The Capacity to Really Give a Damn

"He could handle his assignments all right, but he didn't have what his father had, what Kroner had, what Shepherd had, what so many had: the sense of spiritual importance in what they were doing; the ability to be moved emotionally, almost like a lover, by the great omnipresent and omniscient spook, the corporate personality. In short, Paul missed what made his father aggressive and great: the capacity to really give a damn."

Kurt Vonnegut

Player Piano

pages 66 -67

In some ways, I think this little bit is at the heart of Kurt Vonnegut's writing . . . and possibly at the heart of my heart as well.

It's The Big Disconnect.

It was sometimes truly horrible when I was a young man. Almost unbearable--to the point wherein suicide seemed like a very good alternative to Soldiering On.

But it waxed and waned and waxed and waned.

Etcetera.

I remember being in a wrestling match in high school . . . so tenth or eleventh grade . . . and as I was struggling with my opponent for the few futile moments which preceded my defeat, I looked up into the bleachers and saw the people--including members of my family--watching, cheering, imploring, etc.-ing--and I it hit me how completely ridiculous it all was. My opponent and I had both spent many hours preparing for this brief struggle, and at the end of it everything in the world would be the same. Nothing real would be gained or lost. And the spectators who were, in many instances, so passionate about the match . . . why? What did they care which one of us won or lost? It was as if we were all faking an orgasm, working ourselves up to an enthusiastic appearance because we thought that that was what was expected of us. Or maybe just because we knew that we needed to give a damn about something, and this was as good a thing as anything else.

And I really can't enjoy parades. All I think is, "You're just a bunch of people dressed up in silly costumes walking down the middle of the street." Or riding ridiculously small cars down the middle of the street. Or whatever. But it just makes no sense to me at all. It's not fun. It's just stupid.

I just don't give a damn.

And I'm still that way to a large extent. Even the things that I do care about--comic books, literature, music, movies--seem stupid and pointless to me at least some of the time. Just ways of passing the time. Penny a point, ain't no one keeping score.

And if that incapacity to really give a damn sits in the center of your being, its gravity will be felt in all aspects of life and thought. Maybe it's what separates success and failure, as is implied in the Vonnegut quote. Maybe it's impossible to be a success unless you are able to let go of your skepticism and embrace the world and the necessity of action.

I don't remember what happens to Paul Proteus in Player Piano, but I am pretty sure that things are not going to end well for him. And now that I'm thinking about it, I realize that Paul, like all (? maybe . . . if I do read all of Vonnegut in this run, I'll get back to you on this) of Vonnegut's main characters, spends most of his time wandering aimlessly. Kind of like an Odysseus who has no hearth and home to guide him. An Odysseus whose bed is not rooted in the ground, but is a portable cot.

Hmmm. 

I wish I could remember James Joyce's Ulysses better. Did Joyce's hero also wander aimlessly? Was that part of his inversion of Homer's hero's journey? I suspect that that must be the case.

Guess I'll have to re-read that one as well.

But here's the thing: as hard as it is to live without the capacity to really give a damn, I'm thinking that it might be a better way to live. I think that at some point that line intersects with "The unexamined life is not worth living." Because if you do give a damn, that means that you have embraced the world and accepted its dictates, its standards, its limitations. And I am pretty sure that the main reason that the world exists is so that we can overcome it.

Kurt Vonnegut was not a man who was completely given over to sadness. And he certainly did give a huge damn about his family and writing and other writers and social justice and allathat. (As do I, by the way.) So it's not like it's impossible to enjoy at least some parts of life while knowing that most (possibly even all) of life--even some of the parts that you really give a damn about--are bullshit. 

I guess this is why we need friends. When it comes down to it, aren't friends primarily people who care about the same stupid shit that we care about? I have noticed that the majority of my conversations with friends is centered on books, movies, and music. It's not that I (or they) don't care about other things . . . but a large part of our friendship is, indeed, centered on the BM&M, so we spend most of our conversational time there. And isn't it hard to deal with when you tell a friend about something that your really love and they respond that they thought it was just okay . . . or worse?

Now I'm thinking about what is, perhaps, the main difference between Jacqueline and Joe. Joe is very anxious to talk about things that he enjoys. He wants to meet you in this world and exchange commentaries on experiences . . . just like "normal" people, but with an autistic-y twist (which primarily manifests itself in repetition and monologue). Jacqueline doesn't really give a damn. When she talks to you, it's usually about what is going on in her head. It's "Hawks don't chase churches, do they?" rather than "We're going to see The Dark Tower, then Justice League, then Star Wars . . . . " And I hasten to point out that I find both of them delightful human beings, and very much want to spend every moment that I can hanging out with them. But Jacqueline doesn't really need the world very much. If you want to walk her road, then she might be okay with that, but if you don't want to . . . well, fuck off, then. 

I often wish that I were more like that.