Confidence

by Rowland Manthorpe

  ‘Of course she bloody is,’ tutted Rose, as she drifted over to serve one of the old guys at the bar. ‘They’re in love.’

  ‘Ah, love.’ Charlie was surprised to find he had almost finished his pint. An unfamiliar feeling was rising in him, a streak of recklessness he’d forgotten was there. That was the problem with relationships – he’d been squashed into being ‘Sara’s Boyfriend’ for so long, he’d lost his original shape. Now he could move freely, Charlie was beginning to stretch out the stiff limbs of his personality, wiggling his fingers and toes. What would Lucas do? Charlie wondered. Not quite sure of his intention, he ventured on. ‘You never know with Ellie, she might just be passing the time.’

  ‘What?’ Ellie drew back.

  ‘I mean,’ shrugged Charlie (he couldn’t quite believe he was saying this – he must be hysterical), ‘everybody knows you tend to undervalue yourself.’

  Ellie gave a surprised laugh. ‘Did I put myself on Antiques Roadshow? “Got this from my great-uncle, maybe worth a tenner.”’

  ‘You know what I mean.’

  ‘Mm, let me see.’ Ellie’s smile turned brittle. ‘I’m not going out with one of your mates and therefore I couldn’t possibly be happy? That’s actually what you all think, isn’t it? I’m basically, like, emotionally deformed, because I don’t subscribe to the caste system.’

  Charlie held up his hands. ‘I’m trying to pay you a compliment here.’

  ‘Wow,’ she laughed. ‘I’d hate to see what it’s like when you insult people.’

  ‘All right,’ Charlie shook his head. He couldn’t help it if she was oversensitive. ‘I take it back. Sorry.’

  A pause expanded into a silence. Ellie stared out of the window at the car park, shrinking into her chair. Charlie drained his pint and tried to think of something to say. Surely she could cut him some slack – he had just split up with his girlfriend after all. ‘Well,’ he attempted, ‘it is actually nice to see you . . . even if I did manage to offend you.’

  ‘Um, yeah.’ Ellie looked up briefly, before her gaze dropped to the table. ‘Good luck with single life.’

  ‘I’ll let you know what it’s like.’ Somehow his attempt to lighten the mood came out more like a jibe.

  Ellie didn’t respond. Rose walked over briskly and picked up Charlie’s glass.

  ‘Who wants to try a spirit I get free?’ called the giant.

  ‘No, thanks, mate,’ said Charlie, standing up. ‘I was leaving anyway. See you around.’

  4

  Nihilism

  The word ‘confidence’ comes from the Latin: confīdĕre, to have full trust. Nowadays, the primary meaning of confidence is trust or belief in oneself, so this faith is largely internal. The original late Middle English meaning of confidence, however, implied trust in something external: a person, a thing or, most importantly, God.

  Nietzsche was the first writer to see that confidence had a history. He didn’t just explain why confidence was important, he explained why it was important now, in the period of modernity. The answer lay in religion. We need confidence, Nietzsche argued, to overcome the ‘depression’ caused by the death of God.

  The most important event of Nietzsche’s life was not an event at all, but a realisation: the realisation that God did not exist. He may have become an arch-atheist, but the author of The Antichrist grew up an enthusiastic Christian, the son and grandson of pastors on both sides of the family. Indeed, Nietzsche’s youthful ambition was to follow his father into the priesthood. ‘I have firmly resolved to devote myself forever to His service,’ he vowed in a private note, aged thirteen.

  By the time he was at boarding school, however, Nietzsche had begun to express religious doubts. For a rational person, he told his friends in their extra-curricular literature and music society, the literal truth of the Bible was hard to take seriously. He was beginning to reach towards the thought that would lead to his famous declaration: ‘God is dead! God remains dead! And we have killed him!’

  No one had literally murdered God, nor even definitively disproved His existence. Long-standing historical trends had simply made Western society more secular. ‘The ideal is not refuted – it freezes,’ Nietzsche wrote. We used to believe, but now we don’t, and it is hard for us to remember why we believed in the first place.

  Nietzsche wasn’t certain enough of his religious doubts to change his university subject. He committed to study theology, because he thought it would please his mother. But it was too late. The germ of doubt was in his system, and he had little interest in finding a cure. Home from uni at Easter, Nietzsche abruptly announced that he had given up theology and would not be attending the Easter church service. He was making a scene, one suspects, to prevent his mother from persuading him to recant. After a tearful family row, Frau Nietzsche accepted his decision – then never mentioned the subject again.

  Renouncing God was like being let out of school for the last time: release (God is dead! No one cares what we do!) followed by disquiet (God is dead. No one cares what we do.). When we believe in God, the meaning of life is clear. All the big questions are settled. We don’t need to spend time asking ‘Why am I here?’ or ‘Why is it worth getting up in the morning?’ because Christianity has provided the answers. Our sole purpose is to live a life of Christian virtue so we can receive our reward in heaven.

  When we stop believing in God, that overarching structure stops making sense. The meaning of life is no longer self-evident. Nietzsche called this loss of purpose ‘nihilism’.

  Nihilism, as Nietzsche describes it, is the quintessential modern condition. Of course, we don’t call it that. Drifting, purposeless, without certainty or meaning, overcome by existential anxiety, forced to entertain yourself for hours on end, required to search for answers when before everything was spoon-fed . . .

  Nowadays they even make you pay for it.

  ‘I feel a bit bad now,’ Ellie called over to Rose. She drained the last of her syrupy wine and studied her essay plan. She had to admit the result was disappointing. The swirly blue lines hadn’t developed an argument and the cross-hatching totally lacked structure. Ellie checked the front – ‘Nineteenth-Century Moralists: Handout 2’ (had she even been in this lecture?) – and stuffed it back in her bag. Never know when it might come in handy. ‘I said I feel a bit bad now!’

  ‘Why?’ Rose was up on a stool, wiping the optics. Ellie hoped she didn’t black out up there. Recently, she’d been having dizzy spells: a distant look came over her and she had to crouch down to get her balance. On the other hand, there probably wasn’t anyone worth swooning in front of here. ‘He’s a shallow, arrogant dickwad!’

  ‘Yeah, I know.’ Ellie shuffled over and dumped her stuff on the bar. She might be able to catch Rose from here if she had to. ‘But he’s just joining in.’

  ‘That’s what I love about the Nazis,’ Rose told the upside-down Smirnoff. ‘Big joiners-inners. Real team players.’

  Regular Steve laughed. ‘Look out, she’s dropped the Hitler bomb!’

  Regular Pete kept his gaze on the screen, where Alistair Darling was talking to camera. ‘Hello, eyebrows,’ he guffawed.

  Ellie’s phone rasped on the brass bar.

  Rose squinted. ‘Who is it?’

  ‘Justin.’

  Rose jumped down, suddenly eager. ‘Do you want me to get it?’

  It was horribly tempting. By letting Rose answer, Ellie could shortcut the conversation she’d been putting off since pretty much the first day of the Easter break. Ellie accepted the blame: it was her fault, she’d shut Justin out, and while she’d had her reasons, it was the wrong thing to do. She was happy to apologise. What she couldn’t bear was the whole conversation, where they discussed why she did this and how it wasn’t good for their relationship. Ellie wished they could skip over it and get back to experiencing the relationship, rather than debating it.

  The phone blinked forlornly. Justin never accepted defeat. He rang all the way through to voicemail and left his name an
d number at the end of a five-minute message.

  Rose shook her head at Pete. ‘It’s disgusting the way she treats him,’ she said, doing her old Welsh woman. ‘Croo-el.’

  ‘She ought to put him out of his misery,’ said Steve.

  Bringing your relationship into the Shackle was basically kissing it goodbye. It was the one thing Ellie had said she’d never do. What did Steve think of your boyfriend, what was Michael’s opinion on your sex life? Should you go out with Neil instead? Next thing she knew, Justin would be calling the pub like Steve’s wife and Rose would be evading questions about her whereabouts.

  ‘You can’t blame her though,’ sighed Rose. ‘It’s ’cause she undervalues herself—’

  Ellie snatched up the phone.

  ‘Hello?’ Why did she say it like that, as if she didn’t know who it was?

  There was a pause.

  ‘Uh, hello, can I speak to Ellie, please? It’s her boyfriend speaking? Justin? Justin Rufford?’ The sound of Justin’s voice made Ellie think of resting her head on his chest and absorbing the vibrations. She would have loved to do that now, instead of having to talk. Why was it so hard to reach each other on the phone? It was exactly this feeling of painful separateness she’d been avoiding by not calling. She tried to push through Awkwardness and into Joke.

  ‘Good afternoon, Mr Rufford, this is Ellie Taber speaking.’

  That only made it worse.

  ‘Justin!’ Rose craned over the bar. ‘Thank God you’re back. She’s been so difficult, a bloody nightmare! I can’t wait to have her off my hands.’

  Ellie gave Rose the finger, clambered into her coat and tried to start the conversation over. ‘Hey. I’m just leaving the Shackle.’ She waved to Michael and swung out into the car park, tugging at her hood. ‘Are you back?’

  ‘Nearly. I’m on the train.’

  ‘Cool.’ After a fractional pause, Ellie continued, ‘God, why does anyone say “cool” any more? It’s so Sixties and embarrassing, isn’t it, so smug ageing hippie . . . Anyway, how are you?’

  ‘I’m okay,’ said Justin slowly. ‘How are you doing? I feel as if—’

  ‘I know, I’m a weirdo. Sorry. I keep on interrupting. I’ll stop talking.’ Ellie navigated a path around a press of uniformed kids by the newsagent, all waiting to be one of ‘TWO SCHOOLCHILDREN ALLOWED AT ANY TIME’.

  ‘I’m looking forward to seeing you,’ Justin offered gamely.

  ‘Me too.’ Ellie was starting to remember how the adjustment process went. She offered something, and he offered something, and they kept going until they burst the membrane and made it through to the same place. It didn’t matter what she said, she simply had to begin. ‘This guy I used to know came into the pub, in first year or whatever—’

  ‘Ah, yes, your glory year!’

  ‘Oh yeah, God, best year of my life.’ It was an old joke, but at least it was something.

  ‘I’m surprised you remember anyone from that incredible, like, montage of football socials and back-to-school parties—’

  ‘One football social.’

  ‘Come on, Taber, I’ve seen the kit.’

  ‘Stash. Please, it’s called stash.’ Ellie had reached the high street. The wine felt like it was corroding her insides; she should eat something before Justin got back. The last thing she wanted was to turn up on his doorstep – stressed, hungry, irrationally angry – and immediately collapse, demanding he look after her. At the very least, she wanted to pretend she’d been coping. Escaping the rain, Ellie wandered into the health-food shop.

  ‘You must miss those guys.’ Justin could keep a joke going for hours. ‘They’re really genuine people.’

  ‘Well, I pretty much told him he was an arrogant twat.’ Ellie picked up a falafel wrap. It looked disgusting, but so did everything else. She checked the label. £3.50? For dried-out chickpeas? ‘I may have been a bit over the top.’

  ‘That doesn’t sound like you,’ deadpanned Justin.

  Ellie laughed. This was one of the things she forgot: she liked Justin. Their relationship didn’t only consist of guilt, doubt and missed calls. ‘I know. Unbelievable, isn’t it?’ It was a relief to express her qualms to someone. Looking back on the last few weeks, Ellie saw how much of an echo chamber the flat had become. No anxiety or conflict was put to rest: each one swelled and resonated until she was drowning in it.

  ‘Is this why you haven’t rung me or answered any of my calls?’ said Justin, in the same easy tone. ‘Too busy flirting with rugby players?’

  ‘No.’ Ellie leant against the fridge, throat contracting. She’d been waiting two weeks for this question and she still hadn’t managed to prepare an answer. Whenever she’d imagined defending herself, it felt like the wrong approach. The point wasn’t to ‘be right’ or ‘get away with it’. She’d considered explaining how she’d been feeling, but that seemed unfair – she didn’t want to dump on Justin, when she wasn’t going through any more than he was. Justin had changed course twice, from Law to Engineering, then from Engineering to English, each time dropping down a year, without ever finding a subject he came close to enjoying. He was utterly unsuited to uni, but there was no escape; it was middle-class military service.

  ‘No, it isn’t,’ Ellie repeated quietly, distracted by her jumbled reflection in the metal shelf. ‘There isn’t a reason, really. Not a good reason.’

  ‘Okay . . .’ An announcement went off in the background.

  Ellie stared dumbly at the peanut butter display. It wasn’t lack of effort (she tried to communicate by the power of thought alone); she simply couldn’t find the words. ‘I’m really sorry,’ she struggled on. ‘I’ve been working on my dissertation, or trying to.’ It sounded unspeakably pathetic. ‘I’ve missed you.’

  ‘Have you?’

  Justin hated this, when she went quiet. He thought she was being lazy and selfish, sloping off for mental naps instead of communicating. It was their standard row, endlessly repeated. This time, though, he was definitely in the right. Ellie couldn’t figure out if that made everything worse or easier. She wished she could reassure him; she knew she ought to say some sort of soothing nothing, but she couldn’t.

  ‘I’ll take that as a no, then,’ said Justin, with ghastly false cheerfulness.

  ‘I’m really sorry,’ Ellie blurted out, barely convincing herself. ‘It’ll be all right when we see each other, I promise.’

  ‘What does nihilism mean?’ Nietzsche scribbled in his notebook in autumn 1887. ‘The goal is lacking; “why?” finds no answer.’

  Nihilism is best described as an extreme form of self-consciousness, brought about by the most dangerous question in the world: ‘Why?’ We are constantly asking this question – that, says Nietzsche, is what it means to be human – but when we believe in God there is always a ready answer. Without the comforting blanket of religion, we are forced to think for ourselves, to question our own identity and existence. We are forced, in other words, to become self-conscious.

  Sociologists call this ‘self-reflexivity’ and agree with Nietzsche, at least in outline. Modern people are more self-conscious than people in previous eras. Once, identities were handed out at birth, like limbs – now they have to be constantly updated and cared for, a process with no end, prompted by a question with no final answer.

  As secularism invaded every corner of the world, said Nietzsche, it brought nihilism in its wake, causing what he described as an epidemic of self-consciousness. We treat self-consciousness as a nagging personal ‘issue’, but for Nietzsche it was nothing less than the defining social question of the age, a historico-philosophical dilemma of world-changing proportions. This was what made confidence so important to modernity – the fact that self-consciousness threatened our very existence.

  Not knowing where we’re going drains our energy and makes us miserable. ‘The old depression, heaviness and fatigue’ was how Nietzsche described it. Worse, though, was the feeling of hopelessness that nihilism brought about, the sense that ‘trust
in life is gone: life itself has become a problem.’ A meaningless life is a worthless life, and if life is worthless, why not end it?

  Nietzsche was one of the first philosophers to pose the classic question of existentialism. Nihilism, he believed, gave modernity a ‘suicidal’ tendency. It was this condition that he sought to cure, and his medicine was his philosophy.

  Nietzsche’s thought is an attempt to overcome nihilism and reinvigorate our faith in life. He intended to replace Christianity with an ideal of his own devising, spiritual medicine that would keep us alive after the death of God. We suffer from self-consciousness – he would teach us to act on instinct. In place of faith in God, we will have faith in ourselves: we will have confidence.

  When Charlie had imagined how things would be after he’d split up with Sara, he had often pictured himself here: in the middle seat of Lucas’s Fiesta, with the ladz, having banter, creating memories, taking uni for everything it had.

  Leaving that horrible pub, Charlie had been sorely tempted to head home, crank up season seven of Scrubs and settle in for several hours of lonely moping. Lucas’s call to adventure had saved him from this fate. What Charlie craved was uncomplicated distraction and what the ladz provided was twenty-four-hour tedium relief.

  ‘Wot-sits,’ Bradder sing-songed in time to five sets of clicking fingers.

  ‘Walk-ers,’ chimed Ben.

  ‘Salt ’n’ Shake,’ Charlie took his turn.

  ‘Prin-gles.’

  ‘Mc-Coys.’

  The ladz had double-parked outside the Chinese supermarket and were patiently waiting to splash Phil Logan. The scenario was simple: a huge puddle had built up on the road to the north of campus and they’d arranged to pick up Phil from the copy shop directly beside it. When he arrived, they would drive into it and soak him.

  Why did they do it? They did it because they could. It was what made them ladz, ladz with a ‘Z’. It was what ladz did.

  Click click. ‘Kettle chips.’