Confidence

by Rowland Manthorpe

  ‘Students,’ he started. I’ve started, he thought. ‘Are poor.’ But I could stop. ‘Right?’ I can still stop.

  It was impossible. It was impossible to pitch when you knew the whole project was hopeless. Charlie sounded like an imbecilic TV presenter. Like a person raving on a street corner. Like his own dad, holding forth. He sounded like the star of a Dragon’s Den disaster video, sweating and smirking with nerves, hands trembling, tongue clacking in a dry, stripped mouth.

  The pitch ground on and on. Charlie was so far outside himself, his words and gestures were in another universe – a twanging, jolting place where the air was thick and pressing, and there was a constant, insistent ring.

  16

  Overconfidence

  Overconfidence is what happens when confidence goes bad. By definition, therefore, there is no such thing as bad confidence – there is only overconfidence. As a way of thinking, this is not especially helpful.

  Overconfidence makes it very hard to discuss the reality of confidence, especially its inbuilt tendency to self-destruct, because if confidence is always good, then logically there can be no such tendency. As soon as confidence becomes undeserved, or nasty, or tips over into recklessness, it has turned into something categorically different: overconfidence. It’s like the idea that the market is always right – because, if the market went wrong, that can only mean it wasn’t functioning efficiently enough. Somehow, in both cases, the anomaly serves as confirmation of the theory.

  You can see the same circular reasoning in the way overconfidence is only ever defined retrospectively. Think of any parable of overconfidence: Lance Armstrong, the Iraq War, the financial crisis. It’s only after everything has gone wrong that it suddenly becomes obvious to everyone that we were dealing with a raging case of hubris. Beforehand, when things seem to be fine . . . well, we may have had our suspicions, but as long as the enterprise was succeeding, any accusation of overconfidence was just that, an accusation. And if, by some miracle, things work out – if Lance never gets caught, if the Iraq War creates a stable Middle Eastern democracy, if the banks catch their mistakes and dump the evidence in the river? In that case, it wasn’t overconfidence at all, but something else, something admirable and impressive. There would still be a plaque in Nike headquarters praising Armstrong’s ‘fearlessness and confidence’. George W. Bush would be known by his self-appointed nickname, ‘the decider’.

  Nietzsche would have disliked the notion of overconfidence, although not primarily for its lack of logic. The phrase ‘too much of a good thing’ meant nothing to him. In many ways, overconfidence was exactly what he desired and wished to inculcate: a ‘triumphant abundance of life’ wielded by individuals ‘far above and beyond the average’. Our separation of overconfidence from confidence would have appeared to him as a way of ‘levelling down’ the boldest and strongest spirits in favour of ‘the herd’.

  So went the theory. But when Nietzsche encountered someone who truly seemed to live at the pitch he sought, the practice was far more complicated and painful. That someone was Richard Wagner, the greatest composer of the age, who Nietzsche first met when he was a young professor at the University of Basel.

  It was love at first sight, at least on the part of Nietzsche, who after only his second meeting with Wagner was signing his thank-you notes ‘your truest and most devoted disciple and admirer’ and addressing the older man as ‘master’. For the next three years, Nietzsche was a dedicated member of the Wagner family, a pseudo-son and functionary who could be relied on to shop for Wagner’s silk underwear and pen blistering attacks on Wagner’s critics. Even his philosophy was an elaboration of Wagnerian theory. The Birth of Tragedy, his first book, begins with a sickly dedication, in which Nietzsche assures Wagner that as he wrote it he ‘communed with you as with one present and could thus write only what befitted your presence’.

  Nietzsche’s relationship with Wagner followed a similar path to his relationship with God. By the 1880s, the former disciple had become his master’s most acid critic, denouncing him at book length (twice) in typically no-holds-barred style. ‘Wagner’s art is diseased,’ runs one assault. ‘He has made music ill.’ For Nietzsche, the controversy aroused by attacking such a famous figure was all part of the appeal. The name ‘Wagner’ was enough to give his books a much-needed sales boost.

  What changed? The first hint of difficulty came in a letter to a mutual friend in February of 1873. ‘I can’t conceive how anyone can be, in fundamental matters, more truly and deeply committed than I am,’ Nietzsche protested. ‘But in little, subordinate side-issues . . . I must grant myself a freedom, really only to preserve my loyalty in a higher sense.’ Quite simply, Nietzsche needed to take back his life. Wagner’s ‘tyrannical nature’ left no room for anyone else to breathe. To become himself – to be his own man – Nietzsche had to escape the composer’s oppressive presence.

  Did Nietzsche like the idea of his ideal man more than the dominating reality? Perhaps. But that is not what he claimed. Far from criticising Wagner for going too far, Nietzsche condemned him for not going far enough. The ideal was perfect – it was Wagner who could not live up to it. He courted popularity and did things for money; he gave people ‘shows’ when he should have been giving them art. He stuck to what he knew would be popular, rather than continually seeking to develop. Wagner was not too confident; in Nietzsche’s terms, he was not confident enough.

  Whatever the contradictory emotions that lay behind his utterances, in his published writings, Nietzsche stuck to his theoretical guns. He did not believe in overconfidence, because overconfidence did not exist – it was simply the extension of confidence, the place confidence goes when it is pursued to its logical end point. That is the reason we can only identify it after it has taken effect: overconfidence is not a phenomenon in its own right, but simply a more complete version of the confident mindset.

  For most people, this might be read as a warning, the danger of a situation that feels so right, but goes so wrong. For Nietzsche, it was a challenge. More, always more, he commanded his readers: ‘Live dangerously! Build your cities on the slope of Vesuvius! Send your ships into unexplored seas!’

  Barred from the library, Ellie was revising on a bench in the scrubby parkland between Tesco’s and the canal path. It wasn’t ideal. She’d brought along a photocopied article on Hegel’s dialectics, which was disturbingly good. After the first paragraph, she had to stand up and walk round the bench, thoughts branching chaotically in every direction. Immediately, she began applying the concept to the campaign, half-murmuring phrases she might say in an interview or write in an exam essay in which she successfully wove her own political experience with Hegel’s philosophy in a sophisticated exploration of dialectics in the contemporary media.

  Catching herself in this triumphalist fantasy, Ellie looked around, fearing the topless man lying on the grass might be able to read her thoughts. He was engrossed in The Sun – she’d got away with it. Ellie settled down to beginning the paragraph all over again.

  This was the problem with revision. She knew she should do it, because she might (or might not) be able to sit her exams when they began (with or without her) in five days. But highly associative reflections on Hegel seemed like a waste of time when she could be taking some action to lift her ban. Surely she should be practising for interviews, emailing journalists, or knocking on the doors of empty offices and explaining to obstructive administration staff that she was (and yet wasn’t) a vandal, in an effort to meet someone on the interdepartmental disciplinary committee.

  What she needed, Ellie decided firmly, was some water. She left the bench (fearing that someone else would steal her sweet spot) and headed toward Tesco’s. Purpose already waning, she browsed the potted plants outside, considering how she would respond to an interviewer’s question about Shannon, the girl in the SSB poster, and whether it was feminist to single out—

  ‘Looking for anything in particular?’

  It was Oscar, swingin
g a plastic bag, looking both sexy and unwashed.

  ‘Oh,’ she said.

  ‘Oh?’

  ‘I mean, hello.’ She fingered the leaf of a nearby nasturtium. ‘Here you are.’

  ‘’Fraid so,’ he smiled broadly.

  ‘How come you’re not on your boat?’

  ‘Where I belong?’

  ‘Yeah, exactly. You’re all out of context.’

  ‘I had to buy some toothpaste. Sorry about that.’

  ‘It’s confusing of you.’

  ‘I know you hate being confused.’

  ‘I mean, where do we go from here?’

  ‘I’ve got my toothpaste so I’m ready for anything.’

  ‘What are the rules? What’s the etiquette?’

  ‘There are no rules. I hate etiquette.’

  ‘What a nightmare.’

  Oscar tipped onto the balls of his feet. ‘I suppose we could get a drink. Isn’t that what people do when they meet by chance?’

  ‘I have heard that,’ Ellie nodded.

  ‘What can go wrong?’

  ‘Okay,’ she agreed dubiously. ‘It’s your funeral.’

  By now, it felt like it had been hot for ever, and would never be cool again. In the balmy late afternoon sun, the picnic tables by the canal were full of civilians and second-year students, blissfully free of finals. It occurred to Ellie that they should probably go to some dark, ill-attended dive, maybe the horrible St George near the station. But she was practically a grown-up, and it was sunny, and so what if people saw her and Oscar having a pint together? Who were these ‘people’ anyway and why was it any of their business? If anyone had something to say to her, they could join her for a cider, rammed between an earnest postgraduate reading group and some French tourists who had somehow been duped into thinking this would be a good place for a holiday.

  ‘What are you doing come summer?’ she asked Oscar.

  ‘I’m trying to fix the boat.’ Oscar rolled a cigarette. ‘Do you want one?’

  ‘Yeah, thanks.’

  ‘I want to take it on a trip, coast to coast.’

  ‘Oooh, nice.’

  ‘But it’ll probably take me to the end of the summer just to get it running. And then it might not be running. I don’t mind if I get stuck though, it’s a good town when we’re not here. What about you?’

  ‘Um.’ She wondered how to approach this question. ‘Have you by any chance heard about the exam ban thing?’

  ‘I have. Which is saying something. I saw it in the local paper. “Girl Vandal’s Exam Ban”.’

  ‘Yeah, it’s blown up a bit.’

  ‘S’pose that’s what you want, isn’t it?’

  Ellie frowned – she’d never quite expressed it to herself that way before. ‘I suppose. Anyway, if they don’t let me take them, I can’t go home. I’ll have to run away. Maybe cycle coast to coast if I manage to fix my bike. I’ll meet you in John O’Groats.’

  ‘I was thinking east to west – I’ll never get the boat that far. Do you want another drink?’

  ‘Oh, decision time?’

  ‘Looks like it.’

  ‘I suppose it’s gone pretty well so far.’

  ‘I’ve no complaints.’

  ‘Let me get these ones then.’

  ‘Actually . . .’ Oscar swapped his rollie to the other hand and reached deep into his pocket. ‘Here’s another decision for you.’

  ‘You’re not going to propose, are you? I thought you didn’t believe in monogamy.’

  ‘Do you want some mandy?’

  Ellie paused. ‘Serious?’

  Oscar nodded.

  ‘Oh.’

  ‘Back to “Oh”?’

  ‘Now you’ve thrown a spanner in the works.’

  ‘I’ve had it kicking around for ages. If I keep it much longer, I’m going to end up putting it through the wash.’

  ‘Oscar, you don’t need to pretend you wash your clothes. I’ve been in your boat.’

  ‘There’s a system. It’s all part of the system. Anyway, do you want this or what?’

  ‘Yeah. Yeah, of course I do.’

  ‘At least there’ll be no more decisions to make.’

  ‘I suppose so. Do you want some money?’

  ‘No, no.’

  ‘Okay.’ Ellie hovered over the bench. ‘Shall I still get pints?’

  ‘Why not?’

  Squeezing into the bar, she waited behind a group of office workers clutching their 5 p.m. drinks. Under the air conditioner, she felt a shiver of cold and excitement. Searching for the right word, she decided that she felt voracious – she wanted everything, she wanted the whole world. The pursuit of pleasure was beginning to make sense to her in a way it never had before. Previously it had always seemed shallow and rather stupid, a kind of non-philosophy for people who enjoyed drinking more than thinking. Now she wondered how anything could be wrong with feeling this way. Ellie was sick of checking herself, bored of keeping her eyes down and not being rude or flirtatious, done with preemptively hedging against having any effect on others.

  ‘London Pride and Amstel, please.’ She smiled at the woman behind the bar. As well as indiscriminate, Ellie’s voracious feeling was also inclusive – she wanted everyone else to feel voracious too. Maybe this was what the Sixties were like, she thought. Maybe this was what everybody in the Sixties wished the Sixties were like.

  By the time she was back outside, she’d whipped herself into a high state without even taking the stimulants. But she took them anyway, washing down the rank chemical tang with half a pint of Amstel, and worrying briefly about quite how much it would poison her. There was no point in dwelling on it – it was in her body and would take whatever course it chose. Ellie enjoyed the edgy, in-between period in the emotional waiting room, chatting to Oscar about the perils of going back home.

  When her phone rang with an unknown number, she thought twice about answering.

  ‘You’re fine,’ Oscar told her. ‘It’s probably some cold caller anyway.’

  In fact, it was Kristen from BBC news who wanted to interview her for a TV segment about the ‘death of student politics’ (she inflected upwards, as though it were a question). As she responded, Ellie heard her own ‘professional voice’: bright and capable and extra-clear. Oscar’s smirk drove her away towards the canal as she listened to Kristen’s instructions on where she’d be picked up, what she should wear, what sorts of questions she could expect from Gita, the presenter. ‘You were so articulate on the radio,’ Kristen gushed, brisk and encouraging. ‘And what an interesting insight into contemporary university life. Our viewers will just want to know the facts – why you did what you did.’ Ellie had the presence of mind to ask if Nadine could accompany her.

  Having hung up, she inwardly let go – the string slipped from her grasp, and the balloon rose up into the sky.

  ‘I want to walk,’ she decided, finding her glass empty. ‘Let’s go for a walk in town.’

  Oscar drained his remaining pint and joined her. As they stepped away from the pub (leaving the Hegel essay on the bench), she reached out and took his hand. The sun was still warm as they walked towards the market square.

  ‘It’s not such a bad place, is it?’ She looked with fresh eyes at the bank that had been converted into a Wetherspoons, the two opticians positioned side by side, and the sagging Save The Children window display. ‘I feel like every time I’m here I’m swearing under my breath in the queue at Rymans or Tesco Metro. Do you ever feel like uni separates you from life? I mean, only being with people your own age, it’s not really natural, is it? I swear the other day, I was on campus, and I caught out of the corner of my eye a child and my first thought was that it must be a dwarf, or little person, is that the right word? Anyway, basically I’m saying, that’s how far off my radar children are, you know? It doesn’t seem like that’s normal.’

  ‘One of my friends has a kid. She’s wicked.’

  ‘You’re really not at uni at all, are you?’

 
Ellie took a deep breath as they passed the group of homeless people who gathered near the cathedral. She pressed her hand into Oscar’s lower back. It was lovely, it was unbelievably beautiful, how his lower back felt. She slid across to the side of his waist, which was both muscular and soft, like a perfect fruit, and then back to the bony base of his spine.

  Oscar hummed in response. Ellie turned him round to face her, and kissed him, leaning against the cathedral fence. His lips were dry and chapped, his tongue soft.

  ‘You smell like a tyre,’ she sighed happily. He laughed. ‘In a great way! I love it.’

  Out of the corner of her eye, Ellie caught sight of Maggie and Giles, wheeling their bikes past a fruit stall. She couldn’t believe it. Taking Oscar’s hand in both of hers, Ellie led him over, calling their names.

  ‘HI!’ She spread her arms like a visitation. ‘I’m so happy to see you both! This is amazing.’

  ‘Hi, Ellie.’ Giles grinned, with a sideways glance at Maggie. ‘How are you doing?’

  ‘You seem very well.’ Maggie nodded, eyebrows raised.

  ‘Yeah, we just took a load of drugs, I feel excellent. This is Oscar,’ Ellie told them, putting her arm around his waist.

  ‘Hi.’ A strange half-grin twisted Oscar’s face.

  ‘It’s so brilliant that you can all meet. You would love each other.’ Ellie traced a triangle connecting them, before asking, in fascination, ‘What are you doing?’

  ‘We’re taking a break and buying some fruit,’ explained Maggie, as if to a child.

  ‘It’s okay,’ Ellie reassured her, understanding completely. ‘I know I seem ridiculous, but I’m fine.’