‘Will to power’ is one of those Nietzschean catchphrases which sounds distinctly fascistic, but means almost the exact opposite of what it appears to mean. The confusion is created by Nietzsche’s use of ‘will’ and his use of ‘power’.
When Nietzsche says ‘will’ what he means is ‘instinct’. The phrase seems to imply a desire for power, a deliberate choice akin to political ambition. For Nietzsche, the opposite is true. We don’t decide to pursue power. We have no choice – our instinct for power demands it.
Nietzsche’s use of ‘power’ is equally perverse. Rather than the political sense of power over other people, he used ‘power’ to refer to a quality of personal strength. There was no need to exercise actual power to achieve this inner authority. If anything, that kind of striving revealed a needy desire for admiration, the exact opposite of the serene self-assurance Nietzsche hoped to exhibit: ‘The desire to rule has often appeared to me a sign of weakness.’ The will to power wasn’t being powerful, but feeling powerful – in other words, feeling confident.
But Nietzsche used the phrase ‘will to power’ quite deliberately. He wanted to make the connection between confidence and power – a connection that is very often overlooked.
Part of the appeal of confidence is that it’s apolitical. It’s good for everyone, like sunshine. Your good feeling about yourself doesn’t take away from mine – if anything it adds to it. So we don’t tend to associate confidence with power, at least not directly. It’s a feeling, we tell ourselves, not a nasty, cold fact.
But put it this way: when you’re losing power, do you feel less or more confident? When you’re being bullied, and someone is wielding power over you, do you grow or shrink in stature? When you’re weak, do you wish you were weaker? When you are powerful, how much easier is it to feel powerful?
As soon as Charlie arrived at the ladz’, he realised he didn’t want to be there. He hesitated before ringing the bell. Even though he’d only been up for five hours, he already felt drained. On the walk over, an insidious whisper had been growing in volume: You could go round to Sara’s. Charlie longed to slip under her covers, close his eyes and make it all stop. But the torment of the last few days was too fresh in his mind. Sara wasn’t a source of sympathy; she was something else he needed to be soothed about.
At least Ben would be around. Charlie’s mood rallied at the thought of sitting on Ben’s floor and dumping all of his troubles.
After a long wait, Bradder opened the door. ‘Ben’s gone home.’
Charlie felt strangely exposed. ‘How did you know I was looking for Ben?’
‘Weren’t you?’
‘No. Well, yeah, but—’
‘So what’s your point?’
Now Charlie felt he had go in, if only to prove to Bradder that Ben wasn’t his only friend. Squeezing past the mounds of fetid sports gear in the hall, he wondered why Ben hadn’t let him know he was leaving; he’d just abandoned him without warning. When you were going out with someone, Charlie reflected, friends seemed so dependable and fun and available. The second you were on your own, it became clear you couldn’t expect dick from anyone.
In the living room, Race was revising with one eye on The Weakest Link. Lucas lay on his back on the floor throwing a mini-American football up in the air. The girls had gone back to their houses – you could tell somehow from the smell. The place had a vacant feel, like a café where the staff were stacking chairs and wiping surfaces around you.
Race ignored Charlie. ‘There, was that so hard?’
‘Next time you get it,’ snapped Bradder.
‘I’m bo-o-ored,’ Lucas moaned. ‘Charlie, entertain me.’
Charlie couldn’t have felt less entertaining. ‘I could tell you about my revision.’
‘Bo-o-o-oring.’
With an evil grin, Race picked up a half-empty packet of Monster Munch. He held it out to Bradder and said deliberately, ‘This is a finish.’
Bradder glared at him, but replied, ‘A what?’
‘A finish.’
‘Ah, a finish.’ Bradder snatched the pack. ‘This’ – he turned to Lucas – ‘is a finish.’
‘A what?’ asked Lucas.
‘A what?’ Bradder turned back to Race.
‘A finish,’ Race informed Bradder gravely.
‘A finish,’ Bradder told Lucas.
‘Aaaah.’ Lucas cradled the pack in both hands. ‘A finish!’
And so it went on. It was a drinking game that had been turned into an everything game. You made a chain of questions and everyone had to remember where they were, until someone fucked up and had to finish . . . it really could be anything. Charlie had seen bottles of chilli oil, mugs of lard, entire tubs of dry whey choked down (and in the case of the chilli oil, vomited back up) by unfortunate losers.
Charlie knew if the crisps came to him, he would lose. He simply couldn’t focus: stray reflections on genocide and New Labour streaked across his brain. But although the game did turn his way once or twice, Race and Lucas were more interested in picking on Bradder. Weirdly, Bradder was actually some kind of maths genius, but he couldn’t keep it up with Race trash-talking in his ear the whole time.
As soon as Bradder succumbed, Charlie took the opportunity to escape to Ben’s room, taking out his phone as if he were off to make a call. As he left, he heard Lucas say, ‘Bradder, when you’re ready, this is a finish.’
Charlie headed up the stairs and down the corridor, pursued by rising finalist’s fear. If he got 51 in New Labour, what did that mean he had to get in Political Economy of New Europe? Or worse, the Idea of Liberty: 70? Jesus. The nagging omni-sense that he should be revising and wasn’t rose from a dull drone to an unpleasant squeal. Charlie calculated and recalculated the days until exams: ten, including weekends – nine, if you subtracted the day handing out flyers. He couldn’t tell which was worse: the realisation that he shouldn’t have taken that job, or the thought of Alistair’s smug expression if he bailed on it.
Ben’s room had the quiet air of grandparents’ houses and days off from school. Long strips of dust blew across the fake wood lino. Charlie wondered whether he should go home too. He could get on the train this afternoon, take his folders in a bin bag, and still be back in time for supper. His sister wouldn’t be home and Mum and Dad would be at the factory during the day, so he’d have the place to himself. But the idea made Charlie feel even lonelier; trying to revise on his own, there’d be no escape from the thought that was looping his mind on Scalextric tracks – his future was drifting out of his reach and there didn’t seem to be anything he could do to wrest it back.
Downstairs, Bradder was embarking on the fifth of a six-pack of apples. ‘I’m not eating the cores,’ he said mushily.
Lucas shook his head sadly. ‘You’re only cheating yourself.’
Charlie slumped onto the sofa. The Weakest Link was over and Eggheads just beginning. He knew he should leave, but couldn’t face confronting his revision. As long as Eggheads was on, he could still claim to be taking a break.
‘B-o-o-ored,’ Lucas groaned.
‘We need someone else to bully,’ announced Race. ‘Charlie, you’ll do. Where’s my lunch money?’
Charlie knew the answer to that one. ‘I gave it to your mum last night as a tip.’
‘See?’ Race told Bradder. ‘Even Charlie’s funnier than you.’
‘Even Charlie?’ said Charlie.
‘Don’t get too pleased. It’s not much of an honour being funnier than Bradder.’
Bradder finished his final apple and threw the core, hard, at Race. It splattered against the wall. ‘There.’ He stood unsteadily. ‘That is a fucking finish.’
Lucas levered himself up. ‘We’ll need some adjudication on that. I’m not sure if it counts without the cores.’
‘I am a massive lad.’ Bradder puffed out his chest and trundled towards the kitchen.
‘Hey, Bladder!’ called Race.
Despite himself, Bradder looked back. ‘What?’<
br />
‘Shut the fuck up.’
Charlie snorted.
‘You can shut up,’ Bradder snapped at Charlie. ‘Dickwad.’ He stormed out, pulling a right hook past the doorframe.
‘What did I do?’ Charlie asked the room.
From the kitchen came sounds of pots clattering.
‘Did he just say, “Mwa ha ha, I’ll show them all”?’ said Race.
‘He’s losing it,’ agreed Lucas. ‘Must be the ’roids.’
On TV, the challengers were putting up a decent fight against the Eggheads. Charlie wished one of the girls were here. Without them and Ben, the ladz just abused each other: that was ‘banter’. If they could only give themselves a break and agree not to care about banter for ten minutes, Charlie thought, they would all be a lot happier.
Heavy steps clumped down the corridor, as Bradder returned. In the crook of his arm he held a ceramic jar of Stilton, like the one Aunt Margery gave Charlie’s family at Christmas. ‘This,’ Bradder said, with a greedy grin, handing the jar to Race, ‘is a finish.’
‘Fuck off, Bradder,’ said Lucas.
‘I’m sorry? Is this or is this not a finish?’
Race’s face read You’re a twat, but he said, with a nonchalant air, ‘A what?’
‘Oh God,’ muttered Charlie, wishing he could make a run for it. He took out his phone in a vain attempt to look busy. Quickly he texted Sara: ‘U ok? Miss u.’
‘A finish!’ cried Bradder gleefully.
‘Ah, a finish.’ Race accepted the jar. ‘This,’ he said wearily to Lucas, ‘is a finish.’
The damp cellar smell of Stilton wafted across the room.
‘A what?’ Lucas enquired.
‘A what?’ Race asked Bradder.
‘A finish,’ Bradder told Race.
‘A finish,’ Race told Lucas.
‘This,’ Lucas turned to Charlie. ‘Is—’
‘No, not a chance.’ Charlie pushed the jar away. ‘Count me out.’
‘Come on, Charlie,’ cajoled Lucas, smiling. ‘What is it?’
‘What is it, Charlie?’ Bradder babytalked.
‘Is it a bird?’ Lucas waggled the jar under Charlie’s nose. ‘Is it a plane? Nyeeeaaooow. Come on, Charlie, why don’t you want to play with us?’
Charlie shook his head. Lucas chucked him under the chin.
‘Was that a little smile? Was that an ickle smile?’ cooed Lucas. ‘Is Charlie coming out to play?’
‘This is the gayest thing I’ve ever seen,’ said Race.
‘Thi-i-i-i-is is a . . .’ Lucas tickled Charlie’s armpit. ‘Finish!’
Charlie wriggled, breaking into laughter. ‘A what?’ he capitulated, rolling his eyes.
‘Wahay!’ Lucas raised his arms in victory. ‘A what?’
‘A what?’
‘A what?’
‘A finish.’
‘A finish.’
‘A finish.’
Charlie passed it on to Race, who was surveying the scene like a Victorian father at Christmas. Without Race harassing him, Bradder followed each move with furious attention. Lucas rolled around the floor, delighted by even this much distraction. The chain became ever longer and more complex, but Charlie kept track. If only, he thought, he had brought this sort of focus to his genocide essay. Was it now too late for his 2:1 ambitions? Could he turn it around if he really knuckled down to revision over the next nine days (nine days was ages, after all – people took holidays for nine days)? It might be tough, but Charlie wasn’t one for undue negativity. A few inspired points about Italian politics could bring him right back on track.
‘Charlie!’
‘What?’
‘Finish it!’ Bradder jumped to his feet. ‘It’s a finish!’
The jar of Stilton was shoved into Charlie’s hands. He looked up at Lucas, who shrugged as if to say, You came here.
‘Bradder, where are your manners?’ sighed Race. ‘Get Charlie a spoon.’
Bradder skipped out to the kitchen, cackling to himself.
‘I’m not going to have all of this,’ Charlie muttered to Lucas.
‘You certainly are.’ Race looked down at his essay.
‘Win some, lose some.’ Lucas stared at the TV.
‘The city of Palma is the capital of which island group?’ read Jeremy Vine.
‘For you!’ Bradder stabbed the Stilton with the handle of a soup spoon.
Charlie plucked it gingerly from the sweaty white cheese, studying the blue-green veins and clumps of mould. Why had he been stupid enough to join in? Ordinarily he maintained a kind of dishonourable exemption from this torture. He knew the ladz wouldn’t even acknowledge not-eating-the-cheese as a possible outcome of this situation. ‘Finish’ was unambiguous: they meant what they said, and they didn’t care what pain it entailed. Not doing it would be some kind of shameful admission about himself. He’d have ruined the game – not this game, but the constant, behind-the-scenes, intimate, painful game that the ladz were always playing.
‘I’m bored,’ moaned Lucas, lying back down on the floor.
‘Chop chop, Charlie,’ said Race.
‘Where does it even say you’re expelled?’ Nadine sat on the swing, a sheet of paper in each hand.
‘It doesn’t. That was just Rose – I don’t think people even get expelled from uni.’ Ellie squatted on the playground tarmac. ‘It says I can’t take my exams and as of today my access card has been revoked and I have to appear before the disciplinary committee and depending on their decision, which I’ll receive in eight weeks, I may be able to sit them next year.’
‘This is ridiculous,’ said Nadine, not for the first time. ‘And why’s it only you?’
‘It’s to do with the group. It’s my Facebook account. I instigated.’
‘And what’s this they’re saying about how they’ve already given you a formal warning? Bullshit!’
‘No, I got a letter before. Did I not tell you?’
‘No.’
‘Oh, right . . . Yeah.’
Nadine sighed. ‘Eleanor Taber, what am I going to do with you?’
A pair of parents advanced on the swings, buggies like tanks, a red-faced, squealing toddler in the vanguard.
‘Ugh,’ murmured Nadine, as they picked their way over to a park bench. ‘Do you want a cherry? I keep buying about a stone of them and giving myself the shits.’
‘Sure, I need the strength.’ Ellie put two in her mouth, puncturing the tight skin and working the flesh off with her tongue.
Nadine spat a stone towards a bin, pitching just short.
‘But it wasn’t actually me this time, right?’ Ellie brushed a crisp packet off the bench and plonked herself down. ‘So surely I can just write back or go and see them and explain that it wasn’t me and they might revoke it.’
Nadine chewed her lip doubtfully.
‘You don’t think?’
‘You could try. I mean, definitely try. Have you emailed your adviser?’
‘She’s on research leave. But I emailed the person it said to email while she’s away. He’s not got back to me yet. I mean, it was only an hour ago. The normal turnaround time is about three weeks.’ Ellie picked at the cracked green paint on the bench, pressing the pips into the roof of her mouth. ‘I mean, surely,’ she slurred, ‘if I just speak to the right person, someone who actually knows who I am . . .’
Nadine squinted at her with the same dubious expression.
‘No, I know.’ Ellie rubbed her eyes. ‘I couldn’t think of anyone either.’
‘Did you call home?’
‘Mm, not yet.’ Ellie hadn’t called home for some time now, nor had she seen her parents since Christmas. She wasn’t sure why she was avoiding it. In many ways their relationship hung far more on being in the vicinity of one another than conversing. Since she’d turned twelve or so, Ellie had exercised what she thought of as benevolent deceit towards her parents. Who wanted to know, for example, that last night their thirteen-year-old drank straight vodka by the riv
er at the bottom of the graveyard, then puked up, and then proceeded to kiss an unconventionally attractive fourteen-year-old by the war memorial? Ellie felt she owed it to her parents not to bother them with that sort of thing, not for fear of reprisal, but simply to avoid embarrassing them.
Sometimes this reverse paternalism could take odd turns. Take, for instance, cycling. Ellie had bought a bike when she came to uni (the gears had packed in this January and its repair had fallen victim to a combination of Justin’s determined self-sufficiency and forgetfulness). ‘I hope you’re wearing a helmet,’ both of her parents had said, repeatedly. Ellie didn’t wear a helmet, because she couldn’t be arsed carrying it around, but whenever her mum asked if she wore one, she’d reply (compensating for the lie with forcefulness), ‘Of course I do. I’m not an idiot.’ The act went so far that when her parents visited last year, Ellie had borrowed one of Justin’s housemates’ helmets and carted it around with her as a prop. When she couldn’t even tell her own parents (who’d never beaten her or locked her in a cupboard or insisted she’d amount to nothing) that she didn’t wear a cycling helmet, how was she going to explain that she’d jeopardised her entire degree by committing (admittedly ideologically fuelled) vandalism?
‘The way I see it,’ said Nadine, as they walked round and round the park perimeter, ‘you got two options. One: submit yourself to the uni system, hoping to God that if you manage to talk to your stand-in adviser and people on the committee and explain what’s happened, someone will make it all go away before exams.’
‘Yeah, that’s what I reckon. I’ll just have to swallow my pride and talk to everyone. Like, find out their names, find out where their offices are, and then camp outside them with a book, and be super-remorseful—’
‘Or.’ Nadine offered the bag of cherries. ‘Option two: attract as much attention as possible, at the risk of pissing uni off, hoping that public pressure will persuade them to rethink.’
‘Terrifying.’
‘’Course, you could do a combination. Throw everything at it.’
Confidence Page 18
