The Pretense

“Happy families are all alike; every unhappy family is unhappy in its own way.”

Leo Tolstoy, Anna Karenina,

This is that kind of sentence that we are encouraged to come up with as an initial line to a story.  It is the sort of thing that hooks the reader and makes him wish to read on.  Tolstoy needed such a sentence for a long novel, one about Aristocrats, hypocrisy and infidelity.  It was the sentence that not only hooked me in the story, but hooked me to the study of Ethics.

I always thought that the “beautiful people,” who seemed to have everything go their way, are those who are described in the protasis of Tolstoy’s sentence.  At least they seem happy.  But... that’s it isn’t it – they seem happy.  They often go through a great deal of effort to seem, and hide the reality.  When I first encountered the difference between being and seeming, I thought of Anna, Vonsky, Oblansky and Dolly. 

Many expend a lot of cash and energy to put on the pretense of happiness.  That’s exactly what it is - pretense.  Perhaps they all pretend - those happy families.  I have known some, who by all accounts were happy, but when one was allowed, because they were close friends, the truth came out and the truth was unhappiness.  When truth is revealed one is left in wonder, why?  Why pretend?  Are we somehow motivated to always seem to be happy.  Once when recovering from a shattered leg and surgery, a person greeted me with “how are you doing,” and I replied: “Well, not bad, I could be worse, in fact I was worse.” My wife, who was pushing me around in my wheelchair, scolded me saying: “you shouldn’t always be so negative, people don’t want to hear that, you should say ‘great’ or ‘just fine’.  Even your normal expression ‘pretty good’ is seen negatively.”  My only thought was to inquire: “Why?  Is the lie more important than the truth?”  I guess it’s just the philosopher in me, but I cannot see any value in the pretense.  I’m a straight up guy, if you cannot accept a truthful answer to the question “how are you doing?” don’t ask the question.  Obviously I’m not good at glad-handing.

I guess it’s sort of like quicksand, where the surface seems solid, but if one should stand upon it, one will soon discover the sinking, and the inability to extricate oneself from it.  I often think of truth and that surface polite conversation.  How real is it?  How real is the pretense of happiness?  Why bother with the polite, if it is only a surface to which there is no underside, or the underside is so murky one dares not look for it.  That’s the truth, now isn’t it?  The underside is so murky we would not dare present it or inquire of it.  It would especially be disadvantageous to present it to one whom one is courting.  But my courting skills were so long ago, I cannot really remember them.

I often think that it might be better to leave the question ‘how are you doing’ un-answered.  But I discovered that people are never satisfied with one who refuses to answer.  I know that when I ask a question, I expect an answer.  When the answer is refused, I know, or at least understand, there is something hidden in a truthful answer.  Often we are put in a position where a truthful answer would be hurtful, so we simply refuse to answer.  I recently came upon such a situation, and so I simply said: “I understand” as a response to the refusal to answer my question “why not.”  I knew very well that I had put that person in a position where any truthful answer would have revealed previous untruths, and hurt my feelings.  But that realization itself was the greatest of hurts.  So, to overcome the hurt, I shed my philosopher cap and resorted to poetry.  Perhaps there was much philosophy in the poem. 

Oh Truth how it does hurt,

but not nearly so much

as the lie told to spare one’s feelings.

The former is painful,

but the pain of the latter

lingers without some sign of relief.

Perhaps mostly the worst

is the refusal to answer

the question which retains the doubt.