In one of Jean-Paul Sartre’s seminal works; Nausea, the main protagonist; an historian by the name of Roquentin, goes through the disquieting experience of the world becoming too real for him. In the novel, the world gradually becomes more and more imposing, as if the reality is breaking through his will; his ability to impose his meaning on it. It is as though reality is fighting back and rejecting the definitions and rules he and those around him use to engage with it.
There’s a scene where he looks at a seat on a tram and he can’t make sense of it. He says the word ‘seat’ to himself, but the word won’t tame and allow the thing that is before him to be a seat. He has similar experiences with tree roots. Roquentin can’t remember what a tree root is and realises their knotted appearance is quite frightening.
In another amazing work; Sapiens, by Yuval Noah Harare, Yuval goes to great lengths to explain how the structures in our societies are all stories we have bought into, stories with almost universal acceptance which are purported to help us operate in the world. He uses money as an example to explain this observation. A bank note, a rectangle of polymer or cotton material with pictures on it, is valuable thanks only to the conviction we have that it is. The acceptance of this story means we can safely exchange bank notes with little intrinsic value for goods and services. And if those stories behind those convictions are eroded then the value of a currency, that rectangle of plastic or cotton, diminishes. Which also speaks volumes about the value of companies and their shares.
And these stories and our will to impose meaning on the world have become so powerful that we have made them the world. The world we live in and in which we operate has become more about the story than reality. Our lives have become roles within the stories dictated to by our context. We play roles at work, within our families, with our friends, when we walk down the street, when we take our kids to the park, to school. The roles we play in these stories become who we are, they become our stories and define our identities
And the stories have layers, a depth of subtexts that is almost opaque; it becomes difficult to see reality, the world, through these interweaving tales. Take money, again, as an example. The stories we tell ourselves around money go far deeper than just, ‘it is worth something’. However, because it is worth something it is far more entrenched and woven into the fabric of so many other stories we use to explain the world and our role in it.
Here are a few of the stories I carry with me about money:
- I need it to survive
- I work for it to provide for myself and my family
- It’s a symbol of success and power
- To not have it is to have failed in life
- More is better
- I need money to have a good home
- I need money to lead a good life
- It can make me happy
And on and on it goes. And each of these stories attach themselves to the dollar note I have in my hands, a number I see on the screen on my phone or an ATM slip. They even attach themselves to a number I see on a lottery poster at my local news agent. And eventually money is nothing more than a number, my number. A number that I have an overwhelming urge to make grow ever larger. And then it isn’t about money anymore, despite my telling myself it is. The layers grow so thick that eventually it’s about who I am as a person, about how others see me, about how I see myself.
And every once in a while I feel what Roquentin feels. A disassociation from everything, a glimpse behind the curtain, and I realise it is all a farce, a pretense which we don’t know how to discuss as humans, or as society. Because, discussing it makes us realise that it is all just air; meaningless stories that we all reinforce for ourselves and one another. We are members of a church that is all encompassing, and we help one another, unknowingly, to not stray, to not probe too deeply, to not speak out too loudly. To accept.
On the other side is the reality that our lives are insignificant. Existence is absurd. While many find this idea depressing, there is also a liberation in knowing that this is it, you can make of life what you will. If you don’t care for the stories, fuck ’em, write your own. You live one, totally random, small, insignificant, and incredibly rare life. Live your life. Leave a legacy, or don’t. Do things, or don’t. Be rich, be poor, or don’t worry about it. Be happy, but don’t feel obliged to be. Make up your own stories. Lead a good life, or squander it. But whatever your do, fucking choose for yourself. It is YOUR life. Don’t let other’s stories choose who you are. You have a choice, make it.
And when the world around you butts up against reality, and the stories melt away and the real world reveals itself in all its grotesque and absurd nakedness, ask yourself; “who’s story am I living?”
Love this Gerrit. Beautifully articulated.