A few years ago, one of my friends told me that he often buys homeless people something to eat. When he told me this, I pictured a homeless person in the centre of their isolation, watching an unflinchingly cold world move around them. Since then, I have occasionally stopped to give a homeless person a few coins or to buy them something to eat, usually under $5. The moral calculus is simple, which is why my decision-making felt equally clear: if I forgo one forgettable indulgence, then this person can have food which they are unlikely to have otherwise.
The simple ethics of this scenario stands in contrast to the endless network of obligations in our contemporary moral landscape. Consider the tragedy that is the occupation of Gaza. In my view, though it is clear that Israel is engaging in genocide, the difficulty is in what we, as ordinary people, ought to do in response. One could go to a protest but it is easy to wonder what materially follows from it; those in power remain capable of wielding it how they wish. One could send donations but it poses the question of why one would not donate to other causes. Regrettably, these questions are often answered for us by the demands of ordinary life.
The modern human condition is distinctly characterised by this lack. The weight of the innumerable tragedies demanding our attention lies diametrically opposed to our apparent inability to meaningfully tend to them. In fact, to be aware of this lack is to be more politically conscious than many. This is not even to be pejorative against those who are indifferent; it is so obviously the default mode that its harsh condemnation is fruitless. The scale of globalisation, the access to information, and the availability of indulgence dull as much as they overwhelm.
This problem has been identified with such frequency that this diagnosis is trite; the trouble is in finding a way out. This is the task that I wish to undertake. To be clear, I am not speaking on a political attitude nor am I arguing for an ethical approach. I am concerned with the human spirit — when we find ourselves caught in existential malaise, where can we seek recourse? As a caveat, there is such cruel diversity in the ways people suffer that writing on the human spirit cannot adequately address. Hence, I focus on this particular threat to our spirit which many before me have articulated.
To illustrate this, I wish to invoke the wisdom and renown of Byung-Chul Han. Han is a Korean German philosopher who is known for his sharp diagnoses of modern ills. In The Burnout Society, he writes on the pernicious effect of neoliberalism and how it leaves us on a treadmill of self-optimisation, running endlessly. Like most philosophers, he writes with an edge, an air of elevation: “The achievement-subject stands free from any external instance of domination [Herrschaftsinstanz] forcing it to work, much less exploiting it. It is lord and master of itself.”
I must confess, I am suspicious of cultural critics who are as attractively immediate as Han is. I am sceptical of unequivocally attributing the alienation of our spirit to emergent features of modernity. Rather than a purer, pre-modern human condition which is altered by technology, I see an atavism obscured by a modern veil. For instance, though I acknowledge the specific brand of panoptic anxiety by which social media ails us, I see underneath it a more basic need to be seen, a more primal urge to belong.
There was a temptation to title this essay, ‘A Return to Sincerity’, but I found it to detract from its message. When cultural writers take up existential matters as such, there is always a ‘revival’ or a ‘crisis’, some overwhelming consequence justifying the novelty of the claim. Though this is part of the job, I find it is often a writer’s personal indulgence in intellect and language. For this reason, I will be clear: there is no novelty in this essay, only a belief in the foundational attitude toward living which these words contain.
For this end, I wish to turn to Bertrand Russell. Russell is one of the greats of analytic philosophy, so I was charmed to find that he had written a book titled, The Conquest of Happiness. Published in 1930, Russell’s writings predate late modernity but they are strikingly apt. He expresses a familiar trouble: “In the work-hour crowd, you will see anxiety, excessive concentration, dyspepsia, lack of interest in anything but the struggle, incapacity for play, unconsciousness of their fellow creatures.” In response to these ailments, Russell reminds us to seek recourse in sincerity. He calls us to take a genuine interest in knowledge, to admire instead of envy, and to not overstate one’s importance.
To live with a genuine, sustained interest in one’s life and the lives of others is an onerous undertaking, and it is the only way for us to cultivate fulfilment. What I wish Han and other cultural critics would emphasise are the perennial solutions to our existential ailments; they include the joy of conversation, the clutch that is friendship, the magic that is growing a garden — an activity which Han enjoys himself. Albert Camus said of football, “…what I know most surely in the long run about morality and obligations, I owe to football.” In An Enquiry Concerning Human Understanding, David Hume shares how he treats himself after becoming disoriented by his philosophical troubles: “I dine, I play a game of backgammon, I converse, and am merry with my friends.” The ‘ordinary’ is necessarily the site of the meaningful because the ‘ordinary’ is the site of our existence.
It is necessary to reiterate that I do not suggest that blind optimism is a solution to the concrete problems of our time; they require specific and concerted engagement. What I present instead is a bulwark against the cynical, nihilistic void which modern life can produce within us. It is a reminder of the continuing resonance of modes of being which predate and resist any perversions of modernity: the overwhelming joy of community, the transcendence of art, the totalising force that is love.
The ending to one of my favourite films, The Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind, has a tremendous illustration of this imperfectly pure ‘humanness’. After having their memories erased to escape the pain of their breakup, Joel and Clementine have their memories restored and are given a second chance. They hesitate as they remember their endless incompatibilities. When Clementine warns Joel of the burdens he’d bear if they chose to love again, he replies with a simple and moving, ‘Okay.’ In this ‘okay’, I see an honourable embrace of risk: it is the unequivocal acknowledgement of someone in their entirety, a recognition that neither uncertainty nor the possibility of suffering should enfeeble us. When the vagaries of living thrust us into despair, we ought to remember this courage and remind others of it when they inevitably forget. In this spirit, I wish for my words to reach you like an outstretched hand.
