Some ways of thinking about conventional values

1

You are such a mystery, Circe said to me.

I am. We are a mystery to each other.

To me, her way of thinking about life is a mystery. She appears wholly conventional, prepared to accept all the usual values -- family + social status -- as they are, without questioning, without doubt. In this, she is just like most women I have known: it never seemed to occur to any of them to doubt whether there really was any value in having children or acquiring a club membership.

Yet, compared to those women, Circe is an intellectual giant. That her view of life is no different from that of the others mystifies me since I automatically associate exceptional intelligence and broad reading with daring non-conforming, with non-conventionalism. Clearly mistakenly.

2

In accepting the conventional view of life, Circe remains in touch with the world: she understands others well, while I do not. It is me who looks at the conduct of others and shakes his head in amazement. Why, I ask myself, do they bother? To me, people appear to work so very hard for pseudo rewards: a better car, the front row pews, an invitation to a exclusive but boring vernisage. Sometimes I suspect that the difference between their motivation and mine lies in the difference of our heads; a difference akin to that between different species -- since I seem to understand peacocks -- and tigers -- better than men.

3

The reverse of the coin is that Circe does not understand me. How can you just pick up and leave? How can you not care to be famous? How can anyone not care to attain an exalted social position? How can you live a life which does not amount to anything (socially)? How can you not want to make a contribution? And your mother, your mother...

Then, when I try to explain to her how I feel about these things, something strange happens: she disagrees with me in an abrupt and final sort of way, peremptorily closing the discussion; though she says otherwise, she does not actually wish to understand my point of view. The finality of her disagreement makes me wonder if it is a sign of anxiety -- of a kind of hidden, sneaky uncertainty about her principles. Perhaps deep down she intuits that they are a sham, a house without foundation?

4

My mother did the same thing to me, when I shared with her my doubts about certain established values. Sometimes it is better not to think like that, she said to me with the same finality which I now see in Circe. And I know that my mother did it out of fear -- out of fear that such conversation might undermine her house of cards; cause it to collapse about her ears; and that she would then find out that all her life's successes have been -- empty.

5

The trouble is, it seems to me, that the reverse is the real danger: that it is far worse not to think like that. That by not thinking like that -- not challenging the usual values -- we sentence ourselves to living dull, stupid, unhappy lives and one day finding ourselves with achievements which mean nothing. We find ourselves successful and -- miserable.

6

Nahedeh was case in point: committed to the social values of her class -- family, work, money, social position, reputation, titles, skills -- and successful at practicing them, she was utterly miserable with them. She had the urges of an adventurer, a highwayman-poet, an artist in a Montmartre garret, a wayward woman; but they seethed under a heavy, unbreakable crust of middle class values. She stifled; she was miserable; she knew it, yet she could do nothing about it. She realized her values were not suitable for her and that they made her miserable, but her values were stronger than her, she could not rise above them: she could doubt them but she could never reject them.

As a result, she lived in a city she hated, in a country she hated, a life she hated -- giving social functions which bored her to tears, shuttling her children from private school to piano lessons; in a sexless marriage with a man prone to wining. All of this for the satisfaction of being somebody. Somebody in other people's eyes, of course; those which did not see the misery of her inner life. A misery she saw all too clearly every day of her life.

7

There is a Bacon essay to the effect that such people live by other people's opinions: they direct their lives towards other people's appreciation despite personal discomfort and displeasure. (They in fact turn to others, saying "Say, I am happy, aren't I?")

This is significant coming from Bacon because he was an avid social climber himself. In his essay he wrote, basically, that it sucks to be a highly placed official and that only those who aren't one can think it is a great thing. Yet, like Nahedeh, he persisted with the life about which he said openly that it was not satisfying!

What was the man thinking? Was he lying, perhaps? Was he in fact only pretending not to enjoy the pleasures of being a highly placed official? Was it a kind of philosophical pretense? Perhaps no more than a pretty disguise for his burning ambition?

8

Unlike Nahedeh, my friend Circe does not seem unhappy. Thus, perhaps Bacon was not, either, then.

But unlike Bacon, Circe is unable -- or unwilling -- to understand my thoughts. I wonder whether this is a meaningful difference. Does she not think Bacon's thoughts because, once having thought them, she could not, unlike Bacon, live the conventional life despite them?

After all, does she perhaps read my reports of my life with such interest precisely because she would rather live my kind of life than the successful life she had built for herself according to the conventional values? If so, does she know it? No, she can't. If she knew it, she would not read this stuff because she would realize how dangerous it is. Dangerous to her life: it could seduce her. She could fall from success into adventure.

So she manages an interesting trick: she reads about my life with interest, but chooses not to understand the motivation behind it.