Bertrand Russell didn’t understand why people were so unhappy all the time. He grew up in an aristocratic family in Victorian Britain, but he was lonely and suicidal as a teenager. He said the only thing that kept himself from suicide was wanting to learn more math. Growing up, Russell had every advantage. His grandfather was a British Prime Minister. The influential philosopher John Stuart Mill was his godfather. He traveled to Paris and climbed the Eiffel Tower shortly after it was built. He co-authored Principia Mathematica, which made him world-famous in his field. Money and fame were surely in his hands, so it was far from intuitive for Russell to fathom why he was unhappy.
And it wasn’t just him. As he observed, “Stand in a busy street during working hours, or on a main thoroughfare at a weekend, or at a dance of an evening…. You will find that each of these different crowds has its own trouble… In the work-hour crowd you will see anxiety, excessive concentration, dyspepsia, lack of interest in anything but the struggle, incapacity for play, unconsciousness of their fellow creatures.” A century on and nothing seems to have changed. I live in Singapore, a country famed for wealth, high standards of living, and ruthless efficiency. Materially comfortable, sure, but it is very much in our national consciousness that we are not a happy people. Life here is stressful, competitive, and does take a toll on mental health even if many of us have resigned to it. For much of human history, the question of unhappiness was linked with scarcity. Yet modern abundance hasn’t put many smiles on our faces.
Why are so many of us woefully disgruntled? The Swiss-born British Jewish “philosopher” Alain de Botton has an answer for this. According to him, we are unhappy because an “ordinary life” - the life led by the 99% - is not good enough anymore. In this article, I will elucidate his arguments as well as provide my take on this subject in relation to contexts of lived experience, before concluding with a message I hope we can all take away.
A World of Snobs
We humans are very clearly social animals that are interdependent on each other, that form the dynamics of society and civilisation. We are decidedly not creatures shrouded in isolation, living disparate autonomous lives. Even less so today in the 21st century. It is for good reason we call it the digital age, defined by mass communication and the diffusion of media on an unprecedented scale. Hence, it comes to no surprise that the increasingly image-conscious social animal is affected by the way in which society perceives, judges and casts value on oneself.
Social animals socialise. And you can’t start socialising and connecting with your fellow human beings without a good introductory greeting. We ask questions to each other which play a fair part to mould our “first impression” of someone new. ‘What do you do?” is what de Botton has called the iconic question of the early 21st century. Depending on how you answer this question, you can either be praised as a subject of interest, or find yourself left alone by the peanuts. This validates the view that we basically live in a world of snobs.
The word snobbery tends to conjure up images of the traditional stereotype of a well-to-do member of the British aristocracy or landed gentry, fixated on country houses and imperious peerages. The bad news for us is that this is not true. Snobbery today is a global phenomenon. And while it may have little to nothing to do with bloodline and lineage, they are substituted by one’s job, wealth, education and connections, etcetera. In the broader sense, a snob is anyone who takes a small part of you and uses that to come to a universal and rigid sense of who you are. I am sure we know enough, far more than a fair share, of these people.
A Materialistic World?
One of the common adjectives a layman may use to describe this modern, post-industrial society - in broad terms the latter half of the 20th century onwards - is “materialistic”, which ties in very smoothly with the “consumerism” that defined the blessings of the postwar economic boom. What is materialism? A materialist is one who is overly concerned or preoccupied with material possessions rather than with intellectual or spiritual things. An example of materialism at play is valuing say, a new car, or a fancy suit, over friendships.
I don’t think most of us are materialistic per se, in the most direct manifestation. We probably won’t value this acquisition of material goods over the opportunity cost of friendships and connections. Rather, we live in a society which has simply pegged certain emotional rewards to the acquisition of material goods. In simple terms, we see things like luxury cars and or the latest avant-garde fashion as a conduit to societal status and recognition, which fills us with happiness and self-esteem.
This brings us to a fundamentally different realisation - that the people we call “materialists”, vaunting their Ferraris and Bentleys in full public view, are less conceited than they are in deep craving due to strong need for love. Love not in the teary, romantic sense, but something closer to the universal “struggle for recognition” described by Hegel. This is “love” that they are unable to find in more normal, humble and prudent ways of living. In more recent years, especially among the younger generation today, perhaps attributed to stagnating real incomes, we see a shift away from a pursuit of the lavish to products that may not necessarily be worth a king’s ransom, to those that cater towards the individualism of the identity-moulding youth.
The truth of the matter is, if you are content with humbly riding a bike or taking public transport through town, in modest dress that sends no gazes, something has gone right in your life. Because you are happy enough with who you are, knowing people like you for who you are, suggesting something went right in the development of your worldview. And if you are a parent and your child has no ambition of becoming famous, you’re doing something right.
A Beautiful But Dangerous Idea
The predominant notion that reigns far and wide today is a very simple, goodhearted, yet completely absurd one. It is this beautiful but dangerous idea that anyone can do anything. It is a very American idea, and in the Pax Americana, or the “American Tianxia” as Wang Gungwu termed it, this idea is the zeitgeist of our times.
It sounds completely benign, since after all, this notion is prima facie, extremely comfortable to believe in. Work hard, think smart and you will be there, success is around the corner. Isn’t this at the core of the idea of meritocracy, that has opened up so many possibilities for otherwise downtrodden talents? So why is it problematic? Because if we do live in a world where one can do anything and achieve anything, but you find yourself having only done “a bit”, or “something”, so far from the apogee of success, the possibilities for humiliation become even greater. And if one truly believes in a meritocratic world, where the “winners” who get to the top really deserve getting to the top, one would by the same logic believe that the “losers” deserve their place at the bottom as well. Before the modern era we are familiar with, the bottom of the social hierarchy were referred to, not as “losers”, but as “unfortunates”. Times have changed. Being unsuccessful has turned into a personal problem to a societal condemnation.
The danger is not frivolous. The danger is suicide. That we feel so inadequate against the expectations society imposes on us, that we choose to end our lives. Even if not, we are suffering from an epidemic of mental unwellness largely bred by the expectation that our lives will be stellar when in fact they are far more likely only to be ordinary. Enter a bookstore’s self-help section, and you’ll find that the two most common types of them are, how to get rich quickly, and how to cope with low self-esteem. The two are completely related. When enwreathed by a culture which centres on the infinite possibilities for success, but in all likelihood you will still end up in the 99%, society is bound to suffer from a massive self-esteem crisis.
The great irony of this is that what we call the “ordinary life” as it stands right now is materially more comfortable than it has ever been. Especially to my readers who are in all likelihood from the developed world, you have a roof over your head, you have adequate transport to get to work, you will have pretty nourishing food, and have a good bath before going to sleep. And this is the life that we are most likely going to lead in all statistical probability. Not an influencer, not a CEO, not a prime minister. But we have put a snake in the grass by belabouring to ourselves that an ordinary life is psychologically inadequate, and we need to go out there to be extraordinary. This situation we have created is crazy. It is self-torture.
Extraordinary in Singapore
In my musings I certainly do turn my reflections back home, to the national context. In particular, the pressure to be extraordinary in the Singaporean consciousness, exploring our national psyche. De Botton made mention of the American idea of being able to do and achieve anything. I beg the question, of where Singapore draws its influences from in these cultural and psychological regards. As a part of the Pax Americana, we certainly draw from American ideals of success, but also from conservative Oriental (specifically Chinese and Confucian) ideas of hard work, ethics and collectivism, as well as the British class hierarchy from our former colonisers. The coalescence of these engender something that proved a great recipe for economic success, in tandem with fulfilling our government’s KPIs and desires to top world rankings in everything from GDP per capita, economic competitiveness, HDI, students’ PISA scores, university QS rankings, and even in military prowess. But they have proved to be unhelpful in areas such as mental health, economic inequality, and embracing a marketplace of ideas.
On the level of the citizenry, what are we Singaporeans persistently told? One narrative that we all are familiar with is that as a small nation, we are highly vulnerable and thus have to keep our guard high, and not lose out in the rat race. This narrative, often used to propagate a siege mentality, is not entirely false but is myth in itself, as I explained in a previous book review. Where does this lead us to extraordinary things? Veteran diplomat Bilahari Kausikan explains it aptly. According to him, as a small country in Southeast Asia seeking to survive and prosper, Singapore cannot be ordinary. It must be extraordinary. He explains that we are an anomaly, as a Chinese-majority city-state in a region made up of larger states, where the Chinese are not always the most welcome. An anomaly can only remain relevant, survive and prosper by continuing to be an outlier. And that means we cannot be just like our neighbours. We must be outstandingly better. Few would dare to challenge this donnée, but even if we accept it, one cannot help but to grasp that in the shadow of the national quest for greatness, the systems currently in place to drive the success of individual Singaporeans, youth in particular, are so weak.
Something else we are harped on is the cardinal principle of meritocracy. Anyone growing up in Singapore has been instilled with the notion that meritocracy is the country’s main principle of governance. It has created a large middle class by allowing upward social mobility amongst most Singaporeans, and most of us regard it as something virtuous. But it also seems to have created structural and cultural conditions that reproduce inequality and elitism. According to Oxfam’s Commitment to Reducing Inequality Index, Singapore ranked a dismal 149 out of 157 countries, in an index that measures efforts to tackle the gap between the rich and poor. Sometimes we ask: meritocracy for who exactly? For scholar-generals? For the alumni of legacy brand schools? Or even for wealthy expats - names like James Dyson and Eduardo Saverin? Unfortunately, we too often see “meritocracy” used as a cover for this inequality, or more specifically, not doing anything substantial to counter it. This is despite how inequality is correlated with negative repercussions such as poor physical health, reduced social trust and suicides, as British economist Tony Atkinson has repeatedly pointed out. And no matter how many times Heng Swee Keat tells us that all schools are good schools, Singaporeans will still conjecture that some schools are better than others.
A More Personal Reflection
After examining how this subject fits into my national narrative, I think it is only appropriate that I bring it closer to the heart, on a more personal level. The chief reason why I even took time and effort to write this in the first place was because de Botton’s message resonated very strongly with me. Everyone grows up with narratives around them and I am no exception. Living in Singapore, the concept of meritocracy, a core value espoused by the government and education system, was definitely pervasive in my childhood. Work hard, and I will be duly rewarded. Music to one’s ears indeed, the right incentives seem to be there. But lag behind and you will be relegated to mediocrity. One’s vulnerability in the rat race was highlighted. My parents used to tell me something along the lines of, if I did not work hard and become a “loser” in society, I will end up like some street cleaner or taxi driver. I admit they probably did not mean to denigrate the roles of these two essential workers in society, but doesn’t this further prove the point that society has conditioned us into snobs?
I only turn twenty this year and I’ve spent the good part my existence studying, so these concerns pertaining to careers, money and the powers of financial accumulation can be a tad difficult to relate directly. But as a student in school, not least in Singapore’s education system, this role of money and the material objects we procure as a conduit to status and recognition is taken over by grades, testimonial portfolio and general popularity. Back in school, I guess I was a pretty studious kind, the kind that worked hard and got the results I felt I duly deserved, without any lofty connections or attending elite schools. I had faith in the system: meritocracy as incessantly expounded to us was working, or most importantly as I felt then, it was working for me. Yes, things didn’t always turn out well, disappointments and setbacks did abound, and unlike the meticulously-planned journeys of the pampered child of rich parents, I have experienced my fair share of failure, isolation and humiliation, or in common parlance, being a “loser”. And the intangible longing for status and recognition, as well as the threat of losing it is very potent indeed. I knew it wasn’t genuine, any respect that came about via one’s academic and holistic achievements couldn’t be. But I wouldn't let it go, and I clung unyieldingly to it despite the fact as time went by, the “expectations” (to be a an “all-rounder” who could excel in the academic, co-curricular, and holistic fields is a Herculean task) put upon we students became overwhelming. It stayed this way till my last days in junior college.
Then suddenly came conscription into the army. While I excelled in school, I unsurprisingly found myself relegated to mediocrity. It dawned upon me that I saw my social status and recognition plummet, as whatever had erstwhile provided me with self-esteem withered away. Many people I used to call friends drifted away or no longer had any interest in talking to me. And making new friends a lot harder than I thought, no matter how much one may believe in the idea of camaraderie in the army. Even as I distanced myself from the trappings of this game of snobbery, I saw it play out in the army too, with mere conscripts obsessed with comparisons of rank or different vocations. You know how so many were fixated on entering the officer cadet course, for example? One’s commissioning as an officer would grant a higher yet still meagre allowance, the workload is far greater, and the risk of punishment (“sign extra” in army parlance) too. But why do people still seek command positions when from a pragmatic standpoint it totally isn’t worth it? Because it provides something intangible: self-esteem. For myself, I couldn’t fathom many of the changes and came to dread my loss. I was desperate to compensate by finding areas to excel elsewhere, but over time, as I rationalised, what I really needed was to be comfortable with being just myself, without all the frivolities and tribulations. Luxury, I found out, was not about the possession of worldly goods, or the images that we show the world. Luxury is absence - the absence of crisis, of crowds, of conflict, of clamour.
The Message We Need
From all that is elucidated above, it is clear we need a new narrative. A new message. A new understanding. One that is not so predicated upon a perpetual obsession over materialism, status and superficial prestige. Is there an alternative to this way of life? Denmark seems to have an answer. Americans may decry the Scandinavian kingdom as a socialist welfare state devoid of incentives, but what the Danes have actually recognised, that Americans and basically everyone else have failed to, is that most of us will be “losers”. I speak of “losers” here with irony, because it is actually in reference to all of us. The 99%. And thus in Denmark, the society they built is one for the 99%. Schools for losers would be great, trains for losers will be superb, everything else will be fantastic too. Rather than torturing ourselves, the ordinary life is ensured to be a good life.
Is it a good life? We look at social media, or vogue magazines and see the mansions of the super-rich. Their sports cars and limousines. The holidays every weekend. One can’t help to feel mediocre in comparison. But what exactly about an ordinary life, at least in the developed world, is bad? Turn the clock back centuries ago to the 17th century. This period typically conjures up the majestic splendour of titans like King Louis XIV and his cousin King Charles II. But in the Dutch Republic, the painter Johannes Vermeer shows us something else. More simple, more intimate, more close to heart. specialized in domestic interior scenes of middle class life. Vermeer wanted to show us what was appealing and honourable about everyday ordinary activities: keeping a house clean, sweeping the yard, babysitting, sewing or – as in his painting of a kitchen maid – preparing lunch. In a culture that celebrates newness and excitement as absolute entitlement, we are tempted to believe that living an ordinary life is a dull alternative. But an ordinary life is anything but dull. We definitely do not need any more reminders from Patton telling us to go out to do extraordinary things, for it is already in our DNA. Rather we should be told that it’s okay. It’s okay not to win. It’s okay not to come out on top. It is no bad thing to celebrate a simple life!
I don’t think that ambition is unimportant. It is what for centuries had fuelled innovation and dynamism in society. The materially superior ordinary life compared to a century ago? A direct consequence of the ambitions of pioneering minds of yesteryear. It is definitely more than okay, even fantastic, to be extraordinary. But for good reason, not just for the sake of it, or for superficial markers of happiness, such as fame and attention. Rather, be extraordinary in your own great way. Pursue your interests in your field, make valuable contributions to society, or simply magnanimously help others. You don’t need the whole world nodding at you in approval and social media likes to be great. Let me provide a stark example. I think we all know Greta Thunberg, the teenage Swede who had taken the world by storm with her strident climate protests and speeches at the UN. Juxtaposed against her is Boyan Slat, a Dutch entrepreneur in his 20s, an inventor who designed the world’s first ocean plastic cleanup at age 16. He now leads a group developing advanced technologies to rid the world’s oceans of plastic, called The Ocean Cleanup. Does he contribute to the cause of environmental protection? Certainly, and arguably more than Thunberg despite far less media attention. Now, I don’t mean to discredit Thunberg’s clarion call, but the contrast provided by this example shows clearly that one need not be famous to make a difference one can be proud of.
Concluding Thoughts
Now, I recognise that this does not apply to everyone. It will probably be the wrong message if sent over to someone struggling everyday just to get by, or to the “emerging middle class” in the developing world. Counting one’s blessings for many people is admittedly, extremely difficult psychologically for more people than I can fathom. And neither is this an attempt to provide an answer or panacea to all of our problems. There are a multitude of problems faced, largely independent of the concepts of societal expectations, self-worth and self-esteem. Some jobs are indeed very taxing and the demands placed on a worker can be inordinate. Sometimes, an ordinary life is genuinely and objectively not good enough. Even in the developed world, inequality is a huge cause for concern, and large demographic do live in statistical poverty. Not the poverty we imagine of sub-Saharan Africa, but poverty in the most fundamental definition - such meagre earnings that result in a lack of access to basic human needs.
De Botton’s arguments also have flaws and warrant some level of critique, whether it is its non-universality or a neglect for certain societal principles, albeit subliminal. First of all, as much as the description of our world as one glutted with snobs is apt, the question that inquires the other party about their job is per se, completely innocuous. Even if we do pass judgement based on the answers we hear, it isn’t necessarily out of condescension, but rather a gauge to know more about others. Why? Because the jobs we do often (though regrettably not always) are more than just about our paychecks, but also a career and way of life - in varying measures, a reflection of one’s personal values and interests. Any subsequent judgement does factor in both these values as well as socioeconomic status as aforementioned.
Secondly, de Botton characterises the preoccupation with material goods as a psychological phenomenon, to get extraordinary things to warrant the attention, respect and recognition of society. But you can’t look at every Ferrari driver with pity, let’s be frank. I could imagine many people who would still want a Ferrari even if there was no one on the planet. A Ferrari is fun and fancy and gives you a driving experience like no other car. This isn't at all tied to one's desire for social 'honour' but is instead intrinsic to this object and the experience it can give you. In fact, probably even more fun to drive on the open road in the absence of people.
Finally, there is a dangerous place in our minds where acceptance of being ‘ordinary’ turns into rationalizing ignorance or inaction. I think a person needs to be on guard against feelings of complete powerlessness, because all of us have some agency and some ability to be better than we are, even if we won’t be extraordinary. For example, the video says “it’s okay to not know what’s going on,” but I doubt apathy is the way ahead.
Notwithstanding these criticisms, I do not think that was the main point of the overarching message. Yes, not everyone may need to hear this, it is not entirely correct, and nor should we reorientate our worldview 180 degrees, but look at the world today. We live in an age when our lives are regularly punctuated by career crises, by moments when what we thought we knew, about our lives, about our careers, comes into contact with a threatening sort of reality. It’s easier now than ever before to make good living, but paradoxically, it is harder than ever before to stay calm, to be free of anxiety. It does not take an expert in psychology or sociology to understand how unhealthy the state of affairs is. And this probably would not change unless we alter the way we perceive the ordinary life against the extraordinary, celebrating simple over flamboyant, substance over style, self-fulfilment over societal expectations. Unfortunately, this is unlikely to happen. As emerging economies like China and India grow and prosper, they are emulating the American model’s notions of success and status. Far more than any inspiration from Denmark. Then more recently, in 2020, the world saw the shrinking of the global class for the first time in decades. The narrowing of the “ordinary life” of the middle class means that it is becoming even less and less the lifestyle of common aspiration. Instead, the stakes and chances for humiliation are even greater: it’s either you strike it big or find yourself relegated to a subpar life.
But all things considered, let us bring it to the most fundamental and rudimental level. Joy is not about making millions of dollars in a day. Neither is it about vaunting your fancy Porsche, nor is it showing off your avant-garde fashion tastes on Instagram. Rather it can be derived from really simple things. Quality time with friends, a hearty meal, or a day without crises. Love is not going to be the perfection romanticised by films or novels. But rather, it is going to be occasionally a hand held by somebody who understands bits of you, never the whole of you, but has charity towards your darkest moments. An ordinary life? Yeah, sure. Let that be okay. A message we need for such perplexing times.
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