Will Self’s arguments for pessimism in New Statesman are less convincing than they are persuasive. Built from a sum of personal reflection, experience, and received wisdom, they amount to a best practice guide for how to live a life. And like all such guides, they raise their value only by standing above their competitors’ faults. But because it is Will Self writing the jeremiad and not some lesser, perhaps more bitter and inhumane dissector of the human spirit, it amounts to pleasure reading. Here is a taste.
It is this consumerist ethic – if it can be so glorified – that has eaten away at any remaining semblance of altruism, its chomping in synchrony with the optimistic belief in the power of the market to unite mouths efficiently with jam. And this also explains why all political parties and charitable organisations now aspire to the form of commercial enterprises, complete with marketing departments and tax breaks for donations. Implicit in all of these activities, whether ostensibly dedicated to social welfare or to capital aggregation, is a utilitarian calculus. The nature of the good – or goods – may be disputed, but the conviction remains that it can be factually accounted for and numerically arrived at.
Yet to live a full life is not to cede such a large percentage of it to a purely statistical perspective; such a life – to borrow the title of Céline’s novel – is merely death on the instalment plan. And it is the optimist, paradoxically, who enforces such a life on the generality of humankind with her plea that we look to a better future.
I have, as you have probably realised, a good deal of sympathy for that apocalyptic tendency that led Spanish anarchists to burn the town hall records and string up the priest. But I don’t think we have to resort to such excesses in order to reclaim the primacy of the here, the now and the individual over the insistent compulsions of the there, the then and the collective. All that’s necessary is to expect the worst but live hopefully, if by “living hopefully” is meant to invest the present in the raiment of all the idealism any of us could wish for – to practise, in the telling phrase of Basho, the Japanese Zen poet, “random acts of senseless generosity”.
We do not arrive at any idea of what is best for the collective unless we are prepared to seize the day and practise it on our own behalf. Most mature individuals understand what this means in respect of themselves – it’s just all those feckless others that they don’t trust to act appropriately. And so, by one means or another, they seek to organise society in such a way as to corral the human kine and herd them towards pastures new. But really, the sweet-smelling grass is beneath our hoofs right now: what is required is that we take pleasure in what is available to us. …