourly. A party, if properly managed, can be a splendorous engagement, though it depends on good, sound judgement to preserve you from harm, injury or worse: disconsolate boredom.

  There are times in someone’s company when the feeling of having exasperated the sentiments becomes palpable, and the need to break away becomes uncontrollable. Never spending more than a few hours in direct contact with someone whose faults bring the worst out in you can optimize and strengthen that relationship, giving it the tincture of unfamiliarity that will serve future encounters fittingly. There are some comrades who are desperately out of reach, whose company one yearns for, hoping to renew the bonds of intimacy; their companionship eludes us and we wax submissive to their vagaries, enslaved like a bureaucratic animal. On such occasions, misanthropy serves us in a surprising fashion: when we are reminded of these disappearances, we may fear that our misanthropy and disinclination to repair these connections will make us obdurate; we bridle at the thought of this hardness, and wish not to turn an idea that has served us so well into a millstone. These tiers of our thinking, moving away from how misanthropy can best serve us, to how its unchecked licence can prove antithetical to our goals, is necessary for any model that governs our desires and needs.

  Philoneism

  If one has the means, a situation in a quiet city can be an unexpected boon; this effect can only be amplified by devoting what time is at hand to reading, writing and light company. One can enlarge the mystic-minded pleasures of nature, the talents of intellection and the sensual philoneism of the world for a price that dwindles to nothing, inclinations to indolence notwithstanding. In truth, one is practically forced to misanthropy by virtue of living in any city where the cold dissolve of a handshake and other discourtesies keep people at arm’s length. There is an implacable distance among men and women that seems to expand to the exact degree that a populace increases, for the tension of competing limited interests is not only multiplied, but so too is the strain of forming connections that move beyond the surface-skimming variety. The congeniality of an underclassed burg can undercut this roving loneliness dramatically with relationships that are in turn more fulfilling.

  Debility, Traducement and the Step of Progress

  It may also be worth mentioning that I have had the intoxicating benefit of several maladies, ranging from the rare to the common, befalling an already delicate constitution, which has only furthered the avoidance of my compeers; and when I was cured of an idiopathic paralysis or a hearing disorder, I still managed to eke out more time for companionless leisure. People shun others plagued with illness and give no second thought that this might be exactly the kind of attention they desire.

  The greatest word in a misanthrope’s vocabulary is undoubtedly “no.” Judicious usage of it will preserve her quietude. A firm hand steadies an unbalanced heart, and she need only rate the laws of complaisance against what her susceptibilities will allow to reach a state approaching misanthropic grace. Regarding concerns of appearing uncivil, one must only consider that an individual who has been moved through the passions to kill is not so disconcerting as a hardened killer who stays his hand, and likewise with the articulations of a misanthrope’s weltschmerz. Soon enough the refusals become a commonplace, and no longer carry the hyaline sting of ingratitude.

  There is a kind of drabness behind the myth of sociality which states that company in another intellect’s opacity is infinitely preferable to the familiarity of one’s own thoughts; there is nothing that further gives lie to this proposition than the interminable discourses that run the gamut of repetitious articles to the poison of contrary minds. There is a very fine degree between when the lustre of elaborating a contrary stance on a subject proves inviting and when it does not. The majority of people do not want to suffer the obverse of their own striking personalities, and not just for the obvious reason of embellishing their egos, but because those associations prove in one form or another such an unflattering traducement against us. In the raging battle to convert the other to one’s resident opinion, both realize the ineptness of their dispute, or how willing they are to sacrifice everything, friendship included, f
or the sake of surviving with their beliefs intact, such is our affinity for them. What is sometimes worse, those relations who form such a close alliance with our own sympathies can be rendered revolting when they do happen to diverge from our thoughts, however insignificantly. Mankind gravitates toward anything that can extinguish a darkening lack, but any recourse that temporarily succeeds in this effort only proves to us how formidable that absence is and will likely remain.

  There is something unseemly about gregarious people who appear unable to be alone with their thoughts and who balk at the maturation of their minds. Platitudes abound of mankind being nothing if not social creatures, but that conceit seems to be little more than an overblown insurance policy against an empty home; in truth, man shares more common traits with a peacock than he does with any other creature, his social contract amounting to little more than a licence to maim and brutalize in a mannerly fashion. Large gatherings wreak havoc on the comely art of conversation, and dilate expressions of flattery to the exact extent that it retracts articles of good sense. There are so many interests reticulating that one must step around anyone else’s prized stake; people do not speak plainly, but serve opening course after opening course of affected modesty before they can answer a question they forget was forged in the fires of their own arrogance to begin with.