Confessions of a Conjuror

by Derren Brown

  The single most valuable human trait, the one quality every schoolchild and adult should be taught to nurture, is, quite simply, kindness.

  Kindness. If you prefer, compassion. Even benevolence. It is the quality that makes people lovely. If that sounds rather anaemic, it’s because it is the opposite of setting goals and learning how to persuade and close deals; the antithesis of self-reliance and get-what-you-want thinking which form the backbone of modern self-improvement. Its simplicity and obviousness mean that we forget it constantly when we try to impress people, yet it is the most impressive trait we can ever show. It has nothing to do with intelligence or witty banter. We make the mistake of thinking we have to be funny and clever among the ranks of the funny and clever, or match the more obvious qualities of people we would like to like us, when in fact few of us seek out in others those outward aspects of personality we ourselves emanate. In fact, we tend to be sceptical of others with similar noticeable qualities to ourselves. That clever person will not like us more if we appear clever ourselves. He will like us more if we are kind, and lovely, and personable, and not trying to be anything else. In an attempt to be socially striking, and in all the contrived effort we go to in order to make ourselves remarkable, we miss how simple the answer really is. Meanwhile, we all know people who possess those qualities we wish we had more of – intelligence or wit, for example – yet if they are not also lovely, we struggle to really like them.

  So many of the self-help, persuasion and communication industries could be swept away with the single mantra ‘just be nice’. If you are nice to others, they will be nice to you, and they will like you. If you are nice, you are more likely to be happy, both because it makes for a cheerful conscience and because you will enjoy more friends, which have been (unsurprisingly) shown to rank among the principal factors of a deeply contented life. If you are likeable and kind, without merely being a pushover, you may not necessarily be on the fast-track route to millionaire status, but you are more likely to glide forward through life with less effort and find comfortable success. Once you are kind, everything else falls into place.

  I have seen people who previously lacked confidence absorb the high-powered idiom of modern self-help gurus, turn their lives around and become, at first glance, the no-nonsense professional powerhouses they admired in other people. I’ve seen them model themselves on those they wanted most to emulate, as they were taught to do, and I have on the one hand been amazed by the transformation and felt happy for the beneficiaries, and on the other felt unconvinced by the soulless and uncomfortable imitation they have managed to pull off. They have always emulated the most telegraphed and obvious characteristics of their unwitting mentors, evolving into more striking but less pleasant versions of themselves, only to be once again delightful when the straightforward old self accidentally glimmers through for a moment. The high self-help dosage can achieve slim, particular ends, which may be of enormous value to a person’s self-esteem, but it is forging a difficult uphill path to a possibly far less worthwhile destination. Naturally there is worth in developing specific skill-sets that make you an excellent salesman or able to face a room of strangers in a way you previously never thought possible; chronic shyness and miserable self-esteem are terribly debilitating conditions. But while it is important to overcome such troubles, the internal gauge that tells us when the goal has been reached (or how to reach it) is skewed by the very lack of self-belief that led to the problem. Hence the achieved result may feel like a solution to the poor soul in question, but it may also achieve a forced, unpleasant type of confidence that has no room for humility, leaving him therefore less attractive than his previous incarnation, and the ‘improvement’ therefore fails, at least in part and as far as the outside world goes. There has been, in that case, no external guide to gently assist with finding a balance, just a pathologically driven need to achieve a fetishised form of fantasy confidence, warped through the perspective of one who has felt he would never achieve it. Soon perspective is lost, the control becomes addictive, and, in a pattern known in a more monstrous form to gym addicts and those with eating disorders, a destructive momentum kicks in.*

  Be kind. It is a richer project than may at first be obvious. For example, it can involve stepping out of what is emotionally immediate, and realising in moments of everyday conflict that those with whom we’re arguing are most likely taking a standpoint equally as justifiable (to themselves) as ours. Kindness may involve preferring to understand the other’s one-sided view in such situations rather than blindly pushing our own. If we are prepared not to concern ourselves with the immediate blow to our pride that comes from conceding in this way, we can enjoy the warm glow later when we feel like the greater man or woman, rather than lying awake in bed fuming with rage, replaying arguments and running imaginary conversations with ourselves that make us even more livid. Ideally, this ability to detach emotionally when approaching conflict, and to look for connections rather than stand aghast at someone else’s apparent bloody-mindedness, is to be combined with an otherwise emotionally open and empathising personality. That is where the perfect balance is struck, where we would be best positioned to have a pleasant effect on others.

  There are those who are undoubtedly lovely, but lovely to the point of flaccid, vapid futility. They have developed their own wearying addiction to selflessness; cannot themselves receive; feed off the broken; and perhaps even live through a string of abusive relationships as they attract those who exploit them. There are those damaged souls who live out an ostentatious display of masquerading kindness born only from desperate, toxic neediness. Balance is all. I would not dream of suggesting how the right sort of kindness can be achieved, as it is quite enough trying to attend privately to one’s own life. It needs perhaps to be driven by a desire to be liked, maybe the teensiest proneness to paranoia, and a possession of all the little insecurities that drive us to pay attention to what others think of us and the effect that we have on them – probably the first stirrings of the same neuroses which plague the truly tragic.

  Lest it sound like I am proposing a vacuous, smiling, endlessly giving approach to life that shrieks in horror at the mention of personal gain, I would draw the reader tentatively back to the lessons learnt from persuasion research and the skills of powerfully charismatic leaders. So often we heard during and after the Bill Clinton era that the eternally charming President would speak to you as if you were the only person in the room. Princess Diana, we hear, was a flirt. In Robert Cialdini’s seminal book Influence: The Science of Persuasion, we learn how US President Lyndon B. Johnson’s surprising ability to get a very large number of laws passed through a non-partisan Congress in his early years seems to be explained in part by the huge number of favours he was able to call in, after he himself had bestowed so many favours during his previous career as a Congressman and Senator. Cialdini compares his case to that of Jimmy Carter, who ran very much on an ‘outsider’ ticket and who had tremendous difficulty passing laws, even through a much more sympathetic Congress, as he was unknown to the law-makers and therefore was unable to benefit from owed favours.

  Cialdini is describing ‘reciprocity’, one of the more powerful elements of persuasive technique. It is not the same as kindness, but it is born of it, and points in its own way to one value of being kind. If you wish to find a self-serving reason to embrace kindness, the law of reciprocity is your rationale. In a well-established experiment, you (a naive participant) find yourself paired off with John (who is posing as another participant but in fact is in on the trick) and you are given a task to carry out, such as a word test or a memory exercise, which you mistakenly believe is the purpose of the experiment. At some point during the proceedings, John leaves the room for a few minutes. When he returns, he has bought himself a can of Cola, and, thoughtfully, another one for you. The faux experiment continues, and after it appears to be all over John mentions that he has some raffle tickets to sell, and asks if you would be happy to buy some. This enlighteni
ng test showed that when he brings us the unrequested drink we are far more likely to help John out and buy his tickets than when no drink is forthcoming. Moreover, it does not significantly affect how much we like John when we emerge from the room; it is simply that when someone has done something nice for us, we have a very powerful urge to reciprocate. The lesson: if you want someone to do something for you, do something nice for them first. In a perverse way, this is one of the true values of being kind.

  Ah, I hear you smugly pronounce, that’s it, isn’t it? There is no genuine, selfless kindness: we are all selfish creatures, and what may appear generous or benevolent is in fact self-serving.

  Witness the hugely expensive pot of Crème de la Mer moisturiser I included amongst the gifts I gave my mother last Christmas. The 60ml tub cost an extraordinary one hundred and fifty-six pounds, an amount she (nor anyone else, I’m sure) could never truly justify spending on a pot of face-cream, even if she had read the blurb on their site:

  Do You Believe in Miracles?

  If miracles are unique events that seem hard to explain, then surely the discovery of Crème de la Mer can be described as a miracle.

  Despite my uncertainty over their lax definition of ‘miracles’, which should surely involve a suspension of the normal laws of the universe, I was seduced by the extravagant price, the promise of a ‘Miracle Broth™’, and enthusiastic recommendations from those who know about such things. I bought some for Mum and perhaps a pot as well for myself – not that it’s any of your business. A lovely gift, I thought. The brand, I was assured, was legendary, and I expected excitement from its lucky recipient when she unwrapped this gift on Christmas Day.

  But when the family was gathered for present-opening at my younger brother’s house – after an excellent turkey and just before a moving duet of ‘Something Stupid’ on Singstar by me and the mother in question – no gasp of recognition greeted the name on the tub as the gift was revealed; no ‘you shouldn’t have!’ escaped her lips to suggest a lady presented at last with the astonishing cosmetic indulgence she had always felt herself lacking. Instead she, with due maternal gratitude, acted in a way appropriate for one receiving a gift of some quite ordinary moisturiser, and of a brand she did not seem to recognise.

  A flash of disappointment was triggered in my gut. I asked if she knew the make. No, she didn’t. I rapidly considered my options:

  Make no comment and trust that she’d soon realise the superior quality of the product.

  This involved an extraordinary trust in the product and a level of modesty I was unable to find in myself.

  Remark that it was a highly regarded brand and that I hoped it lived up to the hype.

  This sounded like the correct response, but it would leave the expenditure of £156 irritatingly unbalanced by a lack of acknowledgement of my generosity.

  Jokingly point out that it was very expensive.

  But aside from how gauche this would undeniably sound, her idea of ‘very expensive’ would be unlikely to be as high as £156, so I would not only be faced with regret at making the comment about cost, but this would also be exacerbated by a frustrated desire to blurt out the exact amount, just so I would know that my bounteousness had been fully appreciated.

  Remark that it was a highly regarded brand and suggest that she Google the product to find out about how it was made.

  The curious online mother would find the Crème de la Mer website and stumble across the price-tag herself.

  Considering this last the most elegant of the options, I took it.

  Upon reflection, I wonder if the desire for her to have a sense of the price-tag was more about wanting to fuel her with the same excitement and anticipation I had for the product than merely to point out that I had spent more than she might have imagined on this particular gift. I think this might be the case, for if I now imagine that I had somehow acquired the tub for free, I would be more than happy for her to know that, but still want her to appreciate its price in the hope it would raise her enjoyment of the product and hopefully her expectations of its effectiveness.

  On this latter subject, it has been shown that a potent method of selling an item is to raise its price dramatically rather than lower it, as we associate a higher price with superior quality. I write as someone pathetically influenced by such tactics. Only yesterday I was nonchalantly browsing Amazon for a particular DVD with no strong intention of buying it, only to find that for whatever reasons of scarcity, it was on sale for around, £80. I immediately bought it. What an arse.

  Even if I had only desired my mother to be as excited as possible about the gift rather than impressed with my munificence, we are still left with the fact that I probably wanted that appreciation and excitement to be associated with me. The thought exercise necessary to test this is simple: would I have been happy giving the gift anonymously? Would I have felt a sting of jealousy or disappointment had my brother given her the same product in the larger-size tub? The answers are Not Entirely and At Some Level Yes Probably. So do we not seek to direct that warm glow of kindness back upon ourselves from the first moment we consider the kind act?

  Well, if this is selfishness, then bring it on. It is not, in these times, a mark of the publicly admired personality to be particularly kind (and if it were, there would be no need to recommend it), and we are told to be wary of kindness as if it only masked weakness or a desire to manipulate. Our ambivalent relationship with this most admirable trait seems to be due to our distrust of it in our natures. In the fifth century, the once-rowdy teenager and erstwhile lover of concubines Augustine of Hippo, one of the most influential figures in the development of Christianity, unforgivably burdened us all with the first clear outlining of the doctrine of original sin. With it came the notion that only through self-sacrifice can we transcend our bestial natures to achieve ‘caritas’, the Christian understanding of kindness, achievable only through God’s grace. This answered, in its day, the question of how man, created in God’s image, could be so unpleasant and cruel. Without hard work and suppression, it was explained, we are violent and merciless.

  Augustine was Catholic, but the sixteenth-century Protestant Reformation took his unforgiving view of our natures and made it far bleaker. Luther, the leader of the Reformation, and his disciple John Calvin, the French theologian, painted a deeply anti-human picture of us as driven to evil and deserving to burn for eternity. This aspect of Christianity, which vilifies humanity (without its God) and denies the pleasure of this life in favour of a posited hereafter, was particularly loathed by Friedrich Nietzsche, the ruthless moustachioed champion of human potential. The Protestants were a business-savvy bunch, and as Adam Phillips’ and Barbara Taylor’s charming book On Kindness tells us, they swiftly demoted ‘caritas’ to institutionalised ‘charity’, and the very notion of brotherly love was lost beneath the new commercial spirit and religious conflicts.

  John Calvin gave us lofty metaphysics; Thomas Hobbes gave us a dim, cynical view of human nature, and thus boys and tigers are named. Hobbes, a seventeenth-century English philosopher reacting to the after-effects of the Reformation and religious vainglory, saw us as ego-driven power-machines where all seeming good intentions mask entirely self-serving motives. Hobbes’ profoundly disheartening view of our natures remains with us today. His toxic impact was so strong that even with the Enlightenment’s reaction against his pessimism and the new celebration of a human ‘fellow-feeling’ unshackled by torturous theology, we still find it very hard to think that motives are ever genuinely altruistic.

  These ghosts of Hobbes, and more substantially of Freud, still haunt us, and have us read into our kindness ulterior motives and even veiled aggression.* This is a shame, for a simpler view to take is that there is a genuine and important pleasure to be taken in kindness; in giving gifts, buying dinners and treating others generously.

  Buying dinner! To any of you who always split the bill or have dinner bought for you by others, you are missing out on a pleasure far richer
than that of a free meal. Try paying the bill next time and see what I mean. A few months before Harold Pinter died, I found myself dining a few tables from him and his wife in a reputed London restaurant. The classic film version of The Birthday Party had made a great impression on me as a schoolboy, and I had come to find him fascinating and frightening as I grew up: undoubtedly his performance in that film and the eerie oppressiveness of his dialogue set a tone which only my later appreciation of his political views and intellectual rigour allowed to mature into a fuller awareness of his particular iconic magnificence. My image of him as a physical being, however, drawn from that film and the few grainy black-and-white photographs I had seen, remained as foreboding as his heavy-set face, black hair and eternally sixties sideburns.

  Then, as an adult, though still a few years before the evening in question, I saw him for the first time in the flesh, dining out a few days after his Nobel Prize speech. He was far older, frail, and had recently taken a fall. It was the first time I had seen him as a living human being, let alone one so delicate, and I was mesmerised. Later, he had to walk right behind me to leave, and as he limped past I froze over my meal, feeling a giddy graze with greatness.

  This was not the only time I was to see him at dinner: favouring, as we seemed to, the same group of restaurants, it happened again and again. By the fifth time, which was the occasion with which we are concerned, and having by this point overcome the instinctive motor and digestive shut-down that our proximity seemed to evoke in me, I wondered if it might not cause offence to anonymously and discreetly pick up the tab at his table.