As I make my way through this rambling indie drama called life, it becomes increasingly clear to me that I don’t know shit about shit. Here I am, practically middle-aged, and I still can’t distinguish between my flabby white ass and a hole in the ground. Frustrating, that.
And so I read, compulsively, you might almost say desperately, hoping to pick up some wisdom on the cheap. Which is incredibly dumb. Books are written by, and for, clever buggers, and being clever with words doesn’t make you wise: just take a look at the biography of any great writer. At best, books can only bring out, through some quasi-Platonic midwifery, what was already obscurely present in us. The rest is just factoids.
For what it’s worth, On Flirtation articulated a bunch of stuff I sort of already knew, but didn’t know that I knew. I’d describe it as self-help for people who think they’re too smart for self-help. The author, Adam Phillips, is a practicing psychoanalyst and an honest-to-goodness Freudian (how quaint is that?) But his is a groovy, pragmatic Freudianism: in effect, he’s saying, “Hey, I have no idea how much of this shit is “true”, but I find it pretty persuasive, and it helps me make sense of the chaos of existence. Maybe it can help you too.” An engaging line of argument, I think, and if you objected that the same claims could be made for astrology or Christian Science, he’d probably shrug, take another toke and say, “Yeppers.”
Whatever your thoughts on Freud—and I’m agnostic myself—you’ll find some smart obsevations in here—not super-profound observations, mind you, but good, sensible ones, elegantly expressed. Here he is on success: “People can go to remarkable lengths to avert the catastrophe of their own success.” (I now have a new excuse.) He’s even better, or just more sobering, on love:
...The fluency of ‘idealization’…is replaced by the haltings of ambivalence. After all the excitement, there are the revelations of dismay. Frustration is the aura of the real.
Frustration is the aura of the real. Who can’t relate to that?
I’m not wise, not by a long shot, but I have this idea that wisdom must be melancholy. Not joyless, not bitter, just melancholy. Even if Freud was wrong about everything else, I sense that his tragic view of life was fundamentally right. He recognized that we’re all wounded, all incurable, and that being human is a chronic condition. You can treat it, you can manage it, but good luck getting over it.