Cynicism (16/30)

Thirty essays in thirty days, number sixteen

In perhaps my favorite work of fiction, Bonfire of the Vanities, Tom Wolfe calls cynicism “a cowardly form of superiority.” He wrote that in 1987—about twenty years before Twitter. 

Now, in the digital age, cynicism—along with its cousins, detachment and irony—has become a ubiquitous signal for status and intelligence. It’s equated with being informed, perceptive. Oh, this guy can rattle off everything that’s wrong with the world and has consequently given up? Yeah, he gets it.

This is bizarre, because cynicism is actually quite lazy. It’s impotent. It requires no intelligence or unique ability. It is the easiest possible response to crisis, to roll over and submit. The dead leaves in my backyard would make great cynics.

It’s much harder to give a shit.

One of my subscribers, upon learning through a work project about the grim prospects of climate change, became deeply disheartened. Her response? To embark on an “absolutely huge, stupidly challenging project.” She and her husband found a giant block of land on a remote island and are revegetating it by hand-planting thousands of trees and bulbs. Their plan is to use half of the block to provide a safe haven for the native animals and the other half to set up a permaculture-based farm.

This is the kind of energy I want to be around, to confer status upon. It requires a life force—a vitality. For true intelligence and perceptiveness is not to simply be aware of the problem; it is to be resourceful, willful, and brave enough to do something about it.