Status Anxiety - an interview with Alain de Botton

Author: Andrew Lawless

 

Alain de Botton in interview with Three Monkeys Online.

“the abundance of information will be such that either you have reached such a level of maturity that you are able to be your own filter, or you will desperately need a filter, some professional filter. So once again you will ask somebody...an information consultant...to be your gatekeeper!” [Umberto Eco in conversation with Patrick Coppock]

The above interview took place in 1995, and with a wonderful insight predicted the increasing importance of guides in the realm of the internet, whether they be search engines, that with complex mathematical formulas decide the weighting and relevance of documents to your request, or are simply sites that recommend other sites. It would be simplistic in the extreme to sum up Alain de Botton’s work as a type of gatekeeper for philosophical thought, outside of the net, and on the printed page, but it does however hit upon a particular quality in de Botton’s work that earns him admirers and critics in almost equal measure. Rather than search out the great Philosophers, you can trust de Botton’s assesment of the important works. Since his groundbreaking success How Proust can change your life he has been seen to make complex areas of philosophy accessible, often by the application of famous philosophical thought to everyday problems, or, to his critics, to have served up a plate of philosophy-lite made even more digestible by the T.V. tie ins of works like The Consolations of Philosophy and his latest book Status Anxiety. One can detect a certain amount of snobbery in much of the, often scathing and quite personal, criticism that he receives, and dare one say it, a touch of jealousy, at his continued success. What can’t be argued, though, is that he has developed his own style, and has won an ever increasing audience, an audience that no-one could have dreamed existed before the success of How Proust can Change your life. Three Monkeys Online interviewed Alain de Botton by email.

Your non fiction books, and fiction, have a lot of playful elements in common – which is unusual particularly for non-fiction. Usually we expect fiction writers to play with form, but not our non-fiction writers. Is it a conscious attempt to create a new style of non-fiction writing, or perhaps simply the way you write?

I am conscious of trying to stretch the boundaries of non-fiction writing. It’s always surprised me how little attention many non-fiction writers pay to the formal aspects of their work. It’s as if they are still operating with a scientific model of exposition, which suggests that what’s really important is the content, not the form of your thesis. I passionately believe that’s it’s not just what you say that counts, it’s also how you say it – that the success of your argument critically depends on your manner of presenting it. This way of talking wouldn’t, of course, surprise the novelists. It’s always been taken for granted that a good novelist must not only have something to say, he or she must then pay attention to the quality of writing, must keep the reader interested, must create tension and drama and humour and gravity. The non-fiction writers I most admire are those who have made innovations with form. I am particularly drawn to the works of Roland Barthes (for example, S/Z) and Milan Kundera (for example, Testaments betrayed) for this reason.

You are multilingual, and have lived in a number of countries – what kind of effect has that had on your writing?

I grew up in Switzerland speaking French, then at the age of 12, moved to England. The shift made me deeply unhappy and – as we know that unhappiness is good for writing – I’m sure it helped. More directly, to move country is to feel an outsider to things, which is the natural and necessary stance of the writer. Not all émigrés are writers, but all writers are in a sense émigrés.

Who would you prefer to be trapped in a lift with: Schopenhauer or Nietzsche?

Both men are interestingly peculiar, both men are not unpleasant lift-companions. Schopenhauer tended to carry a gun (he was afraid someone would rob him), and Nietzsche’s moustache was at times deeply horrible to look at when he left it untrimmed. Yet overall, I would enjoy their cynicism and good humour. Both men, in different ways, laughed in the face of the darkness.

You've found a market for philosophy in the mainstream book market; prior to publication of How Proust can change your life, were you aware that such a niche existed?

I was always aware that there are readers out there interested in the lucid discussion of ideas – readers who tend not to be well catered for by either the mainstream academics (whose writing often bears the scars of their professional status struggles), nor by more popular non-fiction writing (‘In search of the snow leopard: one man’s epic struggle against the odds…’). That said, to write an essay on Proust and expect it to be in the New York Times Bestseller list is crazy. I was, as the Stoics teach us to be, ready for the best, but prepared for the worst.

When you talk of status anxiety, can that apply to states as well as people? For example Italy, or indeed Britain, with the arch over-emphasis on national football teams in the European Championships as being key to National pride and well-being, the disappointment – and if so, what can states do to cope? Can you see events in Iraq in that light, states flexing their muscles for status?

Status anxiety definitely exists at a political level. Many Iraqis were annoyed with the US essentially for reasons of status: for not showing them respect, for humiliating them. This was hard for the US to grasp: why didn’t these people like us if we were trying to rebuild schools for them etc.? The Arab-Israeli conflict is also in many ways a conflict about status: it’s a war between two peoples who feel deeply humiliated by the other, who want the other to respect them. Battles over status can be even more intractable than those over land or water or oil.

Is philosophy a more accessible subject than previously thought?

It’s clear to me that there is no good reason for many philosophy books to sound as complicated as they do. It’s not the ideas that necessitate such impenetrable prose, it’s just that the authors can’t write very well, or if they can, they are overly interested in frightening the reader. Kant and Hegel are interesting thinkers. But I am happy to insist that they are also terrible writers. There have, of course, always been good philosophical writers: Montaigne, Nietzsche, E.M.Cioran, for example. The word ‘accessible’ leaves me a little uncomfortable though. I prefer to draw a distinction between good and bad writing. One wouldn’t, after all, call Tolstoy ‘accessible’, though of course, he is that as well.

You enjoyed success with The Consolations of Philosophy; does the title of that book indicate that you are primarily optimistic about existence?

The word consolations is a dark word with a silver lining. It suggests that there are some things we can do nothing about, and yet we can still learn to adopt a serene, wise approach to them. I think most great problems of life have no ‘solution’ to them – death among these. And yet that doesn’t preclude one being able to look upon them in a better or worse way.

I am in general a very pessimistic person with an optimistic day to day take on things. The bare facts of life are utterly terrifying. And yet, one can laugh. Indeed, one has to laugh precisely because of the darkness: the nervous laughter of the trenches.

What philosophers do you feel closest to?

The philosophers I felt closest to all came with into my book The Consolations of Philosophy. That is, Socrates (as found in Plato), Epicurus, Seneca, Montaigne, Schopenhauer and Nietzsche. In all of these thinkers, I find a welcome interest in the problems of every day life, I find a humanity and a devotion to using thought to alleviate suffering.

There have been mixed reactions in the American press specifically to your non-fiction work, which, according to an earlier interview, you ascribed to a certain snobbery on the part of some critics: “it was felt by highbrow critics to be uncomfortably close to the dumb side of America.”, and also “In the reception to my book one can make a mini history of American intellectual attitudes”. Can you elaborate? It’s an interesting point, and what about the reaction in Europe, is it substantially different?

When my book How Proust can change your Life was published in the States, certain critics were quick to say that this was just another cheap self-help book of a style that already crowded the dumb self-help shelves of the nation’s bookstores. In fact, I had meant the work to be deeply serious, but to have a somewhat ironic title, both a wink at, and criticism of these very self-help writers. Snobbery exists in all areas of life, not least literary criticism. By snobbery I mean, any method of judging someone or something whereby you latch on to one or two features about them/it, and use these to come to a definitive, immovable judgement. In intellectual matters, the snob will often take the external features of a work as a guide to its value. They will see whether a book looks serious and deem it worthwhile if it ticks certain standard boxes for seriousness. Similarly, they will dismiss anything which doesn’t fit the proscribed notions of intelligence.

Reactions in mainland Europe to my work have in general been highly positive. In Britain, because I live here, I can also run into problems of envy and competition. But all this is just in a day’s work for a writer. You can’t put stuff out there without someone calling you a complete fool. Oh well.

Were you uncomfortable writing fiction? Why the change to strictly non-fiction? Is there any chance of a return to fiction?

I was uncomfortable writing fiction. My love was the personal essay, rather than the novel. My first book, ON LOVE, was in fact an essay, but my publisher changed its definition to a novel because she thought it would sell better (it sold worse). I remain very interested in using my own personal experience to illuminate my work. In fact, my last book The Art of Travel pretty much reads like a novel. I am currently writing a book about architecture which is deeply novelistic. One day I hope to write about relationships again and the book will read a little like fiction: though my allegiance remains to the personal essay.

Are there any specific writers who have influenced you, in the way you write? For example, where does this love of diagrams and illustrations come from? In Kiss and Tell it reminded me, tenuously perhaps, of Tristram Shandy by Laurence Sterne for example.

I’ve been deeply influenced by: Milan Kundera – for his playfulness and elegance, for his innovations in the novel and essay forms Roland Barthes – for his inventiveness with the essay. I especially like Camera Lucida, Mythologies, S/Z and A Lover’s Discourse Nicholson Baker – for his book U & I: which seems a charming way to meander around a subject Julian Barnes – for Flaubert’s Parrot. For showing what you can do with literary criticism. Stendhal – for On Love. For showing how you can systematically analyse an emotion, yet keep things human. Montaigne – for pioneering the personal essay. This is sounding like the Oscars…

How Proust can change your life proudly puts forward the idea that writers and books are important. What do you make about the fuss created to celebrate the centenary of ‘Bloomsday’, a fictional event! While you’ve argued the positive benefits of identifying with characters and themes in literature, isn’t there the danger of blurring the lines between reality and fiction?

The danger of blurring lines doesn’t seem pressing to me – and Bloomsday largely seems an invention of the Irish tourist board and newspaper editors. There must be about 5 people in the world who genuinely care about the day, just as there are probably not that many more who genuinely love Ulysses (rather than respect it or have to study it for university). Literature has always had its circus side, its freaks and its frivolities – and maybe that’s all part of it, and no bad thing if it draws people towards what is most worthwhile.

While we’re on the subject of Joyce – would you consider a How Proust can change your life – would it be a case of a self-destruction book rather than self-help?!

I’ve never got on well with Joyce, so I wouldn’t be the man to write this book. But as you can imagine, many publishers have approached me asking if I’d consider doing a ‘How Proust’ on Dickens, Flaubert, Zola… and Joyce. It’s all very flattering, but part of the integrity of the book on Proust was that it was specifically about a favourite writer of mine, and isn’t really a repeatable formula.

What’s your take on this seemingly world wide phenomena of reality TV, like Big Brother. Does it feed this status anxiety – you too can be famous, just for being yourself, albeit on TV.

We are certainly influenced by role models, and if we are surrounded by images of beautiful rich people, we will start to think that to be beautiful and rich is very important – just as in the Middle Ages, people were surrounded by images of religious piety, and these had a deep impact on what sides of oneself one wanted to develop and take seriously.

I feel we aren’t careful enough about this. We assume we can just watch TV and not have our whole value-system played around with. Or that we can pick up a copy of Vogue and not feel anything quite significant afterwards (significant, not in a good way). Pick up any newspaper or magazine, open the TV, and you’ll be bombarded with suggestions of how to have a successful life. Some of these suggestions are deeply unhelpful to our own projects and priorities – and we should take care.

Two things you’ve said that you’d like to write about, in the future – marriage, and also everyday beauty. Why these particular topics?

What is fascinating about marriage is why anyone wants to get married (I got married last year, happily so). After all, the disadvantages are legion and constantly presented to us. So the allure of marriage interests me. I’m also interested in the modern suggestion that you can have a combination of love and sex in a marriage – which no previous society has ever believed. Both in love and work, bourgeois ideology suggests there can be a combination of necessity (i.e. making money, raising a family) with pleasure (finding meaning, being in love). Things that previous ages held to be separate are now presented to us as reconcilable; a contravention of the old aristocratic and working class view that the two are inherently separate, i.e. that you either earn money and are bored or you bring up children and hate your wife, or are free and an artist, or are in love with your mistress… But we live with a new non-tragic view, which leads to very high expectations and so rage and despair too. All this interests me.

As for beauty, I’m currently at work on a book about architecture. Architecture is an excellent example of the way we tend to despair of the whole subject of beauty. Architects themselves tend to shy away from the word, preferring instead to talk about the manipulation of space and ‘machines for living’. The rest of us are caught between our instincts and postmodern relativism. Instinctively, though, neither position seems quite true. We intuit beauty all the time, often in the most officially unsanctioned places; it’s just that we’re not very good at understanding what these tastes and hunches are pointing to, what they’re telling us about ourselves.

Here’s my basic argument:
1. All objects speak to us of a way of life. That’s what ‘design’ is. All objects are a promise of something. That’s why we want to own them. An IKEA sofa is the promise of a modern, open-minded, sexually (mildly) experimental, Scandinavian way of life. And this language of objects has a political dimension which we’ve tended to neglect. What is the unwelcoming park bench telling us about the public realm and the rights and responsibilities of the citizen?
2. It used to be fairly straightforward to work out what it was the things around us were trying to tell us. There tended to be a dominant language – the vernacular, tradition etc – and most of us could just about speak it. Since the later part of the 19th century, with its proliferation of styles, there’s been disarray. Modernism offered the illusion of an end to the confusion. Form should follow function and that was that. But the modernist architects never really practiced what they preached. In the final analysis, they were just as much suckers for beautiful effects as the rest of us. This historical process has made us wary of our own feelings about beauty.
3. But there are some basic, true things we can say. We need objects to remind us of the commitments we’ve made. That carpet from Morocco reminds us of the impulsive, freedom-loving side of ourselves we’re in danger of losing touch with. Beautiful furniture gives us something to live up to. All designed objects are propaganda for a way of life. It’s little use inveighing against Wimpey for not employing architects; it’s their vision of life which we should attend to. It's no accident that the earliest architecture was memorial in function. We need our surroundings to remind us of the people we want to be, and the values we want to live by.
4. It’s urgent to move beyond seeing these issues as superficial matters of style. We shouldn’t talk about design without reference to the kinds of people we want to be. We need to be more self-aware about what our tastes point to about us. There’s an analogy with friendship: beautiful things can’t do everything, but they can nudge us in the right direction, remind us of our aspirations in life. When we find something beautiful, that thing is speaking to us of what we feel we’re missing.