Study in Perfect (17 page)

Unfortunately, it's not just hunger that makes Miss Selfish butt in line. She's
always
first, hungry or not. Nothing like a crowd waiting to board a plane or vaporetto or ski lift to stimulate her sense of entitlement. Her behavior at a 50 percent off sale is atrocious, all elbows, tossing hangers and clothes everywhere. Furthermore, the correct way to play tennis is her way. The right call is hers. Her friends would be wise to follow her stage directions; otherwise they will make a bad play. Miss Selfish rules, without persuasion or sensitivity.

Two girls lollygag at the edge of a large pond. It's a hot, dusty evening and they are merely passing time, vaguely aware of each other. Coincidentally, they decide to throw a rock at exactly the same moment: kerplunk/kerplunk. The ripples spread in broad half-circles intersecting on their way to the center of the lake. Some die out; others bounce back, reverse direction toward the shore, where they appear as light wavelets, shooshing noises tickling the sand. The girls watch, fascinated. Abruptly one child snaps into action, combing the shore, scuttling about like a gull searching for meat. In fifteen minutes flat she has scooped up all the best rocks and filled her pockets. “Can we share?” She will not share. Each rock plops into the water with a satisfying boink, or if she's lucky, skims across the surface like a dragonfly before sinking unceremoniously. The other child appears deflated, arms at her side. Her adversary grows large and furious in her movements, a giant weed whacker, all spinning arms and splashing. She can feel
the spray on her face, like spit, and steps away. She'll find something else to do.

The word
selfish
was coined by Presbyterians in the seventeenth century, according to Hacket's
Life of Archbishop Williams
. It's translated
égoïste
in French,
itsekkäiden
in Finnish, and
önérdekű
in Hungarian.

Ego. Itself. One.

British biological theorist Richard Dawkins adopted the word for his gene-centered book on evolution, titled
The Selfish Gene
. Dawkins claims that genes act as if they are self-centered and the purpose of evolution is the survival of the information in the genes of the individual. Over a long period of time, the genes passed on from generation to generation are ones serving their implicit self-interest (to continue being replicated). Dawkins's proponents argue that the gene, as unit of selection, usefully completes and extends Charles Darwin's theory of evolution, before basic genetics was understood.

On a lighter note, Ambrose Bierce defined selfish in his
Devil's Dictionary
as “devoid of consideration for the selfishness of others.” Why do we laugh at this? Because we recognize immediately that it's true, a formula with selfishness on both sides of the equal sign.

Imagine a pristine and very expensive Mexican beach resort called “A,” where every stray wrapper is scooped up instantly and a hand outstretched is filled with a glass of minted ice tea. The clientele is privileged, the sand is raked nightly, and the ocean glistens as if it too were minty and iced. Twenty feet away from the bright umbrellas and chaises a long thick rope runs from water to street, confining local vendors to their portion of the beach, an area known as “B,” though legally it is all public beach. Crowded and hot, the vendors shift from one scalded
foot to the other. Trinkets and shawls, sombreros and jugs. Striped, tightly woven table runners and bright parasols.

No one from A crosses over to B. No exchange of coin, greeting, or glance. From A's point of view, B doesn't exist. One of the privileged sun worshippers speaks outside her privilege to say that most privileged people she knows are what we might easily call selfish. They prefer not to associate with those outside their circle. They have security systems, privacy issues, bold borders around their privilege.

But in fact, this cordoning off, this box-making, is not only the habit of privilege. A three-year-old will listen for language that suits her needs. For example, Mother insists with the power-words
have to
. You
have to
go to bed now. You
have to
wear shoes outside. Mother's hands clutch her daughter's arms, steer her upstairs, guide her foot into the Velcroed sneaker. The child feels her body positioned according to Mother's wishes. Not forced exactly, but expertly manipulated. Interesting. The child tries the expression herself. She bets on
have to
because she knows the words have muscle. I
have to
drink honey in my milk. I
have to
eat a chocolate cupcake. I
have to
wear both shirts and my favorite dress. Gentle, civilized
pleases
,
may Is
,
shares
float everywhere, but they do not strike the child as utile, not yet. Bit by bit, brick by brick, she is fencing off her portion of the beach.
Her
beach.

A selfish instinct has its root in our earliest ancestors, and all of us pass through a selfish stage. Left to her own devices, a three-year-old might steal a turkey sandwich from her sister, forage through the pantry, and eat nothing but Oreos and Cheez-Its. God forbid, she would pee wherever she felt like it, or even shove open the door and rush into the dangerous street. Luckily, this little girl has a refining influence in her parents,
specifically, Mother of Headstrong Toddlers. Though there is no instruction book on how to live socially, Mother has experience, which she naturally imparts. If the child grabs her sister's Elmo doll or worse, snatches a cracker off a stranger's plate, her mother will set her straight with another little lecture about asking politely, sharing, and showing consideration for others. Eventually the child will get it and, thus, with a little less selfishness, her socialization begins. Chances are, she'll never thank her mother. As Freud noted, we never really forgive the person who civilizes us.

If, however, her selfishness persists beyond childhood, it will restrict her ability to empathize. She'll see less of the world, deny the value of other points of view and, at the very extreme, risk becoming morally stunted, or even criminal. At the very least, a kind of self-petrifaction might set in.

My notion of mountainous beauty was formed by two months in Switzerland's Hasliberg, with its Rosenlaui Glacier, Reichen-bach Falls, and twelve-thousand-foot peaks. It took days to hike the Jungfrau, to even draw close—the Nordwand sheer and unassailable without advanced equipment and experience. On cloudy days, the glacier glowed blue with grayish parallelograms that gave the ice a houndstooth appearance. Wind off the backside of the mountains caught snow and tossed it sideways, a horse tail. Cloud layer followed and I knew to expect the infamous föhn—balmy wind rushing down the valley, turning snow into aquamarine meltwater.

Layer this image over the aged Shenandoahs, rolling gently upward from green-blanketed valleys in north central Virginia. Though these mountains are beautiful to others, I cannot abide their weak lines and soft silhouettes. They suggest a flaccid resistance
to weather, a lack of character. I kick a bit of crumbled rock to demonstrate. Clay. Powder. The highest peak is a knob, just over four thousand feet. Hardly a mountain at all.

A selfish person enters a scene, any scene, with a constrained, preformed, self-centered focus.

The film
Being John Malkovich
illustrated an extreme version of this. Craig Schwartz, a forlorn filing clerk, discovers a strange portal behind a filing cabinet. When he enters, he slips down a long chute and suddenly finds himself inside the mind of the actor John Malkovich, experiencing everything that John sees, touches, and hears. Later, Malkovich himself enters the portal and also finds himself in the head of actor John Malkovich, a world where everyone looks like him and can say only “Malkovich.” The setting is an elegant restaurant. There are white tablecloths and a large set of windows overlooking a harbor. Nearly every table is occupied, crowded with diners—young or old, stooped or spry, decked out or dressed casually—
all of them
bearing John Malkovich faces. It's a jarring sight to anyone who is not John Malkovich. Is it comforting to John? Nightmarish? Fifteen minutes later he is tossed out of his brain into a ditch somewhere near the New Jersey Turnpike.

Our species has evolved far beyond purely instinctual behavior, the only animal blessed (or cursed) with radical self-awareness. We invented the concept of selfishness and have the ability to choose between two options: experience the world as an extension of ourselves, or stand back and try to imagine it from another person's point of view. In a real restaurant, no one wears a John Malkovich mask to suit the egotistical vision of John Malkovich. But if a self-centered person walked in she might see only what she was in the mood to see: a pleasing nose or lip or Brooks Brothers suit, a plate of oily greens with pignoli
and golden raisins. Suppose a waiter steps forward with a single red rose. He's just doing his job with that extra-special customer service touch, but she's thinking, “What can he possibly want? Does he not know I detest red roses?”

As for the rose, it's only selfish if it desires every
other flower in the world to be a rose
.
—
OSCAR WILDE

In my favorite restaurant there's a heavyset man who regularly dines at a window seat, ordering without fail a huge plate of French fries. He's a veterinary bone surgeon, but my eye passed over him with little consideration. He's overweight, and look how little he attends to his condition. French fries! Several months later, my basset hound tumbles down the kitchen stairs and I'm forced to bring the suffering animal to this very surgeon. I walk into the examining room, uncertain the man will have much to offer.

That is, until he begins to explain, while stroking the dog's tricolored fur, the process of repairing a shoulder that has been yanked from its socket. He points to an indistinct area on the X-ray, circling one finger over the afflicted joint, speaking in a crisp yet gentle instructional tone. I value intelligence, and the doctor's is considerable. He has calmed the animal with his touch. In my mind, his pounds of flesh melt away until all I can see is the hound's easy up and down breathing under the surgeon's hand. The doctor's mild demeanor acts like affection on my anxiety too and I fall into a state of hypnotic relaxation. He gently adjusts my suspicion, prejudice, impatience, and brushes them aside till I can't believe I once doubted him.

It takes terrific force to pry open the window in a selfish person's
house. A motorcycle accident, anaphylactic shock after eating a strawberry, the fall of a beloved animal down a flight of very slippery stairs.

Un-
is our most prolific English prefix. At its very core, it's a negation of everything that follows: untruth, undeniable, unheard of. The opposite of selfishness is unselfishness. Not selfish, not thinking first and foremost of one's self.

In
The Weight of Glory
, C. S. Lewis complained, “If you ask twenty good men today what they thought the highest of the virtues, nineteen of them would reply, ‘unselfishness.' But if you had asked almost any of the great Christians of old, he would have replied, ‘love.' You see what has happened? A negative term has been substituted for a positive.” Doing good things for others is not enough; you must go without those good things yourself. Indeed, self-denial is a zenith, the highest virtue. Lewis blamed Stoicism, which teaches the development of self-control and fortitude as a means of overcoming anger, fear, jealousy, lust, and other damaging states of mind. The sage—a person who has attained moral and intellectual perfection—suppresses these emotions. As Marcus Aurelius, the first Stoic emperor of Rome, advised in his
Meditations
, “Be like the cliff against which the waves continually break, but which stands firm and tames the fury of the water around it.” Deny yourself and you will live a good life. Death is a relief because it represents the end of desire and its attendant unhappiness.

It's not clear if Aurelius intended his writings to be published, but the diary, which he also called
To Himself
, provides an interesting snapshot of a would be Stoic sage at work. In it,
he reminds himself of Stoic teachings, reproaching when he has fallen short: “The wise man sees in the misfortune of others what he should avoid.” How close did Aurelius come to living a good life? A social reformer who helped the poor, slaves, and convicted criminals, he also was a fierce persecutor of early Christians. Press against one vein, another will inflate. He was, after all, emperor of Rome, responsible for safeguarding its borders.

The word
altruism
was popularized in 1830 by French philosopher Auguste Comte and is often presented as an alternative to
unselfishness
. Comte borrowed it from a legal phrase,
l'autrui
, or in full,
le bien, le droit d'autrui
“for the good, the right of others.” A truism. All truisms, the tremendous number of
other
beings who pace the sidewalk after a rainy day, who eat cereal from the box, who happen upon a dead cat and spend the morning weeping. At the very least we must know they are there, significant for their existence, not for what they can or cannot do for us. The truly altruistic act out of a selfless concern for others. They get close, very close, close enough to see skin pores and saliva. They open all their senses like a barn door and let the information flow in. They forget their own skin and ticking pulse, anticipate when the other's need arises, and give at the right moment.