If you act, think, feel in a way that is incongruent with your deepest convictions, then something is wrong. Your philosophy is the result of your reflections on what your life should be about and what sort of a person you ought to be — it's your considered opinion on these questions, and if you find yourself acting contrary to that, this means you're doing things against your own best interest; if you observe you're holding opinions that are in contradiction to it, this manifests an inconsistency in your views; and if your feelings take you on a ride far away from what they should be if your affections and attitudes were sound, this shows a rift between what you were aiming for and what you've achieved so far in educating them.
To live by your philosophy means a lot of things: for one, you have to really follow through on what you think is best for you. It's not enough to have the right insights — they're worthless if they are not manifest in what you do. And likewise, if you stop doing all those things you know you should do, just because you realize that you can get away with not doing them, that should give you pause. It's not just the visible actions, but also your inner stance that counts. If those thoughts and feelings that no-one can see are not in tune with what you do, then you are giving merely a show, a surface performance that may fool some others, but in the end you'll only deceive yourself (and how foolish it is to even invest effort into that!). Contradictions of that sort are the very thing that philosophy wants to correct.
Another thing that is meant is that you live by your philosophy, not by somebody else's. They may coincide, but then it's still your philosophy that you live by; not that other one — or put differently, what makes a philosophy the one you should live by is that it is your philosophy, nothing else. This is not a call for a high-flying, speculative mindset that results in 'your philosophy', as if you'd have to write a book with ideas in it that were never heard of before: but when you think about it, what can count as a philosophy that guides your life, all your actions, thoughts and feelings, must be something that has its roots in your own reflections; it must be arrived at by your own reasoning; and no engagement in changing your life will be sound if it is not founded on attitudes which aren't in a deep sense your own. Needless to say, your reflections will be informed by a long tradition in ethical philosophy, your reasoning will have to seek its touchstone in the arguments of others who also reflect and take a stance on those important questions, and your attitudes must be formed in an active engagement with the world around you. There is no such thing as cooking up 'your philosophy' just by stewing in your own intellectual juice. But unless you have reflected, thought through, and accepted something yourself, it won't do as a basis for living your life according to it.
Once you have started investing thought and effort into this, you will notice that the consistency of your actions with your views improves, that your judgments become more sound and you feel in an appropriate way more often than not. Constancy and personal integrity are a mark of a developed philosophy by which you can live. So is a continuously taken reflective stance of self-examination. Take care.
Avoid a vicious environment
Indulgence, weakness, failure — those are bad enough themselves, but even worse are occasions, and locations, when and where they are celebrated, praised and practiced as if they were something good. If circumstances are favorable for seeing excessive eating and drinking, careless hunts for pleasures, thoughtless speech and senseless intoxication as desirable, all this naturally becomes much harder to resist — especially when everyone around you chimes in with the incitation.
But obviously bad example, blandishment and other forms of leading you into doing something you'd resist from a more considered perspective are not exclusively found at orgiastic sessions that cater to the senses. If, for instance, many of the people whom you deal with on a daily basis haven't any courage, if most of them from time to time act timidly, and everybody seems to just accept it as admissible way of doing things, it will be difficult, to say the least, to train and cultivate your sense of what's courageous; your courage will itself be weakened by that constant deficiency around you. And it's the same with all the qualities of character.
There's nothing wrong with pleasant surroundings — unless they make you soft. At many times, we simply choose to be where it seems most agreeable to be; but then again, that shouldn't keep us from the more important things we want to gain in our lives: when pleasantness of surroundings, and niceness of the landscape or the people reaches a status with us that makes it the most desirable thing, and even more important than who we care about, and what we want to do with our lives, then we have reached a point where feeling good has virtually replaced any other goal. And how degrading would that be!
Just think: if it is that important for you to feel well, to taste the pleasures of good food, to sense the softness of a mild climate, if you have come to see such mere conveniences as really valuable, then anyone and everything that's capable of causing pain to you, of even merely subtracting from your pleasures, finds a widely open door to blackmail you. Just about anything that's nasty could be used to cause you trouble. (And this is not as far-fetched as you now may think; I bet there is among the people who you know a number of that sort who are the slaves of one or the other of such tastes. Indulgence has a strong grip on those who've given in to it.)
Another bad effect of softness is a growing lack of energy. If everything that counts is feeling well, then why start working, or pursuing goals? In fact, not having any goals would be just fine, provided that a maximum of pleasantness is still ascertained to be had.
So, living for the pleasures makes you weak and lazy, and a plaything of all circumstances that have any power to reduce them. Just as you should care to resist this as a bad idea of what to do with your life, it's similarly wise to learn to recognize when many voices are about to coax you into a relapse. If you should find yourself in that sort of environment, be mindful not to be seduced. Take care.
But obviously bad example, blandishment and other forms of leading you into doing something you'd resist from a more considered perspective are not exclusively found at orgiastic sessions that cater to the senses. If, for instance, many of the people whom you deal with on a daily basis haven't any courage, if most of them from time to time act timidly, and everybody seems to just accept it as admissible way of doing things, it will be difficult, to say the least, to train and cultivate your sense of what's courageous; your courage will itself be weakened by that constant deficiency around you. And it's the same with all the qualities of character.
There's nothing wrong with pleasant surroundings — unless they make you soft. At many times, we simply choose to be where it seems most agreeable to be; but then again, that shouldn't keep us from the more important things we want to gain in our lives: when pleasantness of surroundings, and niceness of the landscape or the people reaches a status with us that makes it the most desirable thing, and even more important than who we care about, and what we want to do with our lives, then we have reached a point where feeling good has virtually replaced any other goal. And how degrading would that be!
Just think: if it is that important for you to feel well, to taste the pleasures of good food, to sense the softness of a mild climate, if you have come to see such mere conveniences as really valuable, then anyone and everything that's capable of causing pain to you, of even merely subtracting from your pleasures, finds a widely open door to blackmail you. Just about anything that's nasty could be used to cause you trouble. (And this is not as far-fetched as you now may think; I bet there is among the people who you know a number of that sort who are the slaves of one or the other of such tastes. Indulgence has a strong grip on those who've given in to it.)
Another bad effect of softness is a growing lack of energy. If everything that counts is feeling well, then why start working, or pursuing goals? In fact, not having any goals would be just fine, provided that a maximum of pleasantness is still ascertained to be had.
So, living for the pleasures makes you weak and lazy, and a plaything of all circumstances that have any power to reduce them. Just as you should care to resist this as a bad idea of what to do with your life, it's similarly wise to learn to recognize when many voices are about to coax you into a relapse. If you should find yourself in that sort of environment, be mindful not to be seduced. Take care.
Educate your feelings
In our time, there seems to be a widespread tendency to blame: others, circumstances, or simply things in general. In many cases, that's just a technique to deflect attention from what actually should be one's own responsibility. And while this is easily recognized when what is under scrutiny is people's actions, the same applies to feelings. Let's look at an example.
Nobody likes being bored, isn't that so? Boredom is unpleasant, it makes us uncomfortably feel the weight of time, lets us experience ourselves as inactive, incapable even of doing anything useful with ourselves.
But many assume that feeling bored is merely the proper reaction to an environment that fails to entertain us — or fails to fascinate us, engage us, occupy our thoughts, in a word: fails to grab our attention. So it is really the world around us that is to blame for the nasty feelings we must endure. Or so it seems. For let us ask: why should it be that feelings of boredom are the proper reaction to things that go on around us? Does it seem the best way to behave, in circumstances that you take to be boring, to just remain inactive and, well, feel, that is, concentrate on what your senses tell you (i.e. nothing of interest, since by definition we are talking about a situation that you find boring)? Wouldn't it be equally possible to try and make some use of the situation? Whether you are in a waiting room or listening to a lecture you were forced to attend, whether you have to remain in company that you wouldn't have chosen if it was up to you or whether you are alone when you'd rather have someone around you: why not take the initiative and get something useful done? At the very least, there's always the option to do some thinking: reflect. Review the last few hours, this whole day, the past weeks; think about your goals in life and where you are with respect to them; even think about what's brought you into that situation you are in now. Perhaps you can identify some mistake you've made that brought you into it? Should you have taken more care of yourself so you wouldn't end up in a doctor's waiting room? Should you have dropped studying a subject that gets you into lectures you really don't want to listen to? Should you do more for the relationships to other people in your life — so you won't need to spend time with people you don't like, and you'd have the chance to be with those you care for?
Am I recommending, then, to take that feeling of being bored as a signal, an indicator to get active (or contemplative)? Not quite. That feeling is improper: it's bad for you; feeling that way is already to have taken a wrong turn somewhere. What I suggest goes deeper: you shouldn't have to feel bored at all. In all those situations, instead of having an impulse to become bored ("Oh, now I'll have to wait for the train for another ten minutes, and there is nothing of the slightest interest here!"), you'd better have an impulse to do something, or start reflecting ("Well, that gives me another ten minutes; fine, so I can continue reading that novel I've just started."). Instead of letting your surroundings determine what you might do, or even worse, of leaving it to the situation what you'd feel, start making that decision yourself — and train your feelings to tune in with more sensible options (and habits).
More generally, why should any feelings be merely a function of the goings-on in our world? True, once you have developed certain habits, you can't immediately control how you feel. There is an automatic pilot in place that drives much of them, and it's not easy to even notice, much less change them once that pilot has decided on a course. In the long run, however, you can educate your feelings; you can to a certain degree re-program the autopilot to steer more sensible courses in a given type of situation. Granted, that takes a lot of work, and even when successful there is no guarantee that your feelings will always be what you'd like them to be: in the complicated emotional interactions that we have every day with the people around us, so many things can still trigger unexpected behavior. And it is very hard to know yourself so well that you'd be able to foresee all that. The variety of situations we might encounter is infinite. All that, of course, is no excuse for not working on yourself and correct your affective responses, the ways you feel in given circumstances. Your feelings are your responsibility, much the same as your actions and beliefs are. There is no need, at any time, to feel bad (or bored). The fault, as always, is not in our surroundings, but in ourselves. Take care.
Nobody likes being bored, isn't that so? Boredom is unpleasant, it makes us uncomfortably feel the weight of time, lets us experience ourselves as inactive, incapable even of doing anything useful with ourselves.
But many assume that feeling bored is merely the proper reaction to an environment that fails to entertain us — or fails to fascinate us, engage us, occupy our thoughts, in a word: fails to grab our attention. So it is really the world around us that is to blame for the nasty feelings we must endure. Or so it seems. For let us ask: why should it be that feelings of boredom are the proper reaction to things that go on around us? Does it seem the best way to behave, in circumstances that you take to be boring, to just remain inactive and, well, feel, that is, concentrate on what your senses tell you (i.e. nothing of interest, since by definition we are talking about a situation that you find boring)? Wouldn't it be equally possible to try and make some use of the situation? Whether you are in a waiting room or listening to a lecture you were forced to attend, whether you have to remain in company that you wouldn't have chosen if it was up to you or whether you are alone when you'd rather have someone around you: why not take the initiative and get something useful done? At the very least, there's always the option to do some thinking: reflect. Review the last few hours, this whole day, the past weeks; think about your goals in life and where you are with respect to them; even think about what's brought you into that situation you are in now. Perhaps you can identify some mistake you've made that brought you into it? Should you have taken more care of yourself so you wouldn't end up in a doctor's waiting room? Should you have dropped studying a subject that gets you into lectures you really don't want to listen to? Should you do more for the relationships to other people in your life — so you won't need to spend time with people you don't like, and you'd have the chance to be with those you care for?
Am I recommending, then, to take that feeling of being bored as a signal, an indicator to get active (or contemplative)? Not quite. That feeling is improper: it's bad for you; feeling that way is already to have taken a wrong turn somewhere. What I suggest goes deeper: you shouldn't have to feel bored at all. In all those situations, instead of having an impulse to become bored ("Oh, now I'll have to wait for the train for another ten minutes, and there is nothing of the slightest interest here!"), you'd better have an impulse to do something, or start reflecting ("Well, that gives me another ten minutes; fine, so I can continue reading that novel I've just started."). Instead of letting your surroundings determine what you might do, or even worse, of leaving it to the situation what you'd feel, start making that decision yourself — and train your feelings to tune in with more sensible options (and habits).
More generally, why should any feelings be merely a function of the goings-on in our world? True, once you have developed certain habits, you can't immediately control how you feel. There is an automatic pilot in place that drives much of them, and it's not easy to even notice, much less change them once that pilot has decided on a course. In the long run, however, you can educate your feelings; you can to a certain degree re-program the autopilot to steer more sensible courses in a given type of situation. Granted, that takes a lot of work, and even when successful there is no guarantee that your feelings will always be what you'd like them to be: in the complicated emotional interactions that we have every day with the people around us, so many things can still trigger unexpected behavior. And it is very hard to know yourself so well that you'd be able to foresee all that. The variety of situations we might encounter is infinite. All that, of course, is no excuse for not working on yourself and correct your affective responses, the ways you feel in given circumstances. Your feelings are your responsibility, much the same as your actions and beliefs are. There is no need, at any time, to feel bad (or bored). The fault, as always, is not in our surroundings, but in ourselves. Take care.
Memories
When we use the phrase 'the time of my life', most often retrospectively, we refer to a period that we remember as one of deep happiness, intense feeling, an acute awareness of ourselves — a period we recognize, at the time we're remembering it, that was unique and will never come back. The middle (and late) stages of our lives are full of such insights to the effect that something was there in our youth that is now irretrievably lost.
(The phrase is also often used more loosely to express one's had some fun, but of course that's not the interesting usage; we're not talking here about simply the equivalent of saying that one's had a good time, but of saying it was the one time in one's life. That's what these reflections are about, even though it may not always be what people mean when they use those words.)
A good portion of our sense of self depends on our attitude to such memories: some get melancholy, others get dreamy; and there are those who quietly treasure them, and love to recall them from time to time at a peaceful hour when they are by themselves. Me, I often feel a wave of sadness sweep over me: it's a fresh shock every time to look back and face the facts of missed opportunities, failures from half-hearted pursuits, neglect of others that I subsequently came to regret bitterly; and although there are those episodes of a deeply satisfying happiness, too, they strangely trigger the same poignant sense of loss: they're a recollection only, of something that's gone forever. (That latter impression needs analysis: if the loss is one that actually came about as a consequence of my own actions, if it was up to me and I just messed it up, I'd rightly feel regret; though still it should rather be directed at my actions instead at a felt loss. In other words, if regret is appropriate, it can only be about what I'm responsible for. Else it isn't regret, but pointless whining.)
How should we deal with these feelings about our memories? They are taking us back to something unique, I have said: they're about parts of our lives — and not just in the trivial sense in which every portion of our past, every episode we've lived through could be called a part of our life. These episodes we're talking about are singular. Each of them has the character of something that you know will never happen again in that same way, and with that same intensity. Uniqueness implies loss — if it wasn't unique, it might be repeated; so when you remember it as unique, then it is already a thing of the past, of the kind that you can't have back.
There is something special about every stage in our lives, in fact, about every single stretch of time in them, especially our youth (with all the spirit, passion, and the recklessness typical of it). It's not the only time that is engraved in our memory. However, it's the first in the sequence, and so naturally it's what we will recall during all the later parts of our life. There is a certain asymmetry here: you can't get rid of all the memories of your past when you're old, though you can ignore your future to a certain extent when you're young. And memory, of course, does not just keep the happy, but equally the sad experiences; it makes no difference where the goodness (or the badness) came from: whether it was from within yourself or from an external source; and it generally seems the vividness and strength of our recollections has to do with how important and how deeply felt those experiences originally were.
Unless you are forgetful, the events of your past won't change (though your attitude to them may vary somewhat from time to time), and they will never disappear from what you remember to have been. And wouldn't it be shameful to forget? If what you did in those past times was the right thing to do (then), if you did well, if your stance was appropriate, then forgetting about it would be a foolish regress, a step in the direction of losing hold of your very self; if those past things are rather regrettable, distancing yourself from them seems like trying to avoid taking responsibility and wasting a chance to improve. So we'd better never forget. Take care.
(The phrase is also often used more loosely to express one's had some fun, but of course that's not the interesting usage; we're not talking here about simply the equivalent of saying that one's had a good time, but of saying it was the one time in one's life. That's what these reflections are about, even though it may not always be what people mean when they use those words.)
A good portion of our sense of self depends on our attitude to such memories: some get melancholy, others get dreamy; and there are those who quietly treasure them, and love to recall them from time to time at a peaceful hour when they are by themselves. Me, I often feel a wave of sadness sweep over me: it's a fresh shock every time to look back and face the facts of missed opportunities, failures from half-hearted pursuits, neglect of others that I subsequently came to regret bitterly; and although there are those episodes of a deeply satisfying happiness, too, they strangely trigger the same poignant sense of loss: they're a recollection only, of something that's gone forever. (That latter impression needs analysis: if the loss is one that actually came about as a consequence of my own actions, if it was up to me and I just messed it up, I'd rightly feel regret; though still it should rather be directed at my actions instead at a felt loss. In other words, if regret is appropriate, it can only be about what I'm responsible for. Else it isn't regret, but pointless whining.)
How should we deal with these feelings about our memories? They are taking us back to something unique, I have said: they're about parts of our lives — and not just in the trivial sense in which every portion of our past, every episode we've lived through could be called a part of our life. These episodes we're talking about are singular. Each of them has the character of something that you know will never happen again in that same way, and with that same intensity. Uniqueness implies loss — if it wasn't unique, it might be repeated; so when you remember it as unique, then it is already a thing of the past, of the kind that you can't have back.
There is something special about every stage in our lives, in fact, about every single stretch of time in them, especially our youth (with all the spirit, passion, and the recklessness typical of it). It's not the only time that is engraved in our memory. However, it's the first in the sequence, and so naturally it's what we will recall during all the later parts of our life. There is a certain asymmetry here: you can't get rid of all the memories of your past when you're old, though you can ignore your future to a certain extent when you're young. And memory, of course, does not just keep the happy, but equally the sad experiences; it makes no difference where the goodness (or the badness) came from: whether it was from within yourself or from an external source; and it generally seems the vividness and strength of our recollections has to do with how important and how deeply felt those experiences originally were.
Unless you are forgetful, the events of your past won't change (though your attitude to them may vary somewhat from time to time), and they will never disappear from what you remember to have been. And wouldn't it be shameful to forget? If what you did in those past times was the right thing to do (then), if you did well, if your stance was appropriate, then forgetting about it would be a foolish regress, a step in the direction of losing hold of your very self; if those past things are rather regrettable, distancing yourself from them seems like trying to avoid taking responsibility and wasting a chance to improve. So we'd better never forget. Take care.
Take responsibility
This is not a game (not an intellectual one, nor of any other kind). It's about serious matters, the most serious there are for any one of us.
Philosophy is good advice, a suggestion to reflect, a recommendation how to live. And it's not easy to give advice, much less good advice, don't you think? It's no big deal to talk a lot, of course; but do you also heed yourself what you say? Do you act the way you recommend, are your affective responses right in tune with what you tell others they should feel? You and I, we're both still far from being perfectly wise (or so I presume, I am, at any rate); so we fail to act as we think we should often enough. But could you with a clear conscience advise someone to do something you haven't tried yourself (and successfully)?
You, as a lover of philosophy, have a responsibility: you've taken a reflective stance on your life, you know what it means to examine and improve. You've been through the first few cycles of reflection; you've learned it's not a trivial thing to look at your life as a whole and figure out what it would mean to make it a good one, and happy; you know that taking the reflective stance can be disturbing, and yet it pays off: it lets you have a satisfaction deeper than what anything from outside yourself could ever give you. That's because it's your life, and everything you are and ever will be is expressed in that life — nothing else can have that sort of meaning for you. Now remember that everybody else is in the respective situation: for them, it's their lives which are at stake, and for them, the stakes are as high as they are for you.
You know that there is only as much to your life as you make out of it yourself. And while all those decisions (what to think, and do, and how you should be feeling at whatever happens to you) are yours, and yours alone, there is a plethora of help, suggestions and advice in the works of all the masters of the field. Being able to access them is an immense treasure, matched by only a few other things that depend on external circumstances: think of the few people you really love, and really are loved by; think of the luck of living in a society that gives you freedom enough to pursue your goals and provides the basic resources to be able to do so — not everybody is so lucky to have that, and while it would still be possible to be upright and make whatever is possible out of a situation where these conditions aren't fulfilled, even the best that could come out of it wouldn't amount to much, compared with other possible scenarios. So do not hesitate to make that treasure available to others as well. Study the works of philosophers thoroughly, and make sure you pass on whatever you were able to learn. Be careful, however, not to be carried away when you start passing it on to others. The receivers of our advice are worth that we give them all our attention: make sure that what you have to say is something that has value for them, helps them see what you can see — and never forget to respect their capacity to think and decide for themselves. In a word: deal responsibly with that treasure you've won. Take care.
Philosophy is good advice, a suggestion to reflect, a recommendation how to live. And it's not easy to give advice, much less good advice, don't you think? It's no big deal to talk a lot, of course; but do you also heed yourself what you say? Do you act the way you recommend, are your affective responses right in tune with what you tell others they should feel? You and I, we're both still far from being perfectly wise (or so I presume, I am, at any rate); so we fail to act as we think we should often enough. But could you with a clear conscience advise someone to do something you haven't tried yourself (and successfully)?
You, as a lover of philosophy, have a responsibility: you've taken a reflective stance on your life, you know what it means to examine and improve. You've been through the first few cycles of reflection; you've learned it's not a trivial thing to look at your life as a whole and figure out what it would mean to make it a good one, and happy; you know that taking the reflective stance can be disturbing, and yet it pays off: it lets you have a satisfaction deeper than what anything from outside yourself could ever give you. That's because it's your life, and everything you are and ever will be is expressed in that life — nothing else can have that sort of meaning for you. Now remember that everybody else is in the respective situation: for them, it's their lives which are at stake, and for them, the stakes are as high as they are for you.
You know that there is only as much to your life as you make out of it yourself. And while all those decisions (what to think, and do, and how you should be feeling at whatever happens to you) are yours, and yours alone, there is a plethora of help, suggestions and advice in the works of all the masters of the field. Being able to access them is an immense treasure, matched by only a few other things that depend on external circumstances: think of the few people you really love, and really are loved by; think of the luck of living in a society that gives you freedom enough to pursue your goals and provides the basic resources to be able to do so — not everybody is so lucky to have that, and while it would still be possible to be upright and make whatever is possible out of a situation where these conditions aren't fulfilled, even the best that could come out of it wouldn't amount to much, compared with other possible scenarios. So do not hesitate to make that treasure available to others as well. Study the works of philosophers thoroughly, and make sure you pass on whatever you were able to learn. Be careful, however, not to be carried away when you start passing it on to others. The receivers of our advice are worth that we give them all our attention: make sure that what you have to say is something that has value for them, helps them see what you can see — and never forget to respect their capacity to think and decide for themselves. In a word: deal responsibly with that treasure you've won. Take care.
Authority and aggressiveness
In many hierarchical organizations, such as businesses, bureaucracies, or academic institutions, there is power that comes from authority (that's exactly what the hierarchy is built from; though it's not the only kind of power, even in hierarchical organizations).
When you are in a situation of power, when you have the authority to tell people what to do (and perhaps also how to do it), you have to be careful: power over people has strong catalytic effects on bringing character traits out in the open. A great temptation is to use people's emotions to manipulate them into doing what you want (using fears is particularly effective, but it works with other emotions too). It's clear (to most people) that one shouldn't do this. As usual, however, the first necessary step is to recognize situations of that sort — it's not always obvious when it is happening. It needs some sensibility, and of course you have to be clear yourself what's appropriate and right, and what isn't.
This is not just a pragmatic consideration, because the authority built on fear is ineffective and ephemeral — which it is: it is also harmful for your character. Using threats (however veiled or indirect) and feeling successful with it tends to build irascibility, a character weakness. People who are angered lightly can develop a despotic streak; they often take on the attitude of someone who has suffered injustice (in their anger, as an implied feeling) — and that doesn't fit reality. Playing the aggrieved party, they are in truth looking for an opportunity to inflict harm. Despotism is vicious because it lives the drive to hurt people, but under the disguise of being hurt oneself (as implied by the anger). Of course all this applies equally to similar behavior in other contexts than work: people can become despotic with their friends, or at home. Constellations of authority, however, have a tendency to bring these character attributes out more clearly into the open, or give occasion to develop them. Be cautious to avoid their traps!
A particularly dangerous type of situation is when playing on the emotions of others seems the only, or the most, effective means to reach some important goal. They're dangerous because they can make it seem that there really is a good reason, this time, to make an exception and do it. After all, it's the effectiveness of what you do that in the end will count. Or is it?
Acting badly cannot be justified by whatever end you may want to achieve. True, when we deliberate, when we decide to act, there are from time to time situations of conflict; in some of them, the effects of what you do would be the only criterion that can be sensibly used. And so, in these cases, you choose the course of action that promises the greatest certainty of success. But this can't be the right thing to do when acting badly is among the options. In cases like that, merely pointing to the greater effectiveness of some action for a desired outcome doesn't make it acceptable. In fact, there are many ethical limits to action that have the consequence of constraining effectiveness. That's a wide and debated field, of course; but there's a first couple of steps for everything. Make sure that you examine your choices, and consider whether they include a concern for treating everyone around you as a person, and not a mere means to some end; consider whether your first priority is integrity and acting well; test, especially, your awareness of the ambushes that authority can lead you into, and your vigilance and caution in keeping clear of them. Take care.
When you are in a situation of power, when you have the authority to tell people what to do (and perhaps also how to do it), you have to be careful: power over people has strong catalytic effects on bringing character traits out in the open. A great temptation is to use people's emotions to manipulate them into doing what you want (using fears is particularly effective, but it works with other emotions too). It's clear (to most people) that one shouldn't do this. As usual, however, the first necessary step is to recognize situations of that sort — it's not always obvious when it is happening. It needs some sensibility, and of course you have to be clear yourself what's appropriate and right, and what isn't.
This is not just a pragmatic consideration, because the authority built on fear is ineffective and ephemeral — which it is: it is also harmful for your character. Using threats (however veiled or indirect) and feeling successful with it tends to build irascibility, a character weakness. People who are angered lightly can develop a despotic streak; they often take on the attitude of someone who has suffered injustice (in their anger, as an implied feeling) — and that doesn't fit reality. Playing the aggrieved party, they are in truth looking for an opportunity to inflict harm. Despotism is vicious because it lives the drive to hurt people, but under the disguise of being hurt oneself (as implied by the anger). Of course all this applies equally to similar behavior in other contexts than work: people can become despotic with their friends, or at home. Constellations of authority, however, have a tendency to bring these character attributes out more clearly into the open, or give occasion to develop them. Be cautious to avoid their traps!
A particularly dangerous type of situation is when playing on the emotions of others seems the only, or the most, effective means to reach some important goal. They're dangerous because they can make it seem that there really is a good reason, this time, to make an exception and do it. After all, it's the effectiveness of what you do that in the end will count. Or is it?
Acting badly cannot be justified by whatever end you may want to achieve. True, when we deliberate, when we decide to act, there are from time to time situations of conflict; in some of them, the effects of what you do would be the only criterion that can be sensibly used. And so, in these cases, you choose the course of action that promises the greatest certainty of success. But this can't be the right thing to do when acting badly is among the options. In cases like that, merely pointing to the greater effectiveness of some action for a desired outcome doesn't make it acceptable. In fact, there are many ethical limits to action that have the consequence of constraining effectiveness. That's a wide and debated field, of course; but there's a first couple of steps for everything. Make sure that you examine your choices, and consider whether they include a concern for treating everyone around you as a person, and not a mere means to some end; consider whether your first priority is integrity and acting well; test, especially, your awareness of the ambushes that authority can lead you into, and your vigilance and caution in keeping clear of them. Take care.
Build a coherent world view
Whether you form the correct opinion in a given situation, whether you do the right thing, and whether you experience adequate feelings (whether you are, that is, neither too cold nor work yourself up more than the occasion warrants) depends on many factors. For one, you must be able to take in your surroundings correctly: recognize all the relevant details, and discount what's irrelevant or misleading. But to look only at the situational elements is not enough. Since you are likewise part of the situation yourself, since you bring your entire personality with you, the overall soundness of your views plays a part as well.
Your views should fit together: what you think and say should be consistent, shouldn't be contradictory. And there is a connection between your beliefs, actions and feelings. What you do, and how you do it; when you feel strong emotions, and how you express them; what you think and say, and how you decide when to speak out loud your opinions and when to keep them for yourself: all these should fit together, and make sense in the light of each other. Your thinking can explain your actions, and feelings can express your thoughts — but only if they actually cohere. More generally, whenever you exercise your rational capacities, that is, whenever you form an opinion, decide how to act, or reflect on an emotional state you experienced, those who want to understand and make sense of you (and that includes yourself) only have a chance to be successful at it when they can assume that you do it in a way that is sound, proportionate and internally coherent.
(Put the other way round: if you are just inconsistent, what is anyone supposed to think? To the extent that you exhibit contradictions, you make it hard, if not impossible to understand; and obviously, not being able to rely on understandability, how could one come to trust you? And ask yourself: how could you trust yourself? For this is, as you certainly have guessed, not just about making you intelligible to others, but also, and perhaps primarily, to yourself.)
Obviously, this doesn't mean you should attempt to never ever contradict yourself: frequently enough, you'll learn something new that invalidates or at least relativizes some ideas you hold. In these cases, there is nothing wrong with changing your mind. It would be foolish to stick to an opinion merely because you have once claimed something that's at variance with it, or because you've once acted in a way that was not in line with it.
But be honest about that change of mind: don't try to give the impression that you've never thought differently. 'I used to think so-and-so ... I now think this-and-that.' is more honest than claiming 'Well, I've always said this-and-that!' (Even if you never actually said so-and-so, but merely thought it. Remember: giving a wrong impression is not in the least better just because nobody knows about it; and what does it matter, as long as you are aware of it yourself?)
To sum it up: the goal must be a harmony of opinions and beliefs (expressed or not) with actions and affections. How can that be achieved? Being cautious and vigilant, avoiding rashness and error is part of it. But it's not merely a passive affair: there is a lot that you must actively do in order to reach that goal. Of course, there is no such thing as explicitly taking stock of every bit that you know or believe. But that doesn't mean that you can't work on the consistency of your views. And again, don't remain too narrowly fixated on situational elements. Your opinions range from political, historical and religious views over aesthetic preferences, career choices, personal likes and dislikes, tastes and whims down to those hopes and desires, aversions and fears that we barely ever admit to ourselves. There may be some about people in general, but many opinions that we hold are about rather specific persons: your friends and family, your neighbors and colleagues, customers and business partners, long-standing companions and recent acquaintances, your allies and your enemies. And most important of them all, your philosophical views: what's good and bad, what's valuable and why, how reality is made up and where its borders with unreality run, how to tell knowledge from mere belief, truth from falsity, correctness in thought from the mere appearance of it. Look into all that, and especially examine these views when you come across them while reflecting on something that you have experienced or done. Can you identify some of the roots of your feelings and actions in those more or less deeply held opinions? Take care.
Your views should fit together: what you think and say should be consistent, shouldn't be contradictory. And there is a connection between your beliefs, actions and feelings. What you do, and how you do it; when you feel strong emotions, and how you express them; what you think and say, and how you decide when to speak out loud your opinions and when to keep them for yourself: all these should fit together, and make sense in the light of each other. Your thinking can explain your actions, and feelings can express your thoughts — but only if they actually cohere. More generally, whenever you exercise your rational capacities, that is, whenever you form an opinion, decide how to act, or reflect on an emotional state you experienced, those who want to understand and make sense of you (and that includes yourself) only have a chance to be successful at it when they can assume that you do it in a way that is sound, proportionate and internally coherent.
(Put the other way round: if you are just inconsistent, what is anyone supposed to think? To the extent that you exhibit contradictions, you make it hard, if not impossible to understand; and obviously, not being able to rely on understandability, how could one come to trust you? And ask yourself: how could you trust yourself? For this is, as you certainly have guessed, not just about making you intelligible to others, but also, and perhaps primarily, to yourself.)
Obviously, this doesn't mean you should attempt to never ever contradict yourself: frequently enough, you'll learn something new that invalidates or at least relativizes some ideas you hold. In these cases, there is nothing wrong with changing your mind. It would be foolish to stick to an opinion merely because you have once claimed something that's at variance with it, or because you've once acted in a way that was not in line with it.
But be honest about that change of mind: don't try to give the impression that you've never thought differently. 'I used to think so-and-so ... I now think this-and-that.' is more honest than claiming 'Well, I've always said this-and-that!' (Even if you never actually said so-and-so, but merely thought it. Remember: giving a wrong impression is not in the least better just because nobody knows about it; and what does it matter, as long as you are aware of it yourself?)
To sum it up: the goal must be a harmony of opinions and beliefs (expressed or not) with actions and affections. How can that be achieved? Being cautious and vigilant, avoiding rashness and error is part of it. But it's not merely a passive affair: there is a lot that you must actively do in order to reach that goal. Of course, there is no such thing as explicitly taking stock of every bit that you know or believe. But that doesn't mean that you can't work on the consistency of your views. And again, don't remain too narrowly fixated on situational elements. Your opinions range from political, historical and religious views over aesthetic preferences, career choices, personal likes and dislikes, tastes and whims down to those hopes and desires, aversions and fears that we barely ever admit to ourselves. There may be some about people in general, but many opinions that we hold are about rather specific persons: your friends and family, your neighbors and colleagues, customers and business partners, long-standing companions and recent acquaintances, your allies and your enemies. And most important of them all, your philosophical views: what's good and bad, what's valuable and why, how reality is made up and where its borders with unreality run, how to tell knowledge from mere belief, truth from falsity, correctness in thought from the mere appearance of it. Look into all that, and especially examine these views when you come across them while reflecting on something that you have experienced or done. Can you identify some of the roots of your feelings and actions in those more or less deeply held opinions? Take care.
Develop a fine perceptiveness
In everyday life, we encounter many facets of people's characters (including our own). It's not always easy to discern which of the many possibilities we have before us: are you just witnessing a case of cautious behavior? Or is it timidity? Restraint? Or rather cowardice? The outward signs of what people do may be compatible with all of these interpretations. But depending on what you take to be the case, you're dealing either with an excellent or with a faulty character; depending on how you interpret the situation, you are looking at weakness or strength, something good or something bad. That's not to say that it is all just a function of what you think of it, that in itself actions are neither coward nor courageous and so on. They surely are. But since human interaction is so complex, and we cannot look into people's minds, there is a lot of uncertainty in judgments of this sort. And that uncertainty may easily be large enough to leave room for all those interpretations, different as they may be. (Again, this applies not only to what other people say and do; our own behavior isn't always transparent to us either, and we sometimes ask ourselves only later on precisely why we've reacted the way we did.) So there is no fool-proof method, or exact science, to distinguish between what looks like excellences of character and goods on the one hand and faults of character and bad (or indifferent) things on the other. Of course that doesn't mean at all that we shouldn't try; and since it is primarily a matter of a trained perception and a consistent view on what shows a good or bad character, on what's valuable and what isn't, on what is good and bad and what's indifferent — since it is primarily a matter of something that's up to us to develop and improve, we're responsible for doing so. It's not optional, merely a matter of taste or fancy. It is also in our own best interest: not being able to recognize bad behavior for what it is has obvious dangers.
It's not just that telling the good from the bad (or indifferent) is so difficult — it's also that most people, having the same difficulty themselves, misjudge, and then promote that error in judgment to others. You may realize, for example, that great wealth is nothing that makes one happy, or a good person; still in people's opinion, and that great magnifier, all those magazines, movies and websites that multiply people's opinion, the opposite will be claimed over and over again.
So one of the first steps must be to develop a critical sense and a scepticism about any opinions that aren't your own. Withhold judgment, don't rush into thinking of something as good or bad, especially not if the only reason to view it so would be that someone just has called it so. Rather, learn to take nothing as good or bad by default, and only accept those conclusions you've reached by your own powers of reasoning. Play the old 'Five Whys' game: 'He's a happy man.' — 'Why?' — 'He swims in money, he just won the lottery.' — 'Why's that good? Why does it make him happy?' — 'Well, having a lot of money is a condition for being happy.' — 'Why?' — 'Because you can buy whatever you like, you don't have to work that hard and endanger your health, you can have many more pleasures, and people will recognize and respect your higher status.' — 'Why is that sort of status recognition good for you?' — 'Because ... perhaps because it helps you to get even wealthier; or rather, because people take you as a successful person, having achieved such wealth; or maybe it's simply that it feels good to be adored a little.' — 'And why's that?' — Well, do you have an answer to this? At the very latest with the last 'Why?' question, it seems clear that at the bottom of such an ascription of happiness to someone with lots of money are questionable values. If everything comes down to being able to amass more of it, or to looking good in the eyes of the many (mostly on the basis that they know nothing about you save the fact that you are rich), then would you still think of this as an important good, something that makes your life happy? Drilling deeply into the reasoning behind common opinions helps to expose much of what we take for granted too easily often enough.
Children are notoriously good at the game of 'Whys'; many adults have dropped it somewhere along the way, perhaps because it can be so daunting. But half of it is not difficult at all: you just have to be obstinate and never stop before you've asked 'Why?' five times at least. What's difficult is the other half: finding the answers. (I've given only example answers of course, you'll have to find those which you take to be plausible yourself.) You'll notice that this is tough to get started with, since from our everyday experience, we're not used to ask that deeply for reasons.
But those reasons underlie our thinking, and our opinions, especially our views of what's good and what's bad (and what's neither, being either neutral or preferable at some times and not preferable at others, depending on circumstances). The answers to these questions are operative in what we do and feel, and thus we should be able to make them explicit in what we think as well. Don't be frustrated when it doesn't come easily at the beginning. It'll develop. The answers are there; what needs exercise is just your capacity to formulate them, to bring them out in the open.
One of the astonishing effects will be that your perceptiveness will greatly improve. You'll be able to tell cowardice from caution in the way people behave; you'll be less likely to mistake rashness or recklessness for courageous and decisive action; and you won't be fooled into taking flattery for friendship in the praise you receive from people. Take care.
It's not just that telling the good from the bad (or indifferent) is so difficult — it's also that most people, having the same difficulty themselves, misjudge, and then promote that error in judgment to others. You may realize, for example, that great wealth is nothing that makes one happy, or a good person; still in people's opinion, and that great magnifier, all those magazines, movies and websites that multiply people's opinion, the opposite will be claimed over and over again.
So one of the first steps must be to develop a critical sense and a scepticism about any opinions that aren't your own. Withhold judgment, don't rush into thinking of something as good or bad, especially not if the only reason to view it so would be that someone just has called it so. Rather, learn to take nothing as good or bad by default, and only accept those conclusions you've reached by your own powers of reasoning. Play the old 'Five Whys' game: 'He's a happy man.' — 'Why?' — 'He swims in money, he just won the lottery.' — 'Why's that good? Why does it make him happy?' — 'Well, having a lot of money is a condition for being happy.' — 'Why?' — 'Because you can buy whatever you like, you don't have to work that hard and endanger your health, you can have many more pleasures, and people will recognize and respect your higher status.' — 'Why is that sort of status recognition good for you?' — 'Because ... perhaps because it helps you to get even wealthier; or rather, because people take you as a successful person, having achieved such wealth; or maybe it's simply that it feels good to be adored a little.' — 'And why's that?' — Well, do you have an answer to this? At the very latest with the last 'Why?' question, it seems clear that at the bottom of such an ascription of happiness to someone with lots of money are questionable values. If everything comes down to being able to amass more of it, or to looking good in the eyes of the many (mostly on the basis that they know nothing about you save the fact that you are rich), then would you still think of this as an important good, something that makes your life happy? Drilling deeply into the reasoning behind common opinions helps to expose much of what we take for granted too easily often enough.
Children are notoriously good at the game of 'Whys'; many adults have dropped it somewhere along the way, perhaps because it can be so daunting. But half of it is not difficult at all: you just have to be obstinate and never stop before you've asked 'Why?' five times at least. What's difficult is the other half: finding the answers. (I've given only example answers of course, you'll have to find those which you take to be plausible yourself.) You'll notice that this is tough to get started with, since from our everyday experience, we're not used to ask that deeply for reasons.
But those reasons underlie our thinking, and our opinions, especially our views of what's good and what's bad (and what's neither, being either neutral or preferable at some times and not preferable at others, depending on circumstances). The answers to these questions are operative in what we do and feel, and thus we should be able to make them explicit in what we think as well. Don't be frustrated when it doesn't come easily at the beginning. It'll develop. The answers are there; what needs exercise is just your capacity to formulate them, to bring them out in the open.
One of the astonishing effects will be that your perceptiveness will greatly improve. You'll be able to tell cowardice from caution in the way people behave; you'll be less likely to mistake rashness or recklessness for courageous and decisive action; and you won't be fooled into taking flattery for friendship in the praise you receive from people. Take care.
Room for development
What we do, think and feel has been said to be preprogrammed by our genes, determined by blind fate or a watching divinity, imprinted by culture and society, moulded by our childhood experiences. I don't feel particularly compelled by such theories that tell me, in effect, that my choices, my ideas and convictions, are really driven by something (or someone) else. Are you convinced?
We have to make a fine distinction here. What those theories I've mentioned above have in common is the claim that we don't choose ourselves what to do, think or feel. But there are different ways to understand that claim. It could be meant that we are fully controlled by something else, that none of our actions actually comes from our own decision, that we always think and feel in a way that is determined externally (that is, outside of ourselves). On this extreme interpretation, there is nothing that we really could do to change ourselves, in order to act differently. In fact, according to this extreme view, even our wish to change is something that's preprogrammed, and so is whatever we try to do in order to fulfill it. (And of course, whether we succeed in changing thus is also already predetermined.) Our notion that we have choices and some freedom turns out to be an illusion.
There is a more nuanced interpretation, however: it might be claimed that we are only partly controlled externally, that some of our actions result from influences beyond our control, but others are really what we chose freely, that sometimes we are driven, but at other times we are the drivers. On this view, there are still strong influences on us; but it also acknowledges some room for exercising choice. In fact, nobody would really think that everything is under our own full control: we experience ourselves often enough to be somewhat influenced by factors outside ourselves. Our genes, childhood experiences and so on seem indeed to have some role in shaping our lives, and unless we start to counter that influence, obviously there won't be any change. But what the nuanced interpretation allows, and what the extreme interpretation does not allow, is that there is some room for development. We may be shaped by childhood experiences, but we can to some extent conquer that influence in our lives. The same applies to cultural patterns, and biological conditions. There may be limits, but there are possibilities as well, and it is within these possibilities that we can operate.
And how else could success in life be defined, if not precisely by how well you do within the area marked out so? For living successfully, it's relevant how much you make out of the possibilities. Where exactly the lines of constraint run does make some difference for what will happen in your life, but that's not the relevant one. What makes the relevant difference is whether you do act, within the area where you can change things, and whether you actually bring about that change. That's what is decisive for whether a life is successful or not. And of course, the extreme version of the claim that other things than our own choices drive our lives leaves no room at all for that sort of success.
There is another consideration that makes the extreme view unacceptable: What would it mean for you if it were actually true? What discernible difference in your life would it make whether your behavior is preprogrammed by your genes or not? I'd rather say that if there were any difference at all, it could result only from a difference in your actions, thoughts and feelings. If you started believing in being driven by mechanisms generated by the events of your early childhood, that would possibly change your behavior in some ways, and also your attitudes: would you be able to take other people as seriously as you do now when you come to think of them of automata controlled by their genes, their childhood experiences, or social role conventions, or some such thing? Start accepting the extreme view, and you'll probably begin to behave indifferently towards others, and indeed, towards reality. However convincing the rhetoric may sound (and some proponents of the extreme view use the pathos of science, or religion, to astonishing effects), accepting the claim under the extreme interpretation is not good for you — it's harmful: it will damage your relationships with the rest of the world.
And finally, subscribing to such a view, one that takes your responses to the world as something that you don't actually control yourself, would be a perfect excuse not to put any efforts into forming your character, improving yourself, wouldn't it? What point would there be in enhancing your ability to deliberate, to figure out what's the right thing to do, when the outcome will be what providence has prescribed anyway? Why should you try to build up better, more consistent beliefs when the truth is hidden behind veils of cultural constructs? And why should you educate your feelings when they're at any rate merely a cruelly blind repetition of the events in your early childhood? Thus accepting the extreme view is damaging not only in your behavior towards others, but even in your attitude towards yourself. Again, it's harmful: it leaves no room for development.
So when you think about influences on your decisions, be careful to be nuanced. Make sure that the view you accept includes room for development: of your own character, your relationships with others, and your success in leading your life. Take care.
We have to make a fine distinction here. What those theories I've mentioned above have in common is the claim that we don't choose ourselves what to do, think or feel. But there are different ways to understand that claim. It could be meant that we are fully controlled by something else, that none of our actions actually comes from our own decision, that we always think and feel in a way that is determined externally (that is, outside of ourselves). On this extreme interpretation, there is nothing that we really could do to change ourselves, in order to act differently. In fact, according to this extreme view, even our wish to change is something that's preprogrammed, and so is whatever we try to do in order to fulfill it. (And of course, whether we succeed in changing thus is also already predetermined.) Our notion that we have choices and some freedom turns out to be an illusion.
There is a more nuanced interpretation, however: it might be claimed that we are only partly controlled externally, that some of our actions result from influences beyond our control, but others are really what we chose freely, that sometimes we are driven, but at other times we are the drivers. On this view, there are still strong influences on us; but it also acknowledges some room for exercising choice. In fact, nobody would really think that everything is under our own full control: we experience ourselves often enough to be somewhat influenced by factors outside ourselves. Our genes, childhood experiences and so on seem indeed to have some role in shaping our lives, and unless we start to counter that influence, obviously there won't be any change. But what the nuanced interpretation allows, and what the extreme interpretation does not allow, is that there is some room for development. We may be shaped by childhood experiences, but we can to some extent conquer that influence in our lives. The same applies to cultural patterns, and biological conditions. There may be limits, but there are possibilities as well, and it is within these possibilities that we can operate.
And how else could success in life be defined, if not precisely by how well you do within the area marked out so? For living successfully, it's relevant how much you make out of the possibilities. Where exactly the lines of constraint run does make some difference for what will happen in your life, but that's not the relevant one. What makes the relevant difference is whether you do act, within the area where you can change things, and whether you actually bring about that change. That's what is decisive for whether a life is successful or not. And of course, the extreme version of the claim that other things than our own choices drive our lives leaves no room at all for that sort of success.
There is another consideration that makes the extreme view unacceptable: What would it mean for you if it were actually true? What discernible difference in your life would it make whether your behavior is preprogrammed by your genes or not? I'd rather say that if there were any difference at all, it could result only from a difference in your actions, thoughts and feelings. If you started believing in being driven by mechanisms generated by the events of your early childhood, that would possibly change your behavior in some ways, and also your attitudes: would you be able to take other people as seriously as you do now when you come to think of them of automata controlled by their genes, their childhood experiences, or social role conventions, or some such thing? Start accepting the extreme view, and you'll probably begin to behave indifferently towards others, and indeed, towards reality. However convincing the rhetoric may sound (and some proponents of the extreme view use the pathos of science, or religion, to astonishing effects), accepting the claim under the extreme interpretation is not good for you — it's harmful: it will damage your relationships with the rest of the world.
And finally, subscribing to such a view, one that takes your responses to the world as something that you don't actually control yourself, would be a perfect excuse not to put any efforts into forming your character, improving yourself, wouldn't it? What point would there be in enhancing your ability to deliberate, to figure out what's the right thing to do, when the outcome will be what providence has prescribed anyway? Why should you try to build up better, more consistent beliefs when the truth is hidden behind veils of cultural constructs? And why should you educate your feelings when they're at any rate merely a cruelly blind repetition of the events in your early childhood? Thus accepting the extreme view is damaging not only in your behavior towards others, but even in your attitude towards yourself. Again, it's harmful: it leaves no room for development.
So when you think about influences on your decisions, be careful to be nuanced. Make sure that the view you accept includes room for development: of your own character, your relationships with others, and your success in leading your life. Take care.
Having nothing to hide
Some of our actions, many of our thoughts, and most of our feelings remain unknown to anybody but ourselves. In some cases, this may be simple economy: unimportant as they are, nobody would be interested in them. Sometimes, perhaps, it's rather tactics: can you get something you want easier or more quickly if certain people don't have a clue about your intentions? Or it may be that you want to spare the feelings of others by keeping to yourself what you think or what you are about to do. And finally, sometimes your personal life needs protection from political or commercial exploitation, or just foul-minded individuals setting out to harm you. But even subtracting all that, a nagging suspicion remains that there is still more within that horizon which only you can cross, things you do only in private, thoughts you won't speak out loud, emotions you daren't express.
Just to avoid misunderstandings: we're not necessarily talking about severe matters here — there may be so many small things, things others wouldn't probably even notice (or invest much thought into to judge them). And yet you're hiding them, just in case — and perhaps because, if someone would look at them critically, you feel they'd be right. We hide things often not because there could be tangible consequences, but rather because we are ashamed of them ourselves.
Let's make a thought experiment: What would it mean to get them out into the open? What would happen? How would you have to change in order to be able to do so without fear (or shame)? Why is that so hard? (It is, no doubt. The reflex to hide is deeply entrenched in many of the ways our societies work. Not least because of this we admire honesty and openness so much in those who are capable of them.)
Part of the question is whether your actions, thoughts and feelings are in accordance with your values all the time. Is it sometimes that you'd rather hide them because they are not in harmony with the values you subscribe to? If, for example, you see consistency and integrity as important, and then find yourself acting (or even thinking or feeling) contrary to them, you may well feel an impulse not to admit even to yourself how weak your ability to stick to your values is. Another aspect is related to the views of others: is the higher or lower opinion that people might have of you a good enough reason to act in a given way? So do you hide actions sometimes not because they are inconsistent with your values, but because they're not compatible with what people think you should do, even if you don't agree to them, just to keep general opinion in your favor? And finally, is it sometimes so that you keep your thoughts to yourself merely because they might hinder your career if they became known to someone, or might cause you some material disadvantage?
On reflection, as you have certainly found, these motives I've just listed are questionable, especially the latter ones. Are money, reputation and career progress important enough to make you operate with two faces? Are integrity and justness, courage and perseverance, kindness and generosity, honesty and modesty — are these values that you have to hide whenever you encounter someone who thinks that wealth and pleasure, reputation and power rather are the things worth having? But even the first motive, not owning up to things you've done because they contradict your own goals, seems not sound when thought through to the bottom: if you're not willing to admit even to yourself such a divergence between what you've done and what you think you should have done, then how could you ever make progress in becoming more congruent there? And if you're willing to admit it to yourself, then what point would there be in hiding it from others? (Given that you've just agreed that catering to the opinions of others in itself is no good reason either.)
So shouldn't be the goal one along these lines: to develop a character such that none of your feelings, thoughts and actions are such that you would not want to admit them, be it to yourself or anyone; to be able to recognize, and own up to, situations where you still fall short of that goal — be it toward yourself or others; to live in a way that any of your doings might come out into the open, and be comfortable with it? Of course, that doesn't mean that you have to run around confessing whenever you think you haven't been at your best; and neither does it imply you should impose the details of everything you think and feel on anybody who wants to listen. But there shouldn't be anything among those details that you'd be ashamed of. Not getting everything out in the open may be all right, but the reason shouldn't be a desire to hide. The goal should be having nothing left that needs hiding. Take care.
Just to avoid misunderstandings: we're not necessarily talking about severe matters here — there may be so many small things, things others wouldn't probably even notice (or invest much thought into to judge them). And yet you're hiding them, just in case — and perhaps because, if someone would look at them critically, you feel they'd be right. We hide things often not because there could be tangible consequences, but rather because we are ashamed of them ourselves.
Let's make a thought experiment: What would it mean to get them out into the open? What would happen? How would you have to change in order to be able to do so without fear (or shame)? Why is that so hard? (It is, no doubt. The reflex to hide is deeply entrenched in many of the ways our societies work. Not least because of this we admire honesty and openness so much in those who are capable of them.)
Part of the question is whether your actions, thoughts and feelings are in accordance with your values all the time. Is it sometimes that you'd rather hide them because they are not in harmony with the values you subscribe to? If, for example, you see consistency and integrity as important, and then find yourself acting (or even thinking or feeling) contrary to them, you may well feel an impulse not to admit even to yourself how weak your ability to stick to your values is. Another aspect is related to the views of others: is the higher or lower opinion that people might have of you a good enough reason to act in a given way? So do you hide actions sometimes not because they are inconsistent with your values, but because they're not compatible with what people think you should do, even if you don't agree to them, just to keep general opinion in your favor? And finally, is it sometimes so that you keep your thoughts to yourself merely because they might hinder your career if they became known to someone, or might cause you some material disadvantage?
On reflection, as you have certainly found, these motives I've just listed are questionable, especially the latter ones. Are money, reputation and career progress important enough to make you operate with two faces? Are integrity and justness, courage and perseverance, kindness and generosity, honesty and modesty — are these values that you have to hide whenever you encounter someone who thinks that wealth and pleasure, reputation and power rather are the things worth having? But even the first motive, not owning up to things you've done because they contradict your own goals, seems not sound when thought through to the bottom: if you're not willing to admit even to yourself such a divergence between what you've done and what you think you should have done, then how could you ever make progress in becoming more congruent there? And if you're willing to admit it to yourself, then what point would there be in hiding it from others? (Given that you've just agreed that catering to the opinions of others in itself is no good reason either.)
So shouldn't be the goal one along these lines: to develop a character such that none of your feelings, thoughts and actions are such that you would not want to admit them, be it to yourself or anyone; to be able to recognize, and own up to, situations where you still fall short of that goal — be it toward yourself or others; to live in a way that any of your doings might come out into the open, and be comfortable with it? Of course, that doesn't mean that you have to run around confessing whenever you think you haven't been at your best; and neither does it imply you should impose the details of everything you think and feel on anybody who wants to listen. But there shouldn't be anything among those details that you'd be ashamed of. Not getting everything out in the open may be all right, but the reason shouldn't be a desire to hide. The goal should be having nothing left that needs hiding. Take care.
Arrogance
A disdainful behavior is not a sign of excellence — although those who exhibit it usually think (or hope) that this is what it is taken for. But there is no reason why anyone who speaks dismissively about others should be in the least better, just for the reason that he's able to criticize. (It's always easier to talk negatively than to be appreciative, anyway.) And badmouthing others (co-workers, neighbors, competitors) is a cheap and disgraceful tactics. As so often is the case with what we think, say and feel, it reveals more about those who do it than about those who it is about.
There are several things you might want to do with the stance I've suggested in the previous paragraph. (Apart from thinking it through, and questioning it, of course, which is something worth doing with any opinion you take in, always.)
One is to try it out in everyday life, be perceptive and observe closely how it actually plays out. There are plenty of occasions. When you enter into a conversation with your co-workers, notice what their first response is to what people tell them. Is it encouraging? Constructive? Does it show an interest in what the other has to say? Or is it dismissive, contemptuous, a knee-jerk throwing of objections and misgivings at everything that is proposed? (And scrutinize your own contributions for the same patterns; it's easy to forget in a conversation that you're a participant too, and that the tone is influenced by your words as well.) After you've identified some of the latter sort, watch who's got the upper hand. You'll be surprised how often it is the negative person who seems to have made a point, and the other who's on the defensive. That's why throwing criticism around is such a cheap, but often successful tactics. One doesn't really have to say something substantial, just be sufficiently aggressive, and then let the other one defend. One can easily appear to have only the best interests of everybody at heart, of course, since one is merely bringing objections to the table that should have been considered by anyone anyway. Yet certainly it's neither fair nor helpful when people behave that way, so that's the point at which you may ask what their real motives might be. And that's precisely to take the perspective I've suggested in the first paragraph. (On a side note: you'll possible also notice hat a negative style has a way of rubbing off on all involved — once somebody starts, others tend to follow, and the constructive substance of a discussion goes down in a spiral.)
A further possible response to the suggested attitude is to examine the reasons behind it: why is it that talking down the achievements of others, discrediting them, should be taken as signs of a lack of excellence rather than of excellence? In part, that's because an unfair and unhelpful behavior towards others indicates some faulty character qualities, and that doesn't speak for a person's overall excellence. There is, however, a deeper reason.
Arrogance can have many roots, but in almost all instances it expresses an attitude that hints at some incongruity between what someone perceives to be the case and what actually is the case. It displays a rift between what is behind our actions, thoughts and feelings on the one hand, and reality, the world with which we interact, about which we think and to which we respond affectively, on the other. Drifting away from reality is bad for you, and as far as arrogance discloses such a drift, in its diminished awareness of others, absence of appreciativeness, and above all, deficient self-awareness, it's a clear mark of a lack of excellence. Or, to put it the other way round: if you are striving for excellence, beware of arrogance in all its forms. Take care.
There are several things you might want to do with the stance I've suggested in the previous paragraph. (Apart from thinking it through, and questioning it, of course, which is something worth doing with any opinion you take in, always.)
One is to try it out in everyday life, be perceptive and observe closely how it actually plays out. There are plenty of occasions. When you enter into a conversation with your co-workers, notice what their first response is to what people tell them. Is it encouraging? Constructive? Does it show an interest in what the other has to say? Or is it dismissive, contemptuous, a knee-jerk throwing of objections and misgivings at everything that is proposed? (And scrutinize your own contributions for the same patterns; it's easy to forget in a conversation that you're a participant too, and that the tone is influenced by your words as well.) After you've identified some of the latter sort, watch who's got the upper hand. You'll be surprised how often it is the negative person who seems to have made a point, and the other who's on the defensive. That's why throwing criticism around is such a cheap, but often successful tactics. One doesn't really have to say something substantial, just be sufficiently aggressive, and then let the other one defend. One can easily appear to have only the best interests of everybody at heart, of course, since one is merely bringing objections to the table that should have been considered by anyone anyway. Yet certainly it's neither fair nor helpful when people behave that way, so that's the point at which you may ask what their real motives might be. And that's precisely to take the perspective I've suggested in the first paragraph. (On a side note: you'll possible also notice hat a negative style has a way of rubbing off on all involved — once somebody starts, others tend to follow, and the constructive substance of a discussion goes down in a spiral.)
A further possible response to the suggested attitude is to examine the reasons behind it: why is it that talking down the achievements of others, discrediting them, should be taken as signs of a lack of excellence rather than of excellence? In part, that's because an unfair and unhelpful behavior towards others indicates some faulty character qualities, and that doesn't speak for a person's overall excellence. There is, however, a deeper reason.
Arrogance can have many roots, but in almost all instances it expresses an attitude that hints at some incongruity between what someone perceives to be the case and what actually is the case. It displays a rift between what is behind our actions, thoughts and feelings on the one hand, and reality, the world with which we interact, about which we think and to which we respond affectively, on the other. Drifting away from reality is bad for you, and as far as arrogance discloses such a drift, in its diminished awareness of others, absence of appreciativeness, and above all, deficient self-awareness, it's a clear mark of a lack of excellence. Or, to put it the other way round: if you are striving for excellence, beware of arrogance in all its forms. Take care.
Admiration
On some occasions, our feelings towards something suggest a depth, a profoundness that is hard to describe, and possibly even harder to explain. (Perhaps explanations have to come to an end at points like this.) Such occasions can be of various sorts. Sometimes we are touched by the beauty of a piece of music, a work of art, or a bed of flowers; or the sublime spectacle of natural phenomena moves us: a grand landscape at sunrise, a violently raging thunderstorm, the boundless calm surface of a sleeping ocean.
Yet perhaps the deepest feelings in us are inspired by people and their qualities of character: their consistently fair and just behavior, their strength in enduring adverse conditions, their calmness in the midst of turmoil, courage in the face of risk and danger, and generosity even in uncertain times. And while feelings originating thus seem to have a certain quality in common with the more aesthetic experiences coming from encounters with physical beauty or natural spectacle, there is an extra dimension that can only spring from the specifically human excellence we find exemplified in them, and our response to it. In a word, what we feel towards the excellence of character in people we encounter is constituted in part by admiration.
Admiration itself is not a feeling — it's an attitude. It's not something that merely happens to you, it's something that you choose to exhibit. And in order to really be admiration, it must be expressed towards others; it's not enough that you privately experience it. Admiration is an activity, a chosen course of action. And, not surprisingly, I strongly recommend that you very carefully consider by which criteria you single out someone as worthy of your admiration. Whom you admire, and for what reasons, tells as much about yourself and your own values as it signals something to the admired person.
You can only admire what you value. (You may not be able yourself to do what you admire in others; but you must be aware of it, and you have to be convinced that it is of value. Otherwise whatever you feel isn't based on admiration.) So if you admire someone's courage, that presupposes that you think of courage as something worth having. If you feel great respect for someone who can remain composed and be fair even under pressure, that shows that you see value in that ability. But people consider a diversity of things as worth having, don't they? What about money? Would you think of someone as admirable because of their wealth? Be it that it came from lucky accident, heritage, or that person's own ability to amass it: we'd not take this as something admirable. For one thing, this should perhaps have us thinking about what the worth of wealth really is; and there is another aspect: we can admire only what a person has achieved herself — not something that happened to them by lucky accident, or was gained by gift or heritage. Really praiseworthy is only what is of stable value, what cannot be given or taken away by circumstances, doesn't depend on fortunate events: an excellence of character, consistent decent behavior, clear and honest thinking and appropriate feeling towards others and yourself.
On a side note: this means also that there is no point in hoping (or praying, if you are with some religious faith) for a good character (something that can be admired) — you have to achieve it yourself, and whether you do that doesn't depend on anything else but you. (If it did, again it wouldn't be something we could admire.) If there is anything that can produce this, make us admirable ourselves, then it is human spirit and the rational capacity in us — nothing else. Nothing from the outside will make one admirable; nothing should be admired that didn't come from within. Take care.
Yet perhaps the deepest feelings in us are inspired by people and their qualities of character: their consistently fair and just behavior, their strength in enduring adverse conditions, their calmness in the midst of turmoil, courage in the face of risk and danger, and generosity even in uncertain times. And while feelings originating thus seem to have a certain quality in common with the more aesthetic experiences coming from encounters with physical beauty or natural spectacle, there is an extra dimension that can only spring from the specifically human excellence we find exemplified in them, and our response to it. In a word, what we feel towards the excellence of character in people we encounter is constituted in part by admiration.
Admiration itself is not a feeling — it's an attitude. It's not something that merely happens to you, it's something that you choose to exhibit. And in order to really be admiration, it must be expressed towards others; it's not enough that you privately experience it. Admiration is an activity, a chosen course of action. And, not surprisingly, I strongly recommend that you very carefully consider by which criteria you single out someone as worthy of your admiration. Whom you admire, and for what reasons, tells as much about yourself and your own values as it signals something to the admired person.
You can only admire what you value. (You may not be able yourself to do what you admire in others; but you must be aware of it, and you have to be convinced that it is of value. Otherwise whatever you feel isn't based on admiration.) So if you admire someone's courage, that presupposes that you think of courage as something worth having. If you feel great respect for someone who can remain composed and be fair even under pressure, that shows that you see value in that ability. But people consider a diversity of things as worth having, don't they? What about money? Would you think of someone as admirable because of their wealth? Be it that it came from lucky accident, heritage, or that person's own ability to amass it: we'd not take this as something admirable. For one thing, this should perhaps have us thinking about what the worth of wealth really is; and there is another aspect: we can admire only what a person has achieved herself — not something that happened to them by lucky accident, or was gained by gift or heritage. Really praiseworthy is only what is of stable value, what cannot be given or taken away by circumstances, doesn't depend on fortunate events: an excellence of character, consistent decent behavior, clear and honest thinking and appropriate feeling towards others and yourself.
On a side note: this means also that there is no point in hoping (or praying, if you are with some religious faith) for a good character (something that can be admired) — you have to achieve it yourself, and whether you do that doesn't depend on anything else but you. (If it did, again it wouldn't be something we could admire.) If there is anything that can produce this, make us admirable ourselves, then it is human spirit and the rational capacity in us — nothing else. Nothing from the outside will make one admirable; nothing should be admired that didn't come from within. Take care.
Sort out your thoughts
Be structured and clear when you speak, and keep a well-measured pace, both for the benefit of your listeners and your own: you might run into the danger of talking faster than you can think.
Whoever listens to you wants to be able to follow and to understand. It's your responsibility to take care that they can. And they deserve it that you put some effort into it, if they are taking time and give their attention to what you have to tell. (That is especially so since good listeners have become rare and people are increasingly unable to concentrate and focus; if you are so lucky to have someone who is listening to you, you should well appreciate it.)
Sorting out your ideas is not just a matter of what you believe, or what you would say to yourself. It's not a matter of merely internally structuring your reasoning. It also depends on who it is you talk to. (So the same thing may have to be put differently to different audiences, and differently at different occasions.) Considering your audience nearly always improves your speaking: think about what they may know, what they may think, how they might respond. And it doesn't have to stop with the order of your thoughts, and the vocabulary. Sometimes you will have to be inventive conceptually, coin notions, devise images and metaphors. This way, the audience's listening reflects back on, and so enriches, your thought — this means that the more acute your awareness, and the more intense your responses to your listeners, the broader and deeper will be what you can gain for yourself.
Apart from the benefit that both you and your audience have when you sort out your thoughts, there is a deeper effect. Structured, meaningful conversation is valuable to us, and becomes more so with every instance in which we take part. There is something like a level of quality that a conversation can have, even though it is difficult to measure. The more excellent interactions you engage in (and the more excellent you make them by taking care to express yourself well and in an adequate way that connects with your partner in the interchange), the higher becomes the overall quality of discourse. Especially when philosophy comes into play, this should be a concern close to your heart. The way you discuss philosophical questions, and particularly ethical ones that relate to how one should live, should display a dedication to excellence, a striving for investing our lives with actions and feelings that have been solidified and refined by constant and honest reflection. Take care.
Whoever listens to you wants to be able to follow and to understand. It's your responsibility to take care that they can. And they deserve it that you put some effort into it, if they are taking time and give their attention to what you have to tell. (That is especially so since good listeners have become rare and people are increasingly unable to concentrate and focus; if you are so lucky to have someone who is listening to you, you should well appreciate it.)
Sorting out your ideas is not just a matter of what you believe, or what you would say to yourself. It's not a matter of merely internally structuring your reasoning. It also depends on who it is you talk to. (So the same thing may have to be put differently to different audiences, and differently at different occasions.) Considering your audience nearly always improves your speaking: think about what they may know, what they may think, how they might respond. And it doesn't have to stop with the order of your thoughts, and the vocabulary. Sometimes you will have to be inventive conceptually, coin notions, devise images and metaphors. This way, the audience's listening reflects back on, and so enriches, your thought — this means that the more acute your awareness, and the more intense your responses to your listeners, the broader and deeper will be what you can gain for yourself.
Apart from the benefit that both you and your audience have when you sort out your thoughts, there is a deeper effect. Structured, meaningful conversation is valuable to us, and becomes more so with every instance in which we take part. There is something like a level of quality that a conversation can have, even though it is difficult to measure. The more excellent interactions you engage in (and the more excellent you make them by taking care to express yourself well and in an adequate way that connects with your partner in the interchange), the higher becomes the overall quality of discourse. Especially when philosophy comes into play, this should be a concern close to your heart. The way you discuss philosophical questions, and particularly ethical ones that relate to how one should live, should display a dedication to excellence, a striving for investing our lives with actions and feelings that have been solidified and refined by constant and honest reflection. Take care.
Build on past insight (but make up your own mind)
Over the centuries, there have been entire traditions of philosophy, dedicated to excellence in thinking through things, searching for genuine insight in complicated matters, striving to accommodate results from empirical observation and to eliminate logical and conceptual mistakes. (Also, most of the natural and social sciences which are distinct subjects today have started historically as branches of philosophy.) To study their approaches and compare them with each other is rewarding in itself, even though it takes some time and discipline. It also gives you an idea of where to locate yourself and your views in the space of possible philosophical positions.
In philosophical traditions, such as Stoicism, thinkers have built on each other's work and advanced a coherent system of ideas, suggesting and scrutinizing solutions for problems and inconsistencies on the way. Sometimes elegant and comprehensive theories have evolved from this; sometimes internal tensions between fundamental assumptions have driven permanent re-combination and re-arrangement of elements into new wholes. You'll notice similar patterns in your own reflections. You may also find that you develop an affinity for a particular tradition or school of thought. (Be wary of affinities that were already there before you even started studying them, however. It's doubtful that these have originated from your own considered thought; more probably, they were suggested to you by others' opinion.) Or perhaps you're rather eclectic, picking up ideas from various sources; you can increase the richness of your background that way, of course, but there is also a higher risk of inconsistencies and gaps in it.
In any case, you should decide yourself what to think, however much it will be based on insight learned from others (or books). And it matters for what reasons you accept a view. Beware, for instance, of taking them on mere authority. Even the masters of the field have erred; more frequently, their view may be based on premises you wouldn't agree with; and generally, only an insight which you have reached yourself by thinking through a matter (guided by someone else or not) is a genuine and potentially stable insight: you don't really know what you merely believe because it is someone else's doctrine. A fruitful relationship to a philosophical view won't take the shape of blindly following the lead of a guru — it's rather one of critical examination. It's also a two-sided one: a philosophical position, even one out of a book by a long dead author, benefits from your efforts in trying to understand it, from your interpreting and discussing it with others. Just taking over views on faith does nothing for making them better understood. It merely adds a disciple; but excellence is not measured by counting devotees — it's a much clearer sign if critical minds have systematically reflected on a view and found good reasons to agree. Take care.
In philosophical traditions, such as Stoicism, thinkers have built on each other's work and advanced a coherent system of ideas, suggesting and scrutinizing solutions for problems and inconsistencies on the way. Sometimes elegant and comprehensive theories have evolved from this; sometimes internal tensions between fundamental assumptions have driven permanent re-combination and re-arrangement of elements into new wholes. You'll notice similar patterns in your own reflections. You may also find that you develop an affinity for a particular tradition or school of thought. (Be wary of affinities that were already there before you even started studying them, however. It's doubtful that these have originated from your own considered thought; more probably, they were suggested to you by others' opinion.) Or perhaps you're rather eclectic, picking up ideas from various sources; you can increase the richness of your background that way, of course, but there is also a higher risk of inconsistencies and gaps in it.
In any case, you should decide yourself what to think, however much it will be based on insight learned from others (or books). And it matters for what reasons you accept a view. Beware, for instance, of taking them on mere authority. Even the masters of the field have erred; more frequently, their view may be based on premises you wouldn't agree with; and generally, only an insight which you have reached yourself by thinking through a matter (guided by someone else or not) is a genuine and potentially stable insight: you don't really know what you merely believe because it is someone else's doctrine. A fruitful relationship to a philosophical view won't take the shape of blindly following the lead of a guru — it's rather one of critical examination. It's also a two-sided one: a philosophical position, even one out of a book by a long dead author, benefits from your efforts in trying to understand it, from your interpreting and discussing it with others. Just taking over views on faith does nothing for making them better understood. It merely adds a disciple; but excellence is not measured by counting devotees — it's a much clearer sign if critical minds have systematically reflected on a view and found good reasons to agree. Take care.
Philosophy as good advice
Philosophy has always been an art of conversation. Much of what we know about the thoughts of philosophers in the past we can only read in their books, but rarely have they lived purely reclusive lives, without any contact to others. At the very least they were engaged in a silent discourse with their predecessors; most had teachers, students and like-minded friends whose works they followed, and with whom they have discussed their own ideas; many had lively exchanges with the broader public. Philosophy in general, and reflection on ethical questions in particular, benefits greatly from honest and intense dialogue with those who share our estimation for it.
Especially in important matters, like how one should live, your ways of sharing your insights should reflect the insights themselves. If you think that you have gained by reflecting, then do respect the capacity for reflection in others: accept that they can, and will, think and decide for themselves. You may suggest and advise, but the choices are theirs.
There is more value in advising someone than in missionizing them — it simply shows more respect for the reason and intelligence of who you talk to. It still leaves it their decision what to think, and how to feel. (If, on the other hand, you try to decide for someone else, you attempt to take choices away from them. In a sense, you act to restrain, not to empower them.) And respecting their decision is not just more honest and helpful towards them: if you think about it, it is also more valuable for you. Partly that is because a considerate and respectful attitude towards others is in itself an honorable quality; partly it is because an inability to respect diverging views in others, even if you have good reason to believe them false, might indicate a questionable element in your own personality.
What does it mean if you find yourself hesitant to accept that someone thinks and feels differently than you do? Do you find a delight in getting others converted over to your own position? Do you see this as a game, or contest? Or is there a fear behind it, are you perhaps afraid that their differing views may influence you? An uncertainty may be at work here that you have about your own views, and possibly you should scrutinize them. You may have to correct them; perhaps add some qualifications, make them more nuanced; or you might confirm them, providing them with a firmer basis — in any case, you'll gain from the exercise, and you are better off having done it than you would have been if you'd just ignored your doubts.
If you find yourself compelled to press someone on a subject where you've given advice that hasn't stuck with them: ask yourself why it should be so important to you to change their mind. Take care.
Especially in important matters, like how one should live, your ways of sharing your insights should reflect the insights themselves. If you think that you have gained by reflecting, then do respect the capacity for reflection in others: accept that they can, and will, think and decide for themselves. You may suggest and advise, but the choices are theirs.
There is more value in advising someone than in missionizing them — it simply shows more respect for the reason and intelligence of who you talk to. It still leaves it their decision what to think, and how to feel. (If, on the other hand, you try to decide for someone else, you attempt to take choices away from them. In a sense, you act to restrain, not to empower them.) And respecting their decision is not just more honest and helpful towards them: if you think about it, it is also more valuable for you. Partly that is because a considerate and respectful attitude towards others is in itself an honorable quality; partly it is because an inability to respect diverging views in others, even if you have good reason to believe them false, might indicate a questionable element in your own personality.
What does it mean if you find yourself hesitant to accept that someone thinks and feels differently than you do? Do you find a delight in getting others converted over to your own position? Do you see this as a game, or contest? Or is there a fear behind it, are you perhaps afraid that their differing views may influence you? An uncertainty may be at work here that you have about your own views, and possibly you should scrutinize them. You may have to correct them; perhaps add some qualifications, make them more nuanced; or you might confirm them, providing them with a firmer basis — in any case, you'll gain from the exercise, and you are better off having done it than you would have been if you'd just ignored your doubts.
If you find yourself compelled to press someone on a subject where you've given advice that hasn't stuck with them: ask yourself why it should be so important to you to change their mind. Take care.
Being surprised at yourself
Sometimes I find myself being surprised at my own actions. It's not a good sign: after all, shouldn't I know myself well enough to be clear about what I'm doing, and why I'm doing it? And yet I frequently realize, immediately after saying something, or making a gesture towards somebody, that I've been acting from impulse, and certainly not an impulse that is in tune with my considered opinion. I look back and have to ask myself what's come over me just a second ago; it's revealing that more often than not, I even hesitate to honestly identify precisely what affect was behind my behavior (they're foolish enough to be ashamed of).
What's so bad about this is not only that it is irritating, experiencing yourself as acting differently than you think you'd act. It's also somewhat shameful: after all, these are still your actions, with all the responsibility that comes from them — you're not excused from the consequences of what you're doing just by saying: "Oh, I didn't mean to do that, it was just an impulse!" An impulse it may have been, but it was your impulse; you have to own up to what flows from it just the same.
And even more importantly: each time you are commanded by an affect you're not making the best out of your possibilities: you're letting weaknesses, bad habits, and external circumstances dictate where it should rather be yourself who is in charge. So you'd better train your reflexes to be in accord with your values and goals; your impulses should be shaped by what is the right thing to do in the situation; you should be motivated from what reflection tells you is the way to go. Take care.
What's so bad about this is not only that it is irritating, experiencing yourself as acting differently than you think you'd act. It's also somewhat shameful: after all, these are still your actions, with all the responsibility that comes from them — you're not excused from the consequences of what you're doing just by saying: "Oh, I didn't mean to do that, it was just an impulse!" An impulse it may have been, but it was your impulse; you have to own up to what flows from it just the same.
And even more importantly: each time you are commanded by an affect you're not making the best out of your possibilities: you're letting weaknesses, bad habits, and external circumstances dictate where it should rather be yourself who is in charge. So you'd better train your reflexes to be in accord with your values and goals; your impulses should be shaped by what is the right thing to do in the situation; you should be motivated from what reflection tells you is the way to go. Take care.
Character and fortune
Things happen. Some of them are initiated and controlled by ourselves, but others just happen. There may be pure chance involved, or the will and influence of someone else; we may be able to see it coming, or it may take us by surprise entirely; possibly we tried to counteract — and failed. The complexity of the world around us (in particular the many other people we deal with all the time) makes our lives unpredictable to some degree. No matter whether we believe that everything is chaotic, a random mess, subject to blind forces constantly colliding and bursting away from each other, or whether we think that there is a strict, deterministic formula by which all of this is unfolding, a would-be spectacle for those in possession of the means to understand the formula, but inscrutable and overwhelmingly perplexing for us: we have no way to be in control of the many things that just happen.
There is one thing, however, which is within the range our powers, and always so: your character doesn't have to be a plaything of the accidents in your life. True, much of it has been molded by events in previous years, key experiences may have formed it much without asking your permission. And what's happened can't be made undone. But at no point you'll be obliged to accept a character thus shaped by influences outside your informed decisions. You can change your character; and there are ways to improve it even against deeply ingrained faults and weaknesses. The future doesn't have to be the same as the past. Fortune has no jurisdiction where your reasoned, conscious will takes charge. Take care.
There is one thing, however, which is within the range our powers, and always so: your character doesn't have to be a plaything of the accidents in your life. True, much of it has been molded by events in previous years, key experiences may have formed it much without asking your permission. And what's happened can't be made undone. But at no point you'll be obliged to accept a character thus shaped by influences outside your informed decisions. You can change your character; and there are ways to improve it even against deeply ingrained faults and weaknesses. The future doesn't have to be the same as the past. Fortune has no jurisdiction where your reasoned, conscious will takes charge. Take care.
Welcome reality checks
Do you remember those situations when you were in a dark room and had to grope your way through it, only vaguely sensing where you are, perhaps not even really knowing the right way? And have you noticed how weird it feels when you suddenly realize that you are much closer to the wall than you have assumed for some time? The sudden reality check has an irritating quality, and perhaps that's why we have a slight dislike for it, although it actually is helpful in getting us closer to our goal.
Perhaps you were surprised (I certainly was), when you started reflecting systematically, how quickly and how frequently we can get out of touch with the actual facts in the world. It can happen in many ways: we can fall for foolish hopes and opinions; what we take in about our situation can be colored by false emotions (such as anger and fear); and the ever going autopilot drives us along a path that may have been right once, but isn't so anymore (hasn't been for a while). And here, too, there are reality checks. You can avoid some of them, but not many, and not for a long time.
Why should it be so important to keep connected to reality in what we do, think or feel? Couldn't it be, quite to the contrary, that a few little deceptions would rather help and encourage us, leave us feeling happier, making it easier in general to decide how to act and what to believe? True, we'd go wrong from time to time, but that may be little price to pay for a generally more pervasive (albeit misguided) positive feeling.
Possibly; but it's not principally the balance of pleasure over pain that makes a life good. A life should have a coherent structure, a goal and direction, one or more threads that run through it and hold it all together. There are always more important things to consider than just how you feel at some given moment. And running out of sync with reality puts that life story at a severe risk, not least because it damages your character. Also, accepting delusion in yourself (because it makes it easier for you) would imply that it may be right, under some circumstances, to delude others as well, in order to make it easier for them, to spare them the little nasty tickle of confrontation with reality. And both when you're doing that to yourself and when you're doing it to others, the distancing from reality has a self-reinforcing effect — one lie breeds other lies, one foolish hope leads to another, and giving false emotions free reign only makes them stronger and increases our proclivities to get entangled in them. So we should welcome, even seek out reality checks in what we are doing: a life out of touch with reality is not worth living. Take care.
Perhaps you were surprised (I certainly was), when you started reflecting systematically, how quickly and how frequently we can get out of touch with the actual facts in the world. It can happen in many ways: we can fall for foolish hopes and opinions; what we take in about our situation can be colored by false emotions (such as anger and fear); and the ever going autopilot drives us along a path that may have been right once, but isn't so anymore (hasn't been for a while). And here, too, there are reality checks. You can avoid some of them, but not many, and not for a long time.
Why should it be so important to keep connected to reality in what we do, think or feel? Couldn't it be, quite to the contrary, that a few little deceptions would rather help and encourage us, leave us feeling happier, making it easier in general to decide how to act and what to believe? True, we'd go wrong from time to time, but that may be little price to pay for a generally more pervasive (albeit misguided) positive feeling.
Possibly; but it's not principally the balance of pleasure over pain that makes a life good. A life should have a coherent structure, a goal and direction, one or more threads that run through it and hold it all together. There are always more important things to consider than just how you feel at some given moment. And running out of sync with reality puts that life story at a severe risk, not least because it damages your character. Also, accepting delusion in yourself (because it makes it easier for you) would imply that it may be right, under some circumstances, to delude others as well, in order to make it easier for them, to spare them the little nasty tickle of confrontation with reality. And both when you're doing that to yourself and when you're doing it to others, the distancing from reality has a self-reinforcing effect — one lie breeds other lies, one foolish hope leads to another, and giving false emotions free reign only makes them stronger and increases our proclivities to get entangled in them. So we should welcome, even seek out reality checks in what we are doing: a life out of touch with reality is not worth living. Take care.
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