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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

Attitude

What we're striving for is not something that can be given (or taken away). It's something that you can only take — it's a form of attitude. It is up to you, and you alone, to adopt and keep it. And while there may be no easy way to form your character into one that can do it, while you should expect that only constant work and effort will hold it up even once you've achieved it, something heartening is in that insight, too: just put your mind to it, become determined to get there, and you have made the first step already. It's a substantial step. If you got there, you've taken that attitude for the first time. And you can make it all the way. Take care.

Reflect systematically

Systematic reflection and study of philosophy, the views of the masters of the field, will help you to improve the way you're leading your life. But it's not primarily rules and recipes you are looking looking for. Good philosophy, and reflection, won't give you a prescription directly for how to act or feel in a given situation, although they certainly shape your ability to figure out such things. More importantly, and more fundamentally, they'll give you a background of insights — an extensive, coherent, reliable web of views and attitudes, attuning you to appropriate feelings, guiding you towards effective actions and coherent beliefs.

How does one get there? Skimming philosophical (and other insightful) writings for outstanding quotes that stir some feeling of depth is not a good strategy. Even if insights sometimes are crystallized in a slogan, be wary of those. Good thought can't rest in aphorisms alone (however well-known the name of the author next to it may be). It gets its strength out of careful, systematic coverage of the whole subject, a set of methodically connected elements, put together consistently and elegantly.

Sometimes philosophers sum up insights in pointed and memorable formulations. These can of course only really be understood after working through the arguments and explanations that precede them — they are summaries helpful mainly for keeping the main points in mind when the discussion moves on. So they are just a kind of shortcut, a summary that needs unpacking. Those who have worked through the topic that is summarized so know how to unpack them; but without investing that effort, your understanding remains incomplete and shallow. (That doesn't apply only to this particular sort of knowledge: being able to recite a physicist's formula and actually using it to predict the movements of a physical body are two very different sorts of thing.) What's worse: you're also deceived about your own progress. Being able to quote some catchy one-liners is not yet the same as having the insights expressed in them, even if the one-liners seem plausible to you.

If you're serious about reflection, and philosophy, they way to go is via systematic study. The rewards are plenty, but it takes effort and determination. It also takes courage: you will quickly find that even a long tradition of clever people hasn't so far exhausted all the paths of thinking through things. What those aphorisms mentioned earlier, in their overt well-roundedness and terseness, hide from view is that there still are many questions, more than there are answers, and that your own reflective insight is at least as helpful and important as that which has already been found and written down centuries ago. Take care.

Living longer

Desires are always desires for something — normally something you currently don't have (or don't have enough of, in your view). What you desire is also something that you value, that you think is good for you, that is worth having. You can desire something even when you know you can't get it; but you never desire something you do not really want. A case in point is the desire for a longer life. It is very common, but that doesn't make it sensible, of course. And that, in turn, throws a dubious light on the supposed value of living longer.

The trouble is: when you are in a situation where you desire a longer life, it is typically very late already. You're looking back on a stretch of your life time that you now think should have been different; you'd now like to rewind to its beginning, and relive it. If you were satisfied with your life so far, you wouldn't want to have any time from it back for living through it again, and differently.

You might want to object to this: it does seem conceivable for someone to look back fully satisfied onto their past life, not wanting to change a single day of it, feeling that it was the best life they could possibly have had — and simply want it to go on, fulfilling as it has been so far. What could be even better than being able to look back on a fulfilled life, if not looking at a future that will be equally fulfilling for quite some further time (instead of being over sometime soon)?

Imagine someone who has dedicated his life to experiencing as many pleasures as possible, an adventurer in life style, a lover of good meals, pleasant places, exciting company, a hunter of the most exquisite tastes, a collector of beauty, a connoisseur of the joys of life. Would not someone who has arranged his entire life around this goal, and successfully, wouldn't someone like that plausibly just wish to be able to experience it for some more time? Wouldn't the most plausible desire in that situation be to be able to continue with it?

I don't think so. In part, that is because pleasures aren't infinite — they can't be prolonged indefinitely without loss of intensity and attraction. (This applies both to single episodes of pleasant experience and series' of tasting the same kind of pleasure again and again.) Part of what makes pleasures appealing, especially those of the sensual type, that is, the pleasures of food, drink or sex, is the charm of the new, the allure of the unknown, the surprise factor. But once you've had them, and had them twice, thrice, and often, they quickly lose much of their attractiveness and become stale, gray and heavily in need of replacement, or some supplement of new stimulants.

Increasing the intensity may help for a while, but the potential of this move is equally constrained. At the latest, when biological limits come into play even the most pleasant feeling can tip over and transform into pain or disgust at what has been sweet and agreeable just before. (It's not by accident that the heroes of the aesthetic life are inevitably pictured as ending in ennui and disgust with their surroundings after pursuing it too long, and too exclusively. And that is not to mention the physical exhaustion and damaged health that tend to come with it as well.)

Partly, then, the life of pleasure is not of the sort that one will likely wish to go on with — quite the contrary. Since it arises out of neediness and the longing for ever more and higher intensity, it is virtually guaranteed to end in deep dissatisfaction. The painful craving for the new and the stronger will increase up to the point where it can't be stilled any more. (And neither, at that time, can there be any viable path back to a modest level.) More generally, something very similar goes for lives that center around the striving for money, fame or power.

Partly, also, someone who has aimed all his life for things which depend as heavily on good fortune and a favorable environment as pleasure, wealth or celebrity would have to admit to himself that he must have been lucky to the extreme if he can say that he was even mostly successful with it. We all know only too well how unreliable the circumstances of our lives normally are, and it's really unlikely that, in the real world, anybody can enjoy the best of luck for most of his time. If someone actually did look back on a long, lucky life with not even a distraction by the accidents that usually happen, the least thing on his mind would be the expectation that this extraordinary exemption could be prolonged for another extended period, tempting fate just further.

If it isn't for the prolongation of a misdirected life built on the pursuit of external things, what motives could one have for desiring to live longer, to get some more time? Except for the short phases in our lives when we actually know how long we still have (such as in cases of terminal illness, or more generally when we get to the point where we feel that our last moment has arrived), it seems not even a coherent idea. Consider: "I don't know how long I still have; maybe decades, maybe just a couple of years, or I might even die tomorrow in a car crash — but however long it is, I wish I had six months more." That doesn't make any sense.

People may have such a desire at the end of an unsuccessful life. Looking back, it may seem to them that they still have unfinished business, that they haven't reached their goals, that there are mistakes to be corrected, bad deeds to be rectified. But how realistic is that? If what has gone wrong was due to external circumstances, then once more: Why do you suppose a few additional months or years wouldn't just give you more of the same? Chances are mostly against you. You behave like a compulsive gambler, standing at the roulette table, after having lost everything, and just trying to extract some loan from a friend. "I just need a few more tries, I'm so close..." (evidently, you aren't). On the other hand, if the failures in your past were of your own making, if you have made the wrong choices, taken bad decisions, indulged your weaknesses too much and too often, then again: you had so many chances already to become better in leading a life. Why didn't you? You knew from the beginning there wouldn't be a second take, you knew there was only one life, you knew it had to end some day. If you hadn't ignored all that studiously as long as you could, your standing would be much better now. Your chance was then; but now it is gone.

From all this it seems that the desire for a longer life, widespread though it may be, invariably emerges from a misguided approach to leading one's life. The question remains, then, if and how those who do it right, and do it well, will be free of that desire. I think it must be so. Living a good life is not something that scales with its length: it won't become better just by taking longer; nor is there anything to fear about its end, whenever it comes. Take care.

What's in a wish

The world is full of well-meant wishes. We receive them from our parents and children, our lovers and friends, from our colleagues and from distant relatives. What they wish is normally something they deem good for us (although they may sometimes not expect us to also see the goodness in question — sometimes people know better, or think they know better, than ourselves what is good for us). And there are wishes of the opposite kind: those for something bad to happen to us. You can tell your enemies from what ills they hope your future will have in store for you. (Strictly speaking, there is a third sort of wishes: the kind that isn't really advantageous for you, but rather for the person who does the wishing. But even though they have the formal structure of wishing something, these are really a form of manipulation rather than genuine wishes. Let's not consider them here.)

If the content of a wish, that which is wished to someone, is either a good or a bad thing in the view of the wisher, then those wishes show us much about what people think is good for us, or bad. They do not tell us, however, what really is good or bad for us. How could they? They're just a mirror of people's opinions. (And the most common cause for those are yet other opinions; even in cases where at the end of such a transmission through many heads there was a genuine insight once, that's most likely been watered down, distorted, and connected with many wrong ideas on the path on which it was passed on.)

So what should we make of those commonly wished things: a long life, a successful career, beauty and fame, influence and power, status and wealth? If they are what people's wish implies, then they must be good for us. And likewise: death and disease, failure and poverty — are they then as bad for us as our enemies's ill wishes would mean?

All these wishes are for something uncertain and unstable, their fulfillment depending on accident, on people's whims and prejudices — but rarely on yourself. What's worse, they turn out to lead onto the wrong track often enough. Have you never met one of those unfortunate enough to have sacrificed everything for their career, only to realize how much their loved ones mattered to them when it was too late? Have you never seen the bitter remorse of someone who destroyed his integrity for the all-overriding goal of being at the pinnacle — of getting the top job, making the front page, beating them all and be champion? Whatever it was, it's highly probable that it was once the content of some benevolent wishes; repeated often enough, it came to look like a real good, something worth achieving, something precious, more valuable than anything else. That was what it seemed to be. (And it's not just the sirens of friendly wishes; we're just as prone to take the furies of enemy wishes to mean too much to us. The path away from fearful things can become as treacherous as the path towards questionable goods.)

Curiously enough, it's rarely that people include such things as a good character, successful relationships, and insight in the nature of things with their good wishes. If nothing else makes us suspicious, this should. (Suspicious of the goodness of what's in their wishes, of course; not suspicious of your friends. They certainly do not intend to harm you; but we can honor their intention to wish something that is good even when we understand that, contrary to what they think, it isn't.)

As so often, you better trust in your own judgment, your considered thought, when trying to figure out what in fact is good and what is bad. Don't take received opinion for granted, even when it flows from the good intentions of your loved ones. Take care.

Dying

Sometimes, when we want to help someone to find into a reflective mode, we ask questions such as: "If you knew you had only three weeks more to live, what would you do?". Of course, this is not about what people actually plan for their last days in life (who would have that sort of a plan?) — it's rather intended to encourage them to reflect on what is really important to them. The assumption is that, with only a few weeks more to go, they will get clear about their real priorities, and no longer spend any of that precious time on anything but that which matters most to them. (And thinking a step further, having found an answer to that question, they might realize that the same applies to the last year, or the last decade of their life, and in the end, they should treat the entire rest of their time that they still have left in the same way: figure out their real priorities and pursue them, and nothing else.)

Thinking about our own death has this power to forcefully remind us that we only have a limited stretch of time, and so it can help us concentrating our minds on finding the best possible way of living. There are many stories of people for whom a close encounter with death has changed, and focused, their lives: an accident they barely survived, a dangerous illness that left them hovering in uncertainty whether they would die from it for a time, the untimely death of a close friend or relative. These episodes make a deep fact about us more vivid than theoretical considerations could. They blast away the illusion that we often build (supported by many social habits that ensure that we don't reflect much on these things): that we are safe, at least for now; that we still have time, much time; that we may ignore the awful fact about ourselves — that our turn will come, and possibly sooner rather than later. Even the events in these stories, however, leave different paths open to people. Some of them revert soon to the old illusion; some, the more admirable of them, don't, and apply the lesson they have learned to the remainder of their life.

But then, there comes a moment when all the additional paths are shut down, one by one — there is a final stretch of time in all our lives when death is imminent, and inevitable. For some, it arrives quickly and as a surprise, in the middle of some activity; for others, it approaches quite predictably with old age, and usually with many frailties of the body. In any case, for everyone, there is a phase of dying in our lives.

Although people sometimes reflect on the possibility of their death, few seem to think about dying. (If they do, that's usually dominated by fears; and even those fears are probably less concerned with dying itself but rather with the pain that may be involved.) A bad sign is it when people even at that time suppress all thought of death. Trying to continue life as usual, anxiously avoiding all occasions for thinking about one's last moments, displaying studied outward lack of concern — in fact they surrender to an illusion. And how could living under an illusion be a good thing, in fact, how could choosing to live under an illusion be a wise choice? If in all the other phases of your life the best attitude is one of constant reflection, of actively shaping the developments in your world, then must this not also apply to this particular stage? Deceiving yourself about what remains in store for you would be the opposite of everything you might have achieved in your efforts to live a good life; now of all times you abandon your will to be in charge, and leave yourself over to cheap self-deception?

Being able to think and talk about death in this last period of one's life is a sign of strength of character, and courage. It's certainly not easy; living well is particularly hard during that phase. It is probably no exaggeration to say that this needs life-long preparation: part of this preparation is the continuous effort to reflect, and navigate your life as optimally as possible (under whichever circumstances you encounter); another part is getting clear about the nature of death, and its meaning for us as beings whose time is limited. Only so you can build the ability to endure those final moments calmly and serenely. The way you're dying will tell a lot about the way you have lived your life. Take care.

Don't waste your good advice

Giving advice can be a good thing. I say that it can be, but not that it always is, because it actually isn't in all instances a good thing. There must be a genuine interest in the other person, a clear intention of helping them to achieve their goals; for your advice to be good it is required that you have taken some time to listen to them, have made an effort to understand them, have ascertained that you really have something to say, that indeed you have the competence to help. Otherwise, how could you be sure that what looks like well-meant mentoring isn't rather an attempt to use the other person for promoting your own purposes, or that you aren't just talking because you like to hear your own words?

Even from this brief reflection on what makes giving advice to others a good thing it is plain that this is an activity, something we engage in: we exercise our own personality in doing so. (As compared to handing out something, some 'wisdom stuff', as if it had been lying around in the attic until somebody came and collected it; advice is no ready-made stuff at all, it's constituted only by your active involvement.) Consider this parallel: when I give a book as a present, I do so only when I have read the book myself (and found it worthwhile), and more importantly, when I have satisfied myself that this particular book would be of interest and value to the person whom I'm giving it — after all, trusting my choice, they will spend a considerable amount of time reading it, and perhaps invest some thought or emotion in it. So I'd better not be thoughtless about what I choose: just giving them something that I've glanced at quickly at the bookstore and liked the cover is out of the question. And my choices tell something about me as well: they express my views about the receiver, and what I think may be valuable and interesting for them. (We inevitably expose a little bit of our own self at these occasions, which requires some trust, don't you think? Think about what that tells you about people whose presents show no thoughtfulness at all, presents they might have given to anyone, and quite possibly have done so, time and again.)

Even when it doesn't cost you a lot, you should carefully consider whom, and how often, you do give advice. By this I don't mean one should engage in horsetrading: it's not that you should give your advice only if you get something in return. And in general I don't think we should be selective: whether you help others should not depend on who they are; advice should not be misused as an instrument to promote some and disadvantage others. If you use your help selectively like that, then you do merely treat it as an instrument. (And as I have explained, the way you dispense advice reflects on your own character: not too well, in this case.) So I'm not saying you should give good advice only to your friends and family, but not to strangers, on account of it being a scarce resource. (Because it isn't.)

But there is a point at which you may suspend, even abandon your giving advice — and that's when you realize that you are talking to deaf ears. Advising someone is an interaction, it degenerates when there is no response; and so degenerates your ability to engage in it; that ability needs the constant feedback from the recipients. If there is no response, and you still continue over and over again to try to help, this will in the end blunt your skill in giving good advice.

The response I mean is not necessarily that they follow your recommendations. They may think it over and decide not to — and that's fine. It is not necessary that the person you counsel always does what you advise them to do, always thinks what you suggest they should think. So whether they follow your advice is up to them; it's their responsibility, and it's their decision. There's a difference between advising and missionizing. And there are good reasons to put some trust in their reason as well as in your own. Another matter, though, is whether they listen to, and appreciate your recommendations. If that's not happening, you better stop giving them. Take care.

Losing control

What about those people who claim that they "like to lose control" (or, in a variant, "enjoy being at the edge of losing control")? Sometimes one can be carried away by an emotion (like anger), an activity (e.g. involving sex, or dangerous situations), or a physiological stimulant (such as drink or drugs). How can something like this be valued, or even seem to be of value? What could be attractive in these episodes where one is being swept out of control?

What feels pleasant about this experience, I think, is a certain sense of relief, or escape — from the task of deciding what to think and how to act, from the responsibility of bringing your activities in harmony with your goals, in short: from your own self. What makes it even more attractive is that you are nonetheless acutely aware of what happens; as compared to sleeping, for example, you are still consciously experiencing what is going on, how it feels, even how it may affect others near you. But you are not strictly yourself anymore: although in a sense you are still responsible for what you do, the whole point of not being in control is that things take care of themselves (for better or worse), that it is no longer you who is in charge even of your own behavior, let alone developments in general.

But what sort of a participant makes that you? Not one who can be trusted, being pushed around by something else as you are; not one who is in touch with reality, since you have temporarily subscribed to the illusion of exemption from responsibility for your beliefs, feelings and actions; not one who can claim credit for anything beneficial that might emerge from the events. The only thing you get out of the whole affair is a transitory psychological state of questionable significance.

Of course, whole world views have been formulated that assign a rather deep importance to it: the experience of losing control to stronger forces puts your own being in perspective, it demonstrates to you how small and powerless you actually are, how meaningless all your striving really is within that vast, cold and inhospitable universe into which we all are thrown. And of course, if you are one of those rare people who can endure that glimpse of insight in the real proportions of your own significance, that is a distinction rather than a sign of weakness. Or so the theory goes.

But what is this if not an attempt to invoke high-flown language to exculpate an indulgence: it's always easier to lose yourself than change yourself; it's easier to escape for a while to where you don't have to face the fact that it's your actions that have made you what you are; it's easier to believe that the sensations you are fed make your life well-lived than to define and achieve your goals yourself. A fondness for the experience of losing control is a weakness of character.

Losing control is not the same as taking risks. Risks can be known and calculated in advance, and there doesn't have to be anything uncontrolled in a high-risk activity. Of course, to the extent an activity is risky, it is not in one's control — that is the very meaning of a risk. But when properly managed, the possible losses and dangers resulting from the risk are taken into account and accepted, normally because they are offset by the benefits that might be gained from the situation. Deliberately taking risks is precisely not a case of losing control — if anything, it is a more controlled way of dealing with things than simply not factoring in any risk in one's expectations. Some people may tend to take higher risks than others, but if they choose to do so because of greater opportunities, that's a specific way of exercising choice, and on that level, they are actually very much in control.

True enough, it is not always possible to be fully in control — we all know it isn't; in some cases it can be unreasonable, even downright self-destructive, to obsessively cling to the desire to keep in charge — sometimes we simply can't. We all have to learn to cope with these situations (and with our retrospective realizing what has happened, our experiencing us as acting in away against, or despite, ourselves). But there is a difference between accepting them and embracing them, between being able to endure them and actively seeking and enjoying them.

Enjoying to lose control, then, is a character fault. On the other side of the spectrum, being afraid of losing control seems to be faulty as well. This is not, of course, because losing control is after all not such a bad thing. Rather, it is because fearing something that should be up to you anyway is unwise. If it is up to you to keep in control, then you should do so — what would be the point of being afraid then? If you have reason to expect you won't be in control in some future situation, then you should think about how to avoid this, if at all possible, or else you must accept it. There seems to be no point at which fearing the future situation looks as if it may contribute anything useful. Take care.

Stability and value

The really valuable things in our lives, such as friendship, love, and integrity of character, cannot be bought. And while that may be a platitude, it's worth reflecting on why it should be so. That they cannot be bought means that you can't get them in exchange for something else, like money, favorable behavior to someone, or pleasure; there cannot be such a deal, because the latter things are not equivalent, they're not nearly as valuable. And why are they? Perhaps because they can expire, or be taken away from you; they will get stale, and at any time, they are at some risk. (They can also expose you to risk, by awakening envy and hatred in others who lust after them.) And look at it the other way round: you wouldn't sell anything that has true value for something like money or fame. (Would you give away the lives or the happiness of your children for wealth or celebrity?)

Some things you can only achieve yourself. That's why they are so valuable: once you have achieved them, you know exactly what you have in them, they don't depend on anything, or anyone, but yourself. And again, these cannot be compared to (or exchanged with) other, external goods, precisely because they don't have that kind of value: they're transient, unreliable, and at risk.

You can delegate tasks that are expected of you; you can hire people who can do things you can't (sing at your parties, sort out your tax paperwork, find you a nice apartment, ...); you can buy many pleasures. But you can't delegate forming your character; you can't hire someone to make sense of your life for you (or perhaps you can, but then how would you know it is really for your own good, and not his?); you can't buy the joy that comes only from acting well — and knowing, feeling that you do so. Take care.

Be straightforward with yourself (and in good time)

Yes, I have suggested more than once that you carefully reflect — take your whole life into view, from the beginning to the end, think about what sort of person you want to be, and how this would have to show in the way you are living. Is it all how it should be? Are you doing what you can to improve it? It doesn't matter what you tell me, of course. You have to satisfy yourself that you are doing well. Are you doing well?

Remember, it won't do to try and fool yourself — all that will just lose you time, precious time. When your final moment comes, you won't believe it anymore, even if you do now. You will simply see through your own devices of deception (nobody else knows how to do that as well as you do). And it'll be too late then to change. Take care.