A Hero of Our time, part 8: The Fear of Being Ridiculous

Sometimes I despise myself; is that why I despise others too? I am no longer capable of noble impulses; I am afraid of appearing ridiculous to myself. Another in my place would have offered the princess son coeur et sa fortune but for me the verb “to marry” has an ominous ring: no matter how passionately I might love a woman, it’s farewell to love if she as much as hints at my marrying her. My heart turns to stone, and nothing can warm it again. I’d make any sacrifice but this–twenty times I can stake my life, even my honor, but my freedom I’ll never sell. Why do I prize it so much? What do I find in it? What am I aiming at? What have I to expect from the future? Nothing, absolutely nothing.

–——————-

A Task
Czeslaw Milosz

In fear and trembling, I think I would fulfill my life
Only if I brought myself to make a public confession
Revealing a sham, my own and of my epoch:
We were permitted to shriek in the tongue of dwarfs and demons
But pure and generous words were forbidden
Under so stiff a penalty that whoever dared to pronounce one
Considered himself as a lost man.

–——————-

It is important to note that the fear of appearing ridiculous is not some personal fear of vulnerability arising from the supposed characteristic weaknesses of males, but from a troubled society. Nobility, sincerity, generosity, affection – these are all punished harshly in the dating world. Men have a natural fear of being good in a bad world, a fear that by being good they are being ineffective and are being taken advantage of. A man who has suffered for taking a noble if foolish action is likely to be the subject of mockery, while a woman in the same position is lauded as a heroine.

Milosz wrote of the destructiveness of totalitarianism on the soul, but we have created the same conditions with moral relativism, social atomization, and a culture of instant gratification devoid of responsibility. Under these conditions, it can be no surprise if we say with Pechorin, “Mon cher, je méprise les femmes pour ne pas les aimer, car autrement la vie serait un mélodrame trop ridicule.”

A Hero of Our Time, part 7: Pechorin Gets Sentimental

“Yes, I’ve already passed that period of spiritual life when people seek happiness alone and when the heart feels the need to love someone passionately. Now I only want to be loved, and then only by the very few. As a matter of fact, I believe one constant attachment would be enough for me–a sentimental fashion only to be pitied!

It has always struck me as odd that I had never become the slave of the woman I loved. On the contrary, I’ve always acquired an invincible sway over their will and heart, without any effort on my part. Why is that? Was it because I’ve never particularly treasured anything and they’ve been afraid to let me slip out of their hands for a moment? Or was it the magnetic appeal of a strong personality? Or simply because I’ve never met a woman with enough strength of character?

I must admit that I don’t care for women with a mind of their own–it doesn’t suit them!
Though I recall now that once, but only once, I loved a woman with a strong will, whom I never could conquer . . . We separated enemies, yet had I met her five years later the parting might have been quite different . . .”

Red Pill Overdose, part 2

It’s useful to compare Pechorin’s reflections from my last post – “fearing ridicule I buried my finest feelings deep in my heart, and there they died” and “I became a moral cripple; I had lost one half of my soul, for it had shriveled, dried up and died, and I had cut it off and cast it away, while the other half stirred and lived, adapted to serve every comer” – with this post by Roosh on the perfect woman:

I was 23-years-old when I met a beautiful girl. I have no idea how I got her but I did, and I didn’t have the “game” that I have now. She liked me for me, an eager guy out of college trying to relieve whatever inadequacy he thought he had.

She crushed me, but that was okay. But I did something that wasn’t okay. I overcompensated, to the extreme. I had to get even better at the game so not only could I find a girl like that again, but I could keep her as well. You see there was an end goal of a happy relationship somewhere along the line, but it didn’t work out like that. The game was the end itself. The perfect woman I thought I wanted slowly slipped away. She morphed into this monster of easy sex and unrealistic expectations. Sex on demand, no later than the third date, and if you’re not exactly what I want then fuck off.

Part of me wishes I got swooped up by her. Maybe I would see women as more than just numbers and stories. Maybe I’d be in a happy relationship. Sure I’d be whipped and still working in some soulless job trying to pay a mortgage, but at least I’d have this woman who cared for me and loved me, and I would do the same to her. I think I was capable of that.

Instead I went down this rabbit hole… deeper and deeper… and darker. I see less than I used to. Too much experience, too used to easy attention and cheap thrills. You can’t undo your experiences, especially when there is just too many of them, their naked bodies, their smell on your fingers as you drive home racking up another score… your fantasies of their moans and kisses as you smile yourself to sleep. The way they laugh at jokes you’ve said a hundred times before.

It gets worse every year, the happy relationship with my “perfect” girl just gets farther as I become more incapable, as I become “better” at getting sex that has meaning but really doesn’t. I don’t even notice differences in girls anymore. But I can’t stop. I notice most other guys can. Am I… a validation junkie? An attention whore? Like the girls I criticize?

When that girl dumped me I cried. I went to her place to get my stuff, hoping I could keep it going. But it was done. I left and parked in a gas station and sat there and cried like a little baby. If that happened today, I wouldn’t even give a shit, and I think that’s my problem. I’m a machine with flesh, no empathy or love… another night, another performance.

She wasn’t perfect, not even close. But she was. Anyone decent looking can be made perfect. You already know it takes very little effort. But I haven’t done it recently.

So… she’s gone. Experience killed the perfect woman. It means nothing to me.

I have nothing to add. Remember, this is a diagnosis. How to cure it, only the lord knows.

A Hero Of Our Time, part 6: Pechorin Describes What Red Pill Overdose Has Done To His Soul

As we climbed the mountainside I offered my arm to Princess Mary, who didn’t let go of it through the entire walk.

Our conversation started with scandal. I began to go through the people we knew, both present and absent, first describing their ridiculous features, then their bad habits. My gall was up and after starting off in jest I finished in deadly earnest. At first she was amused, then alarmed.

“You are a dangerous man!” she told me. “I would rather risk a murderer’s knife in the forest than be flayed by your tongue. I beg of you quite earnestly–if you should ever take it into your mind to speak badly of me, take a knife instead and kill me. I believe you would not find it too difficult to do.”

“Do I look like a murderer?”

“You are worse . . .”

I thought for a moment and then said, taking on a deeply touched face: “Yes, such has been my lot since childhood. Everyone read signs of non-existent evil traits in my features. But since they were expected to be there, they did make their appearance. Because I was reserved, they said I was sly, so I grew reticent. I was keenly aware of good and evil, but instead of being indulged I was insulted and so I became spiteful. I was sulky while other children were merry and talkative, but though I felt superior to them I was considered inferior. So I grew envious. I was ready to love the whole world, but no one understood me, and I learned to hate. My cheerless youth passed in conflict with myself and society, and fearing ridicule I buried my finest feelings deep in my heart, and there they died. I spoke the truth, but nobody believed me, so I began to practice duplicity. Having come to know society and its mainsprings, I became versed in the art of living and saw how others were happy without that proficiency, enjoying for free the favors I had so painfully striven for. It was then that despair was born in my heart–not the despair that is cured with a pistol, but a cold, impotent desperation, concealed under a polite exterior and a good-natured smile. I became a moral cripple; I had lost one half of my soul, for it had shriveled, dried up and died, and I had cut it off and cast it away, while the other half stirred and lived, adapted to serve every comer. No one noticed this, because no one suspected there had been another half. Now, however, you have awakened memories of it in me, and what I have just done is to read its epitaph to you. Many regard all epitaphs as ridiculous, but I do not, particularly when I remember what rests beneath them. Of course, I am not asking you to share my opinion; if what I have said seems ridiculous to you, please laugh, though I warn you that it will not annoy me in the slightest.”

At that moment our eyes met, and I saw that hers swam with tears. Her arm resting on mine trembled, her cheeks were red hot. She was sorry for me! Compassion–that emotion which all women so easily yield to–had sunk its claws into her inexperienced heart. Throughout the walk she was absent-minded and flirted with no one–and that is a great omen indeed!

We reached the ravine. The other ladies left their escorts, but she didn’t release my arm. The witticisms of the local dandies didn’t amuse her. The steepness of the bluff on the brink of which she stood didn’t alarm her, though the other young ladies squealed and closed their eyes.

On the way back I did not resume our sad conversation, but to my idle questions and jests she gave only brief and distracted answers.

“Have you ever been in love?” I finally asked her.

She looked at me intently, shook her head and again was lost in thought. It was evident that she wanted to say something but didn’t know where to begin. Her chest heaved . . . Indeed, a muslin sleeve affords but slight protection, and an electric tremor ran from my arm to hers–most passions begin that way, and we frequently deceive ourselves when we think that a woman loves us for our physical or moral qualities. True, they prepare the ground, dispose the heart to receive the sacred flame, but nevertheless it is the first physical contact that decides the issue.

“I have been very friendly today, have I not?” the princess said with a forced smile when we returned from our walk.

We parted.

She is displeased with herself; she accuses herself of being cool. Ah, this is the first and most important triumph! Tomorrow she’ll want to reward me. I know it all by rote–and that is what makes it all so boring.
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Pechorin’s account of how he changed when “fearing ridicule I buried my finest feelings deep in my heart, and there they died” is compelling – and I can relate to it – but his sincerity can be questioned. That does not mean there is no truth behind what he says.

A Hero of Our Time, part 5: Pechorin’s Operation Continues

Continuing where we left off, Grushnitsky and Pechorin visit Princess Mary the day after the incident of the mazurka.

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Around nine o’clock we went together to the princess’s house. Princess Ligovskaya made her daughter sit down to the piano and everybody begged her to sing. I said nothing, and taking advantage of the hubbub retreated to a window.

My indifference did not please the young princess, however, as I could guess by the one angry flashing glance she gave me . . . How well do I understand this mute but eloquent way of communicating, so brief yet so forceful!

She sang; her voice is pleasant but she sings badly . . . as a matter of fact, I didn’t listen. But Grushnitsky, with his elbows on the piano facing the princess, ate her up her with his eyes, mumbling “Charmant! Déclicieux!” over and over again.

In the meantime Princess Mary had stopped singing. A chorus of praise broke out around her. I walked up to her last and said something very casual about her voice.

She pouted and made a mock curtsy.

“It is all the more flattering to me,” she said, “because you weren’t listening at all. But perhaps you don’t care for music?”

“On the contrary, I do, particularly after dinner.”

“Grushnitsky is right when he says that your tastes are most prosaic. Even I can see that you appreciate music from the point of view of the gourmand. . .”

“You are wrong again. I am no gourmand and I have a poor digestion. Nevertheless music after dinner lulls you to sleep and a nap after dinner is good for you; hence I like music in the medical sense. In the evening, on the contrary, it excites my nerves too much, and I find myself either too depressed or too gay. Both are tedious when there is no good reason either to mope or to rejoice. Besides, to be downcast in company is ridiculous and excessive gaiety is in bad taste . . . .”

She walked off without waiting for me to finish and sat down beside Grushnitsky. The two engaged in a sentimental conversation: the princess seemed to respond to his wise sayings in an absent-minded and rather inept way, though she simulated interest, and he glanced at her every now and then with a look of surprise as if trying to determine the cause of the inner turmoil reflected in her troubled eyes.

But I have unraveled your secret, my charming princess, so beware! You wish to repay me in the same currency by wounding my vanity–but you won’t succeed! And if you declare war on me, I’ll be ruthless.

Several times in the course of the evening I deliberately tried to join in their conversation, but she countered my remarks rather dryly, and I finally withdrew pretending resentment. The princess was triumphant, and so was Grushnitsky. Triumph, my friends, while you may . . . you have not long to triumph! What will happen? I have a presentiment . . . Upon meeting a woman I have always been able to tell for certain whether she’ll fall in love with me or not . . .

I left together with Grushnitsky. Outside he took my arm and after a long silence said: “Well, what do you say?”

I wanted to tell him, “You are a fool,” but restrained myself and merely shrugged my shoulders.

A Hero of Our Time, part 4: Pechorin Pulls a Robbery

Here we see Pechorin in action, pulling a robbery, 19th century style. Here he begins the operation.

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The restaurant ballroom turned into a Nobles’ Club hall. By nine o’clock everybody was there. Princess Ligovskaya and her daughter were among the last to arrive. Many of the ladies eyed Princess Mary with envy and ill will, for she dresses with very good taste. Those who consider themselves the local aristocrats concealed their envy and attached themselves to her. What else could be expected? Wherever there is feminine society, there is an immediate division into the upper and lower circles. Grushnitsky stood among the crowd outside the window, pressing his face to the glass and eating his goddess with his eyes; in passing she gave him a barely noticeable nod. He beamed like the sun . . . The first dance was a polonaise, then the orchestra struck up a waltz. Spurs jingled and coat tails whirled.

I stood behind a fat lady sprouting rose-colored feathers. The splendor of her gown was reminiscent of the farthingale age and the blotchiness of her coarse skin of the happy epoch of the black-taffeta beauty spot. The biggest wart on her neck was concealed beneath a clasp. She was saying to her partner, a captain of dragoons: “This young Princess Ligovskaya is an unbearable minx. Think of it, she bumped into me and didn’t bother to apologize, and actually turned round to look at me through her eyeglass. . . C’est impayable! What cause has she to give herself airs? It would do her good to be taught a lesson . . .”

“Leave it to me!” replied the obliging captain and repaired to another room.

I went over at once to Princess Mary and asked for the waltz, taking advantage of the freedom of the local customs which allow one to dance with strangers.

She was scarcely able to suppress a smile and thus conceal her triumph, but quickly enough she managed to assume a totally indifferent and even severe appearance. She carelessly laid her hand on my shoulder, tilted her head a bit to one side, and off we started. I know no other waist so voluptuous and supple. Her sweet breath caressed my face. Now and then a ringlet of hair broke loose from its companions in the whirl of the dance and brushed my burning cheek . . . I made three turns round the room. (She waltzes delightfully.) She was panting, her eyes looked blurred and her separated lips could hardly whisper the necessary “Merci, monsieur”.

After a few minutes of silence I said, assuming the humblest of expressions: “I have heard, Princess, that while still an utter stranger to you, I had the misfortune to evoke your displeasure, that you found me impertinent . . . Is that really true?”

“And you would like to strengthen that opinion now?” she replied, with an ironical little grimace that, incidentally, matched well the quick mobility of her features.

“If I had the audacity to offend you in any way, will you allow me the greater audacity of asking your forgiveness? Really, I’d like very much to prove that you were mistaken in your opinion of me . . .”

“That will be a rather difficult task for you .

“Why?”

“Because you don’t come to our house and these balls probably won’t be repeated frequently.”

“That means,” thought I, “their doors are closed to me for all time.”

“Do you know, Princess,” said I with a shade of annoyance, “that one should never spurn a repentant sinner, for out of sheer desperation he may become twice as sinful . . . and then . . .”

Laughter and whispering around us made me break off and look round. A few paces away stood a group of men, among them the captain of dragoons who had expressed his hostile intentions toward the charming princess. He seemed to be highly pleased with something, rubbing his hands, laughing loudly and exchanging winks with his comrades. Suddenly a gentleman in a tail coat and with long mustaches and a red face stepped out of their midst and walked unsteadily towards Princess Mary. He was obviously drunk. Stopping in front of the bewildered princess, with his hands behind his back, he directed his bleary gray eyes at her and said in a wheezy high-pitched voice: “Permettez . . . oh, to heck with it . . . I’ll just take you for the mazurka. . .”

“What do you want, sir?” she said with a tremor in her voice, casting about a glance for help from somebody. But, alas, her mother was far away, nor were there any of the gallants she knew nearby, except one adjutant who, I believe, saw what was going on, but hid behind the crowd to avoid being involved in an unpleasant scene.

“Well, well!” said the drunken gentleman, winking at the captain of dragoons who was spurring him on with encouraging signals. “You would rather not? I once more have the honor of inviting you pour mazurk . . . Maybe you think I’m drunk? That’s all right! Dance all the better, I assure you . . .”

I saw she was on the verge of fainting from terror and shame.

I stepped up to the intoxicated gentleman, gripped him firmly enough by the arm and, looking him straight in the eyes, asked him to go away, because, I added, the princess had long since promised me the mazurka.

“Oh, I see! Another time, then!” he said, with a laugh, and rejoined his cronies who, looking rather crestfallen, guided him out of the room.

I was rewarded with a deeply charming glance.

Princess Mary went over to her mother and told her what had happened, and the latter sought me out in the crowd to thank me. She told me that she knew my mother and was a friend of a half a dozen of my aunts.

“I simply can’t understand how it is we haven’t met before,” she added, “though you must admit that it’s your own fault. You hold yourself so aloof you know, you really do. I hope the atmosphere of my drawing room will dispel your spleen . . . Don’t you think so?”

I replied with one of those polite phrases everyone must have in store for occasions like this.

The quadrilles dragged out as if they would never end.

Finally the mazurka struck up and I sat down beside the young princess.

I made no reference to the drunken gentleman, nor to my previous conduct, nor yet to Grushnitsky. The impression the unpleasant incident had made on her gradually faded, her face glowed, and she chatted charmingly. Her conversation was sharp without pretensions to wit, it was vivacious and free of restraint, and some of her observations were profound indeed . . . I let her understand in a confused, rambling sort of way that I had long been attracted by her. She bent her head and blushed faintly.

“You are a strange man!” she said presently with a constrained laugh and smile, raising her velvety eyes to me.

“I didn’t want to be introduced to you,” I continued, “because you are surrounded by too great a crowd of admirers and I was afraid I might get completely lost in them.”

“You had nothing to fear. They are all exceedingly dull . . .”

“All of them? Really, all?”

She looked at me closely as if trying to recall something, then blushed faintly again and finally said in a definite tone of voice: “All of them!”

“Even my friend Grushnitsky?”

“Is he your friend?” she asked with some doubt.

“He is.”

“He, of course, cannot be classed as a bore.”

“But as an unfortunate, perhaps?” said I, laughingly.

“Of course! Why are you amused? I would like to see you in his place.”

“Why? I was a cadet once myself, and believe me, that was the finest period of my life!”

“Is he a cadet?” she asked quickly, adding a moment later: “And I thought…”

“What did you think?”

“Nothing, nothing at all . . . Who is that lady?”

The conversation took a different turn and this subject was not brought up again.

The mazurka ended and we separated–until we meet again. The ladies went home. Going in for supper, I met Werner.

“Aha,” he said, “so that’s it! And you said you would only make the young princess’s acquaintance by rescuing her from certain death?”

“I did better,” I replied, “I saved her from fainting at the ball!”

“What happened? Tell me!”

“No, you will have to guess. Oh you, who can divine everything under the sun!”

———

The next day, did Grushnitsky comprehend what was happening?

I was walking on the boulevard about seven o’clock in the evening. Grushnitsky, seeing me from afar, came over, a ridiculously rapturous light gleaming in his eyes. He clasped my hand tightly and said in a tragic tone: “I thank you, Pechorin . . . You understand me, don’t you?”

“No, I don’t. In any case there’s nothing to thank me for,” I replied, for I really had no good deed on my conscience.

“Why, what about yesterday? Have you forgotten? Mary told me everything…”

“You don’t say you already share everything? And gratitude too?”

“Listen,” said Grushnitsky with an impressive air. “Please don’t make fun of my love if you wish to remain my friend . . . You see, I love her madly . . . and I believe, I hope, that she loves me too. I have a favor to ask of you: you will be visiting them this evening, promise me to observe everything. I know you are experienced in these matters and you know women better than I do. Oh women, women! Who really does understand them? Their smiles contradict their glances, their words promise and beguile, but their tone of voice repulses. They either figure out in a flash your innermost thought or they don’t get the most obvious hint . . . Take the young princess, for instance: yesterday her eyes glowed with passion when they dwelt on me, but now they’re dull and cold . . .”

“That perhaps is the effect of the waters,” replied I.

“You always look at the seamy side of things . . . you materialist!” he added scornfully. “But let us get down to another matter.” Pleased with this bad pun, his spirits rose.

Addendum to yesterday’s post

One pathology to avoid is constructing your fourth sense – your ideal of manhood – from your second sense – your traits that attract women. You cannot be a proper man if you let women define you like this. You may succeed with women, but you will not live well.

On The Definition of Alpha

Confusion over the definition of alpha is responsible for many wasted words. With a little more care we can all do better.

Alpha is used in several ways. First, as a objective term describing men with the capacity to sleep with many women. In this sense alpha is a priori value neutral: there is no reason to think that it is good to be alpha, that alphas contribute to society, that alphas are leaders of men, or that alphas are better at anything besides sleeping with women.

Being alpha in this first sense is not an absolute characteristic of any kind of behavior. Women define alpha through their behavior. If the women of a society decide to stop responding positively to a pattern of behavior, that behavior is no longer alpha by definition. Alpha is contingent on time and place; it is contextual. It’s like charisma – you can’t be charismatic in yourself. What determines if you are charismatic is how other people respond to you. It may be that human nature means that certain behavior tends to attract women across all times and places (and game attempts to identify such behaviors) but that’s not the case a priori.

Second, alpha is used to refer to those behaviors, traits, and mindsets that often attract women, at least in our society. Confidence, social courage, social dominance, and so on. Many writers use the word alpha in both of these senses, but the reader can determine which is meant from context.

Third, alpha is used to refer to leaders of men. A basic discovery of game is that while many traits of leaders of men are attractive to women, being a leader of men alpha in no way makes you a can sleep with lots of women alpha. Moreover, men who are in no way leaders can succeed with women if they have a few key traits. The link between type 1 alpha and type 4 alpha is weak.

Fourth, alpha is used as a hortatory term, to refer to what a man ought to be. On the one hand, a discourse that lacks the aspirational is an impoverished discourse, leading to the nihilism of some game guys. However, to be able to attain what ought to be, one must study what is. Science is a great success at this. Game’s empirical foundation likewise. Consider the example of Machiavelli – he is famous for being the first theorist of politics to turn his attention from what ought to be to what is, and to how you can get what you want.*

Still, Machiavelli did have high aspirations (uniting Italy, classical republicanism). Machiavelli’s realist approach came from the exigencies of his time, when many powers warred continually throughout Italy. In times of good order, one can focus on attaining what ought to be – in a crisis, you just need to get shit done. Compare to the origin of game in nerdy guys who naturally repulse women, in a era poisoned by the impacts of feminism. Necessity is the mother of invention. Out of the malfunctions of a broken sexual marketplace was born a real understanding of how to be effective with women.

Game does have its downsides. Its more extreme forms are more effective in disordered, broken societies. With good family values and culture women would respond to men differently; likewise the effectiveness of Machiavellian ruthlessness in politics is greatest in times of disorder. The downsides of such approaches are also greater in better constituted societies. The underlying truth in both domains – their insights into how women really work, by nature, and how politics really works in all times at all places – are strong enough that they will be useful even in the best of societies, but in a more subtle form.

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* Game studies sexual politics in the same way that Machiavelli studied politics.

A Hero of Our Time, part 3: Game Advice For 19th Century Russia

A short passage this time, which introduces us to Grushnitsky and Princess Mary, of whom there will be more later. The narrator, of course, is Pechorin himself.

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Taking on a serious face, I replied: “Yes, she is rather good-looking . . . Only be careful, Grushnitsky! Russian young ladies for the most part go in only for Platonic love with no intention of marriage, and Platonic love is the most disturbing. It seems to me that Princess Mary is one of those women who wish to be amused. If she is bored for two minutes in your company, you are doomed forever. Your silence must arouse her curiosity, your conversation must never completely satisfy her. You must keep her in a state of suspense all the time. Ten times she will defy public opinion for your sake and call it sacrifice, and in return she will begin to torment you and end up saying simply that she cannot tolerate you. If you don’t get the advantage over her, even her first kiss will not give you the right to a second. She’ll flirt with you to her heart’s content and a year or two later marry an ugly man in obedience to her mother’s will; then she will begin to assure you that she is unhappy, that she had loved only one man–that is, you–but that fate had not ordained that she be joined to him because he wore a soldier’s overcoat, though beneath that thick gray garment there beat an ardent and noble heart . . . .”

Byronic men are more attractive to women. Yet another reason to read A Hero of Our Time.

Hat tip to dangerandplay for the link.