Nietzsche’s maladies followed a familiar pattern. He would push himself to the limit, then, when the inevitable collapse had passed, he would proclaim himself cured and start the whole cycle again. His ups were stratospheric; his downs fathomless. He set up a pattern of boom and bust which ended up ruling his life.
Not that this pattern was unique to Nietzsche. It belonged, not to him, but to confidence, the force to which he had devoted himself. Quite simply, the basic pattern of confidence is boom and bust. There is no escaping it – in fact, our belief that we can escape it is precisely what causes it in the first place.
At this point, it is helpful to think of an economic cycle. In the beginning, the economy grows in tandem with confidence. They boost each other, the physical and mental sides of the growth equation. Economic growth makes us feel better about the economy, and because we feel better, we borrow, and so the economy grows. (In financial terms, confidence is debt, which is why every financial crisis is also a crisis of debt.) For a while, growth is real, and it is good. on it goes, until at some point – and it is impossible to know when – our belief in the economy starts to exceed its fundamental strengths and weaknesses. Genuine growth has turned into a bubble. Confidence has soared – pop! – out of the atmosphere of reality. And it takes a painful crash to bring the whole thing down to earth.
Nietzsche’s last boom was the one that preceded his madness. He had never been afraid of self-aggrandisement, but in his final writings his boasting was off the scale. He signed off his last work, Ecce Homo, ‘Dionysus versus the Crucified’ – he was a Greek god in opposition to Jesus Christ. Nietzsche scholars debate the extent to which Ecce Homo was directly influenced by Nietzsche’s madness. The contents certainly prefigure the letter-writing campaign which signalled his insanity’s arrival.
Even in madness Nietzsche was living out his philosophy. A few years earlier he had suggested that for every true innovator, ‘if they were not already mad, all that was left was to make themselves mad or to feign madness . . . “Madness so that I can finally believe in myself!”’ Now, truly insane, he acted out fantasies he had previously only dared to write about. In his letters, he was an emperor. In the room of his boarding house in Turin, he danced naked, as if at a Dionysian orgy.
Although he was diagnosed with syphilis, it now appears that Nietzsche was suffering from a case of manic psychosis. (The other plausible diagnosis, a non-malignant brain tumour, does not quite match up with the details of Nietzsche’s pathology.) Like his other ailments, this condition was exacerbated by his way of life. A few months before his breakdown, he had moved to Italy in search of suitable weather. Always isolated, now he was completely alone, adrift in an unfamiliar country where he spoke barely a word of the language. His financial situation, never very stable, was about to get worse – the University of Basel planned to cut his pension by a third the following year – and he had committed himself to extensive redrafts of works old and new. Psychologists studying these breakdowns talk about a patient’s risk factors. In Nietzsche’s case, his entire life was a risk factor.
What could have prevented Nietzsche’s madness? Nothing can stop confidence overreaching itself, so the best way to handle it is to create structures that stop it doing too much damage. Friends, family, a job, lasting commitments – all these give you ballast in the good times and bad. This, however, was exactly the life Nietzsche rejected. His disdain for ‘habit’ and love of solitude made his mental state dependent on the ebbs and flows of his good feeling. Sadly, success, the one thing that might conceivably have connected him to the wider world, arrived six months too late.
Nietzsche never said we should be confident all the time. What he does say is in many ways more terrifying: even though it is impossible to be confident all the time, we must still maintain complete confidence as our goal. ‘Everyone has his good days where he finds his higher self,’ he writes, ‘and true humanity demands that everyone be evaluated only in the light of this condition.’ Our best days are the standard; everything else is underperformance. Ignoring the inevitable dip to come, we must be able to say with Nietzsche, ‘Today I love myself as a god.’
And there you have it, the reason we can’t wean ourselves off boom and bust and live in a steady state: because, like Nietzsche, we have set a standard for ourselves of complete and unfailing confidence. We know, deep down, that no one is confident all the time, that such a thing is impossible, but at the same time, there’s always a voice whispering, But if it were possible, wouldn’t it be lovely? It’s the myth of the confident person – and philosophically, it traces back to Nietzsche.
‘To be a human being with a single elevated feeling, the embodiment of one great mood – that has hitherto been merely a dream and a delightful possibility,’ Nietzsche noted. ‘As yet history offers us no certain examples.’ Nevertheless, he could not but hope. This time, he told himself, this time is different.
It was the night before his first exam, and Charlie was in despair. Admitting this fact felt momentous. He experimented with saying it aloud: ‘I am fucked. I am fucked.’
The earth-shattering statement didn’t take effect – nothing stopped, nothing changed. When he went upstairs to tell Alistair, Alistair shouted through the door that if Charlie had nothing to contribute on German Constitutional Law then he wasn’t welcome.
Charlie stared at an essay plan on Berlusconi he’d cobbled together from part of a coursework essay and an article he’d sourced four hours ago on the intranet. Given that substance wasn’t going to be his strong point, he knew his argument needed to be nothing short of field-changing, the sort of thing that would prompt the examiner to stop everything, jump on a train and travel to Italy to explain it to Berlusconi in person.
He was doing it again – imagining things going well instead of doing something to bring that outcome about. God, he was a waste of space.
Seeking human contact online, he found an email from Meredith, no subject heading: ‘Don’t contact Sara. She’s gone home to revise.’
Charlie stared at the screen, reading the sentences over and over.
On the desk, his phone flashed ‘Lucas’. Charlie felt a twinge of shame – he hadn’t seen or spoken to Lucas since Stiltongate. He stared at the phone, hoping some instruction would emerge, and finally forced himself to pick up.
‘Mate, come to the Mitre. Everyone’s here.’
‘I’ve got Italian Politics tomorrow.’
‘So?’
‘So I’m fucked!’
The solemnity of this situation passed Lucas by.
‘Last-minute cramming’s not going to help. Have you learned nothing? You’ve got to relax, keep supple, get in the zone.’
Charlie had the dim sense that this was poor advice but he was in no position to judge. ‘I’m not drinking.’
‘Sure, mate. Whatever you want.’
—
‘You don’t need much, you’ve got lovely skin,’ Ashley the make-up artist said, liberally applying foundation to Ellie’s forehead. Nadine perched on the dressing table between transparent plastic make-up cases, highlighting sections of her ‘Topics in Epistemology: Knowledge and Justification’ essay.
‘Exams?’ Ashley asked her brightly.
‘Yeah, we got our first one tomorrow.’ Nadine grimaced.
‘I bet you’ll be fine!’
‘Doubt it. ’Course Ellie can’t even sit hers.’
‘Ridiculous, really,’ murmured Kathryn, the National Student Union rep. When they’d been introduced earlier, Kathryn had seemed extremely focused and very political. The moment she excused herself to take a phone call, Ellie hustled Nadine off to the loos to replan their strategy.
‘I’m going to focus on the censorship angle,’ Ellie had brainstormed. ‘Censorship. And punishing protest.’
Nadine nodded, distractedly eyeing her ringbinder.
Now, Kathryn glanced through interview notes while Ashley’s colleague, Derek, dabbed her left cheek. Ellie’s quarter-sheet,
torn from Nadine’s notes on cognitive pluralism, hardly seemed worth the effort.
‘How are you feeling?’ Ashley brushed under Ellie’s eyes. ‘Bit nervous?’
Ellie smiled in vague agreement, but in fact, she didn’t feel nervous. It was strange. She was basically unprepared, but she still felt ready for any question. Knowledge of the topic seemed irrelevant when she knew herself. Ellie was even quietly excited at the prospect of discovering she was good at this.
Deep down in the miscellaneous compartment of her brain, wedged between near-forgotten humiliations and stubborn memories of wrongdoing, was an email she had received that morning.
‘Dear Eleanor,’ it read:
I’ve just returned from paternity leave to find your emails and the various messages you left with Jonathan in the office, who kindly stayed late yesterday to pass them on. I’m sorry that you’ve had this experience. The disciplinary letter was issued automatically and should never have been sent without further discussion. These letters are reserved for cases of serious criminal damage or assault to other students, and such escalation was not appropriate in this case.
Naturally we do not condone vandalism to university property in any circumstance, political or otherwise. However I understand that you deny having carried out the subsequent vandalism and so the committee is content to let the matter rest.
Please accept this email as confirmation that you are authorised to sit your examinations as set out in your timetable. I wish you the best of luck with them and I hope that this has not caused undue disruption to your revision.
I understand you have contacted various media outlets to publicise these events. Although I appreciate your motivation, it is a matter of regret to me, the other committee members, and the university administration, that you did not feel able to resolve the matter internally. Were you aware, for example, that Dr Michelle Pritchard is responsible for all third-year pastoral matters and could have assisted you? (This information is in the handbook and on the intranet.) Your methods have had the unfortunate effect of tarnishing the university’s reputation unnecessarily. (Please also see the handbook for our policy regarding protest.)
It remains for me to wish you all the best in your exams and the future.
Regards, Simeon.
‘That’s you!’ Ashley smiled at Ellie. ‘Do you want to head back to the green room?’
‘Actually, we’ll take them into the studio, please.’ An absurdly attractive man stepped in with a walkie-talkie. ‘We’re close to time.’
There were a surprising number of people in the pub: a febrile, oddly attired group sipping on lime and soda or buckets of tea. Lucas kept trying to make Charlie have a pint, which was pretty annoying. All anyone else had to talk about was revision. If you weren’t hysterical when you arrived, Charlie thought, you would be when you walked out the door.
‘Haven’t seen you in ages,’ said a weary Romilly.
‘Well, whose fault is that?’ Charlie replied, more gruffly than he intended. Whatever part of his brain managed conversation was out of action.
‘I know, I’ve been working at Josh’s. If we don’t revise together, we never see each other, because what else is going on? I feel like I have room for about two people in my life right now: Katie and Josh. We watch Cash in the Attic together. Pathetic. But it’s our break. We’re all doing about eleven hours a day, it’s just crazy. Katie got up yesterday and fainted. It’d been that long since she’d stood up.’
Charlie stared glumly at the beer mat.
‘So.’ Romilly looked at him reproachfully. ‘I heard about you and Sara.’
‘Oh God,’ Charlie couldn’t help himself saying.
‘Look.’ Romilly put down her tea to do a demonstrative impression of Charlie. Katie and Josh smiled and drew closer, as though this were the beginning of a familiar skit, one they all took turns at as they watched Cash in the Attic. ‘Look. I know you’re broken-hearted ’cause I dumped you. Even though you’re beautiful and lovely and I’m an idiot. So how about this? Let’s shag every so often. Obviously I’ll shag anyone else I can lay my hands on as well. Oh yeah, can you also stroke my forehead while I revise?’
‘And.’ Katie deepened her voice. ‘When we leave, I never want to see you again. Obviously.’
‘Yeah!’ grinned Romilly. ‘What do you say? I bet that makes you feel pretty special.’
‘What a lucky lady,’ Josh chipped in.
‘It wasn’t like that,’ muttered Charlie.
‘Do you know what your problem is, Charlie?’ Romilly swayed in her seat, enjoying herself.
Charlie sighed. ‘I’m a nice guy who thinks he’s a dick?’
‘No – well, yes, actually. But your other one. You don’t take any responsibility for yourself. You . . . How can I put this? You’re a hopeless shambles.’
Charlie was on the brink of straightforwardly agreeing (not even in a self-deprecating way), when Sasha and Pippa walked through the Mitre door. Catching Charlie’s eye, Sasha gave a faintly ironic wave as she headed towards the bar – a wave in which Charlie saw his only hope for salvation.
The interview had gone brilliantly, even better than the radio one. Gita was primed to talk about how students were depressingly apolitical and didn’t give a shit, but Kathryn and Ellie had successfully challenged her view. Ellie mentally replayed a moment in which she had criticised previous generations for believing they had a monopoly on politics and accused them of blaming current students for the failure of their own ideals. ‘Politics didn’t end in the Seventies,’ she’d said.
Ellie called Nadine over as the taxi arrived.
‘Train station, please.’ They swung out of the drive.
‘Ugh, can’t read in the car.’ Nadine snapped her folder shut and swallowed queasily.
‘So.’ Ellie took a breath. ‘I’ve got a bit of news.’
‘You’re pregnant.’
‘No, thank God.’
‘I’m pregnant?’
‘Not as far as I’m aware.’
‘Phew.’
‘No. Uni’s decided I can sit my exams.’
‘Oh my God.’ Nadine stared at her. ‘Amazing! When did that happen?’
‘I got an email from the committee this morning.’
‘Wow. That’s brilliant!’
‘I know! It’s kind of frustrating, because now I haven’t done any revision. But at least this way I can finish uni. I’m relieved.’
‘Me too.’ Nadine looked at the passing streetlights for a second. ‘This morning?’
‘Yeah. I’m sorry I didn’t tell you earlier.’
‘Yeah, why didn’t you tell me?’
‘I just thought it would complicate everything. We still had the interview to do and I didn’t want to ruin the story, you know? It seemed easier “not to see it” for a few hours.’
‘Okay.’ Nadine tapped her folder. ‘But . . . did we need to do the interview if the ban was over?’
‘That’s four pounds eighty, please.’
Ellie pulled out a fiver. ‘God, we could have walked.’
Nadine climbed out and slammed the taxi door.
‘You all right?’ Ellie reopened the door and stepped onto the pavement.
‘Yeah, just feel a bit sick.’
They walked into the central waiting area and checked the departures board. ‘One in twenty minutes,’ Ellie narrated needlessly.
‘So including the train home that’ll be about eight hours travelling and preparing and hanging about.’
‘Yeah.’ Ellie rolled her eyes.
‘For nothing.’
‘Not for nothing. I mean, it’s still awareness, isn’t it?’
Nadine laughed incredulously. ‘But you know that I – and you – have an exam tomorrow, yeah?’
‘Yeah, I do now.’
Nadine flicked her thumb and fingernails, staring at the board. ‘So I was totally willing to come given I’m responsible too and I want to support you.’
‘Thanks.’
>
‘But do you get the difference between that and me coming when there’s actually no point and you’ve kind of lied to me?’
‘I haven’t lied.’
‘Yeah. Well.’ Nadine laughed again. ‘Don’t worry about it. It’s good news.’
Ellie scouted round for a bench, suspecting this would all be easier if they could sit down.
‘So, I mean, what about your revision?’ Nadine strived, but failed, to change her tone. ‘Done any?’
‘Some.’
‘Gonna work when you get back?’
‘I said I might go to Oscar’s.’
Nadine threw her eyes up to the domed glass ceiling.
‘What?’
‘I know this is none of my business, yeah, but are you being . . . fair on Justin?’
‘I told Justin – he’s okay with it.’
‘Is he though?’
‘Yes.’
‘But is he.’
‘Yes!’
An announcement rattled across the hall, scattering pigeons.
‘Can I ask.’ Nadine spread her silver-ringed fingers. ‘What is it you’re doing? I don’t get it.’
‘This. All the stuff you encouraged me to do. It’s good!’
They held one another’s gaze. Nadines eyes were wide and apparently expectant – Ellie couldn’t figure out what she wanted.
‘Well,’ concluded Nadine, at length. ‘I’m gonna get a chai latte and try a timed essay on the train.’
Charlie was hanging around by the Who Wants To Be A Millionaire? machine (picking up quite a crowd as they made it through to thirty-two thousand). He sipped the pint he hadn’t asked for and watched Sasha chatting to Josh and fiddling with her necklace. She was wearing the girl revision uniform – low-slung joggers and a vest top, the hint of a belly-button ring under the fabric, an inch of flat, brown stomach beneath.
The problem with his singleness, Charlie reflected, was that he hadn’t made the most of his opportunities: he hadn’t pursued them doggedly, relentlessly, clinically. The thought would have filled him with the bitterest regret, sending him deeper into the pit of self-loathing – would have, except that now, in his darkest hour (perhaps in answer to his prayers?), an opportunity for redemption had presented itself.
Confidence Page 25
