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CHAPTER XIV
THE HIDDEN GODS OF CYNICISM
The fool hath said in his heart, There is no God. - Psalm 14:1
According to the Bible, life confronts every man and nation with a decisive either/or: choose the true God, and live; or choose a false god, and perish. There remains one final device by which men have sought to escape this choice. It is cynicism, the attempt to avoid entanglement with the fickle gods of idealism by espousing none at all. It generally takes the form of a frank policy of selfishness and expedience. When this alternative is refuted, the last link in the biblical argument will have been completed.
If the biblical analysis is correct, a thoroughgoing self-centeredness is impossible. Man cannot make himself the sole center of his own life. His freedom necessarily relates him to something beyond himself. The proper diagram of even the most selfish life is therefore not a closed circle but an ellipse with two centers, representing the false god around which the individual makes his orbit. Theologians have not always expressed this as clearly as a contemporary lay author, who writes:
There is even in the most selfish passion a large element of self-abnegation. It is startling to realize that what we call extreme self-seeking is actually self-renunciation. The miser, health addict, glory chaser and their like are not far behind the selfless in the exercise of self-sacrifice. Every extreme attitude is a flight from the self.1
If this were more widely recognized, Christianity would not make the mistake of championing “selflessness” as the highest good. It could only be so if self-centeredness were the worst evil. But since self-centeredness is not even possible for a free agent, the Christian conception of good is not the meaningless goal of “selflessness” but the abandonment of every false god for the true one.
An examination of cynicism reveals exactly what the biblical analysis would lead one to expect. Every cynic turns out to be a covert idealist, in the sense that he does gravitate toward some standard outside himself as the criterion of his decision. Moreover, no matter
1Eric Hoffer, The Passionate State of Mind (New York: Harper and Brothers, 1955), as reported in Time magazine, March 14, 1955, p. 114.
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how different his particular standard is from those of other men, the cynic cannot consistently speak or think of it without calling it “good.” In his heart of hearts he really believes that although not commonly recognized as such, or perhaps precisely because of this, it is a “better” good than the conventional standards of the average man. In fact, the real motive power behind his apparent lawlessness is generally some hidden virtue. Most often it is the virtue of honesty. Perceiving the hypocrisy of the idealist, he fancies his own disillusioned outlook to be truer to the facts of life. The Communist’s self-righteous contempt for “bourgeois idealism” is a familiar illustration. The zeal behind his fanatical denunciations is derived from the hypnotic power of his own “higher” ideal. His counterpart in the history of philosophy is Friedrich Nietzsche. He named his heartless hero after Zoroaster because he stood for “the truth” against the deceit and pretension of the moralist. Another of the cynic’s secret virtues may be kindness. Perceiving the vindictiveness with which the pharisee feeds upon the shortcomings of others, he often professes contempt for all morality whatever. Despite his effort at concealment, this kind of cynic turns out to be a sheep in wolf’s clothing. In the moment of crisis it may be he who puts into practice what the moralist is content to preach. Of the countless literary expressions of this theme none surpasses the example of Sydney Carton.
The refutation of the cynic thus requires two steps: the exposure of both his hidden ideal and of the self-deceit in which it involves him.
THE REBEL
Perhaps the hardiest garden variety of cynicism is the glorification of rebellion and iconoclasm for their own sake. Man’s true greatness, it claims, lies in the consistent defiance of whatever law or custom happens to prevail at the moment. In continental Europe this adolescent psychology has been developed into a full-fledged philosophy, propounded in the last century by men like Michael Bakunin and in our own by Albert Camus in his recent book, The Rebel.
The hidden ideal which pulls the strings of this sophisticated vandalism is not far to seek. It is the liberty and integrity of the individual. It is beneath the dignity of man, so runs the argument, to submit to any externally imposed pattern. Bakunin, for example, for all his revolutionary nihilism, was at the same time a transparent
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idealist. The destruction which he demanded was a prelude to the flowering of a “more perfect” society of liberty and equality.
Whenever an idol persuades its worshiper to advocate rebellion for its own sake, his betrayal is accomplished. He becomes the victim of an upside-down legalism. The rebel’s bondage to the law of nonconformity is quite as real as the legalist’s subservience to established norms. The pride with which he negates every “finite” attainment is quite as offensive as the moralist’s self-righteousness. Having undertaken rebellion as the only way of preserving his freedom, he becomes thereby a manacled member of the wrecking crew.
SEX
A second familiar form of cynicism is the unprincipled pursuit of sex for its own sake. In Germany, where it has achieved official literary endorsement, the obsession with sex is called the cultivation of “das ewige Weibliches,” the “eternal feminine principle.” It is personified by the legendary figure, Don Juan. In his tone poem of this name Richard Strauss quite frankly describes his ambition as the mortification of individuals in the name of the species.2
Yet the cult of sex is not so cynical as it sounds. Although it does mortify individuals, it does so in the service of a supposedly “loftier” ideal: the “eternal.” In the words of a recent best seller, woman is a groined archway into the infinite. The word “infinite,” of course, gives the case away. It is part of the standard terminology of idealist religion. Owing precisely to its sublime, “spiritual” connotation, it proves in operation one of the most mischievous of fictions. It over rides any “merely finite” considerations. For who has the right to resist the hypnotic call of “the Infinite” (uttered in a wide-eyed stage whisper)? The famous mystery religions of Graeco-Roman times were dedicated to this seductive ideal. In many of their cultic rituals a conspicuous role was played by sex.
History abounds with proof that the worship of this god is self-defeating. The French moving picture La Ronde is simply an aesthetic meditation on this subject. Contrary to what the hue and cry about censorship would lead the public to believe, it is a poignant expose of the futility of the pursuit of sex for its own sake. The New York Times
2See Frederick Niecks, Program Music in the Last Four Centuries (London: Novello and Company, Ltd., 1906), p. 499.
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critic Bosley Crowther discerned the real point of the film when he wrote:
“La Ronde” is emphatic about one thing: that is the bleak futility of any substantial satisfaction from an adventure in illicit love . . . . For those who would seek excitement in wanton and clandestine amours, pleasure is flimsy and fleeting . . . the mental build-up of expectation is pure illusion and nothing more.3
The purport of the picture is nevertheless not the Christian but the tragic view of life. Its theme is that everyone is destined to be continually duped by the anticipated satisfaction of an experience which regularly turns to ashes in the moment of its achievement. Life is a merry-go-round of successive disenchantments. Its only compensation is the disillusioned smile of those who at least know that they are the victims of a mocking fate. When laughter is at one’s own expense, far more prudent to join in than to be the unwitting butt of a bad joke.
Perennial testimony by high priests of the religion of sex bears out the Christian analysis. The Byrons and Stendhals frankly confess to a diminishing capacity for sensual enjoyment. In the end many of them admit a fundamental antipathy to women. Some are so frank as to grant that their primary satisfaction lay, not in the consummation of their conquest, but in the subtleties of deception and seduction which preceded. The psychology of this kind of idolatry receives penetrating literary treatment in Sören Kierkegaard’s Diary of the Seducer.4 It is described in the following terms by a contemporary psychotherapist:
It is an axiom in psychiatry that a plurality of direct sexual outlets indicates the opposite of what it is popularly assumed to indicate. Dividing the sexual interest into several objectives diminishes the total sexual gratification, and men whose need for love drives them to the risks and efforts necessary to maintain sexual relations with more than one woman show a deficiency rather than an excess in their masculine capacities .... Don Juanism is another familiar pattern in which the seducing, disappointing, and abandoning of women leaves no doubt of the hostility felt for them. Promiscuity is a symptom, whether in men or in women, of an essential inability to find deep satisfaction anywhere. Such persons do not love their sexual objects; they seek rather to conquer them or to destroy them. What is often described in such moralistic terms as selfishness or caddishness or faithlessness is from a psychological standpoint unexplained by such terms. It is rather a relative “malelessness.” Such men
3See the New York Times, March 21, 1954, section 2, p.1.
4Sören Kierkegaard, Either/Or, Vol. I, translated by D. F. Swenson and Lilian M. Swenson ( Princeton University Press, 1946).
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are constantly trying to prove to themselves and sometimes to others that they are as masculine as their inner voices tell them they are not.5
A Christian would raise the further possibility, as Kierkegaard does, that Don Juan’s impotence may be quite as much the result of his obsession as the cause. Thus is another of the greatest gifts of God to man destroyed when made ultimate.
MONEY
Another form of cynicism, one requiring no illustration in our day, is the glorification of money. Although at first glance many people do seem to cherish it for its own sake, it is never really an end in itself. Money is power, and power in any form is sought only for what it can do. If a man were doomed to permanent exile on a desert island, he would waste no love on money. It is only a means to some other end, such as prestige, or security, or “gracious living.”
None of these things is bad in itself. But, when made the central focus of a man’s whole existence, they exhibit the same duplicity as any other false god. Their favorite stratagem is to encourage the illusion that they can be bought. Once persuaded of this, the worshiper busily invests financial transactions with the solemnity of a religious ritual. As a contemporary social analyst comments:
Money is officially coined mana. Whether they realize it or not, its users are participating in a religious observance. Whoever observes a modern bank with its Doric columns and high marble halls, whoever notices the ceremonious demeanor of teller and patron, can scarcely avoid the feeling that a cultic ritual is being performed.6
The disillusionments of this kind of idolatry are only too well known. The worshiper may have intended his devotion to money to be only temporary, a provisional means to a worthier end. By the time he is ready to begin enjoying his wealth the modern Midas discovers too late that the things he really wants are not for sale. First, the kind of prestige money will buy can never compensate for the gnawing discontent with which he regards himself. This explains the pathetic act of self-humiliation in which the totalitarian dictator gives himself away. Notwithstanding his unlimited power over men, he
5Karl Menninger, Love Against Hate (New York: Harcourt Brace and Co., 1942), pp. 59, 72f.
6Th. Bovet, Die Angst vor dem Lebendigen Gott (Bern: Verlag Paul Haupt, 1948), p. 34. My translation.
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stoops to the level of bribing school children to compose lyrics of love and gratitude to their benevolent protector. Second, the kind of security which money provides is precisely the kind which moth and rust corrupt, which thieves can break in and steal. The rich, not the poor, are the principal victims of robbery and kidnaping. Finally, in a luxuriously appointed residence the “gracious living” which the idolater seeks may be all the more conspicuous by its absence. Its prime prerequisites are positive, joyous human relations. Without these, attractive furnishings only cry out for somebody who knows how to use and enjoy them. This accounts for the perplexed dismay of the prosperous citizen who has dutifully taken orders and accepted promises from the almighty dollar. The secret of gracious living has been withheld from him and vouchsafed to less comfortable homes. Thus hath God chosen the weak things of the world to confound the things which are mighty (1 Cor. 1:27)
DESPAIR
Finally, it remains to discuss one of the most predatory of current idolatries, the cult of despair. It has gained a foothold in nearly every facet of contemporary life, whether literature, painting, politics, philosophy, or even theology. It is symbolized by the title of jean Paul Sartre’s novel Nausea; intellectualized by the “abyss of nothingness” which existentialist philosophers conjure up by a clever exploitation of emotional language; and summarized in the following terms by George Grosz. Explaining one of his own works, the picture of a painter confronting a canvas with a large hole in it, he says: “This painter once believed in something, but now he paints only a hole, without meaning, without anything - nothing but nothingness, the nothingness of our time.”7
Like other expressions of cynicism, the cult of despair gains plausibility by appealing to two ideals, honesty and courage. This twofold appeal is illustrated by the following passage from a contemporary author:
Existentialism, that is the great art, literature, and philosophy of the twentieth century, reveal (sic) the courage to face things as they are and to express the anxiety of meaninglessness. It is creative courage which appears in the creative expressions of despair . . . . Modern art is not
7Reported in Time magazine, January 25, 1954, p. 90.
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propaganda but revelation. It shows that the reality of our existence is as it is.8
Adherents of this cult become convinced of their unflinching honesty by implying that no meaning in life can be detected without rose colored glasses. Only the pessimist is the true realist. They persuade themselves of their superior courage by hinting that their opponents lack the nerve to face up to the grim facts.
This, like nearly every error, is parasitic upon the truth. The grain of truth which it distorts is the fact that if God, his words and his acts, are subtracted from reality, the remainder is quite as bleak, and the plight of man quite as desperate, as the existentialist contends. This is precisely what one would expect. A God who was worthy of the name could not be ignored with impunity. The issue is one of fact: can he be disregarded consistently with the principles of intelligent inquiry, or not? Instead of examining the question on its merits, the existentialist will not tolerate the slightest suggestion that life may be meaningful.
This must be one of the devil’s favorite idolatries. At least its self-defeat is accomplished with singular dispatch. The claim of honesty is refuted by the despair-monger’s reaction to counterargument. Instead of troubling to refute it he employs a short cut. He simply implies that it is a cowardly (or “bourgeois” or “superficial”) device for evading the grim truth. Whenever questions of true-or-false are resolved by resort to epithet, the claim of honesty is forfeit. If there were a meaning in life, the existentialist would never be able to discover it. He has prejudged the case with his own peculiar version of “ideology of conscience.”
What ulterior motive prevents him from inquiring honestly into the question? The answer is not far to seek. His claim to courage would collapse if life were meaningful. In order to make the claim plausible, he must picture himself as in a constant state of anguish at the gruesome character of existence, yet bravely refusing to hide it from himself by any comforting myth. His game has been perfectly analyzed and succinctly expressed by Macaulay in his essay on Byron:
Year after year, and month after month, he [Byron] continued to repeat that to be wretched is the destiny of all; that to be eminently wretched is the destiny of the eminent . . . His principal heroes are men who have arrived by different roads at the same goal of despair, who are sick of
8Paul Tillich, The Courage to Be (Yale University Press, 1952), pp. 143, 147.
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life, who are at war with society, who are supported in their anguish only by an unconquerable pride resembling that of Prometheus on the rock; whose heart had been withered, whose capacity for happiness was gone, . . . but whose invincible spirit dared the worst that could befall . . . here or hereafter.9
If reality is not so horrible as Byron pretends, then he at once ceases to be a tragic figure and becomes comic. In actual fact he is comic in any case. For he has never bothered to find out what reality is like. His is an imaginary world, invented to fulfill his desire to play the hero. He thereby betrays himself into the hand of the ironic nemesis which awaits every idolater. For it is he who turns out to be the wishful thinker! Beneath all the fine words about honesty and courage he finds a perverse satisfaction in the “romantic agony.” In the writings of our modern Cassandras it is quite evident that they could not bear to be deprived of their hothouse gloom. They revel in the repulsive, vie with each other in conjuring up disgusting imagery, and rejoice at the least indication of human frustration. If they discover these things where the rest of the world does not, this only convinces them of their superior sensitivity. Gerard Manley Hopkins has perceived the hidden gratification behind this show of martyrdom and coined the appropriate term for it: “carrion comfort.”10
Earlier writers, less afflicted with the messianic complex, have sometimes acknowledged despondency to be a form of self-indulgence. Burton’s The Anatomy of Melancholy contains an acute analysis of this phenomenon. It was illustrated in the last century by the fashion among romantic poets of composing odes to melancholy in the spirit of Leigh Hunt’s couplet:
Mirth is deceit, and laughter folly,
Bliss wafts the sigh of Melancholy.11
Admissions like this expose the claim to courage as an affectation. The cultivation of despair is really a means of avoiding all risk. As Helmut Kuhn has said of existentialism, it seeks to become immune to crisis by embracing crisis. This is simply a sophisticated version of the slang aphorism, “If you can’t beat ‘em, join ‘em:’ The vaunted
9T. B. Macaulay, Essays (New York: D. Appleton and Co., 1860), p. 127.
10Gerard Manley Hopkins, “Carrion Comfort,” in Poems of Gerard Manley Hopkins (New York: Oxford University Press, 1948), p. 106.
11Leigh Hunt, “Melancholy,” in The Poetical Works of Leigh Hunt, edited by H. S. Milford (Oxford University Press, 1923), p. 737
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courage of the ancient Stoics is subject to the same criticism. Their pessimistic outlook on life was deliberately contrived in order to insure against any possible disappointment. Epictetus admits this:
The good man can suffer no defeat. Of course, for he engages in no contest where he is not superior . . . . You can be invincible, if you never enter on a contest where victory is not in your power.12
Far from being courageous, such an attitude betrays an excessive preoccupation with one’s own security. It is at bottom the fear of fear. The following comment by Harry and Bonaro Overstreet unmasks its pretension and reduces it to proper proportions:
What an individual feels impelled to say about himself is often, indeed, a good practical clue to his state of ill-being or well-being. Thus, when a nine- or ten-year-old boy boasts stridently, “I’m not scared of anybody or anything!” the perceptive adult knows the boy is scared. Otherwise his mind would not be on the subject of whether or not he was scared.13
Thus does the false god once again lead its worshiper into a trap. When courage is made absolute it drives its devotee to invent despair without regard to reality. It thereby catches him in the very wishful thinking he had set out to avoid.
AND GOD SAW THAT IT WAS GOOD
The foregoing analysis suggests the formula: scratch a cynic and you find an idealist. His more “realistic” goals are simply the bait with which some standard of goodness lures him. Like the acknowledged idealist, he too is rewarded with the opposite of what he wants. Enough has already been said to distinguish this process from the “tragic view of life.” One further misunderstanding remains to be dispelled.
The present chapter might suggest that since money, sex, and the criticism of rigid moralism all serve to decoy men into futility, then they should resolutely be forsworn. This is the perennial doctrine of contempt for all worldly things. The Stoic Marcus Aurelius expresses it as follows:
The rottenness of the matter which is the foundation of everything! Water, dust, bones, filth: or again, marble rock, the callosities of the
12Epictetus, Discourses, Book III, Chapter 6; The Manual of Epictetus, Aphorism 19.
13H. and B. Overstreet, op. cit., p. 52.
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earth; and gold and silver, the sediment; and garments, only bits of hair; and purple dye, blood; and everything else is of the same kind.14
Such a view is utterly irreconcilable with the biblical conception of the goodness of creation. All the good things of life were intended by God for man’s use and enjoyment. Only when they become ends in themselves, or when they are put to the service of wrong ends, are they destructive. The Christian therefore emphatically does not renounce any material object, any temporal activity, simply on the ground that it is “worldly.” For him “worldly” is a positive, not a pejorative, word. He renounces it only if he cannot use it constructively. And when this does happen it reflects on him, not upon the thing he gives up.
Not money, but the love of money, is the “root of all evil.” Conversely, not poverty, but the right of use of money, is a great good. Christianity, as an all-or-nothing religion, is willing to wager that money will continue to be responsible for evil until it is subordinated to the love of God. The same is true of sex. It should not surprise the Christian if sex only made men happy when blessed by God. History certainly suggests that it otherwise makes them wretched. And, finally, the rebel’s complaint against legalism might also be expected to miscarry when independently conducted. Without the Christian alternative it becomes sheer destructiveness. The only live alternative to legalism is agape. The whole point, of course, has been much more succinctly and eloquently expressed: “Seek ye first his kingdom, and his righteousness, and all these things shall be added unto you.” (Matthew 6:33.)
14Marcus Aurelius, Meditations, IX, par. 36.