On Self-Respect Pt. 5
Continuing this series - today it’s Joe Carlsmith’s On Sincerity, a concept that I’ve realized is very closely connected to my (largely Didionian) understanding of self-respect:
What is it to play pretend with yourself? Perhaps one knows the feeling. We live buoyed and cowed, guided and coerced, by our own stories – and such stories bleed over into the stories that other people tell, too. So it’s natural to try to tell harder, to ourselves, the stories we like more; or that others will like more; or that the others told us to tell.
Maybe, for example, you’re started campaigning to save the whales. Is that because you want to save the whales? That’s what the campaign says on the tin. And that’s what you say to yourself, too, when you ask yourself, which maybe you don’t, often. But maybe, actually, you mostly joined the campaign because it’s high status in the world of this example — though joining for this reason, unfortunately, isn’t. Good thing that’s not your reason.
Or maybe you go live as a solitary monk in the mountains, telling yourself that you are seeking the face of the Ultimate. In fact, you are fleeing the face of your mother, and the embarrassment of having a hard time finding a job. Or perhaps you are interested, merely, in the role of “monk”; the aesthetic of the robe and candles; the holier-than-thou. And let’s say that a part of you knows this, but keeps pushing it under the rug. No one else is watching, here. But you’re performing nonetheless.
…
Indeed, falling out of sincerity, for me, is closely associated with a feeling that I can’t quite look myself in the eye; like there’s some fog or fakeness or shame or something twisted up in my motivations and reasoning. And sometimes this is because I’m being driven, in part, by some background agenda that isn’t quite announcing itself and joining the conversation openly, and which doesn’t expect to get endorsed, or made space for, if it does.
All that said, “not playing pretend with yourself” doesn’t seem like it captures all of sincerity, either. Often, for example, I can see the relevant “background agenda” pretty clearly: it’s right there, definitely doing its thing. I’m not lying to myself about that – or even, necessarily, looking away. My internal narrative seems fairly accurate. It’s just that the agenda is too attention-grabby and twisted up in things to get held in perspective, or integrated into a balanced and wholehearted decision. And this feels like it messes with sincerity regardless.
Sometimes this comes up for me with writing, for example. Why does one write? “Sheer egoism” is the first on Orwell’s list of motives. “Desire to seem clever, to be talked about, to be remembered after death … It is humbug to pretend that this is not a motive, and a strong one.” Humbug, indeed. And yet, to perceive clearly egoism in one’s writing, even as one writes, is neither to banish it, nor – I think – to render one’s writing sincere. To see fog is not to see through it. Even now, this essay is full of fog (forgive me). So too is my life as a whole. I can feel it, and acknowledge it, and wish it away – and then get pulled right back in. Introspection – even when accurate – is not enough.
Not being able to look yourself in the eye — isn’t that what Didion called alienation from self?
Querying our motives regularly, in such a way as to find these hidden points of discomfort, seems like a useful habit (albeit a delicate one, demanding we treat ourselves with care).
We likely don’t have to look far to find these hidden agendas — they’re probably not so hidden at all, despite our best efforts. And, at the very least, admitting them might lead to some loosening up, accepting ourselves as the imperfect and often self-interested creatures we’ve always been.