Month: August 2019

I just came back from a few days at Peter’s and it was lovely to witness his life: with his son and his parents near by, his new dog and his new house.  We ate fried clams, walked Rosie, played Uno.  No one won but we enjoyed ourselves.  When I crossed back into Canada, the border agent seemed doubtful that I hadn’t bought anything.  Even with the weak Canadian dollar, tourists shop in the USA by the mere habit of it.  I was too busy being present with my dear friend and his family to indulge in consumerism.  We didn’t even go to a proper sandy beach and yet, I’ll forever treasure the normalcy of these few days.  

When Alan was asleep and Rosie finally calmed herself, it was bluntly apparent that Peter and I are atypical individuals.  Amidst the daily acts of living, which Mark aptly reminded us can be either joy or a grind depending on the meaning we assign to the routine maintenance of our lives, we etched out precious minutes to delve into existential questions.  The Nature of Love.  What is Religion: a cultural system or something more?  If more, what differentiates it from ideology?  We asked tough questions and evaluated hypotheses.  We didn’t solve the equations of the Universe, but we discerned the known from the known-unknown, questioned ourselves as to the unknown-unknown and even accepted a category of unknowables.  We acknowledged the magic and unpredictability of our recursive sentience.  And yet, we still ate, drank and slept like all those unaware or unwilling to face the complexity of our social world.  

We debated: what prevents ‘typical’ individuals from questioning the meaning of their lives — individually or collectively?  Peter claimed circumstances: that everyone has the potential to fathom their inherent personal complexity and our emergent collective one, but not everyone has the education or intellectual and emotional resources to do so.  I am more defeatist and existentialist at my core: culture indeed might prevent greater social enlightenment, but individuals still choose what becomes the focus of their attention.  But in hindsight, I think that we might have been saying the same thing: who is morally responsible for a life spent sleep-walking?  The unconscious agent or its repressive culture?  

On the spur of the moment, I had decided to drive to Peter’s because I needed to let my ‘existential’ soul loose.  I knew that Peter would welcome my inquisitions: that he would listen and welcome my seriousness.  This is my one life — my rapidly dwindling finite days on Earth — and there is nothing more serious to me than figuring out what I shall do next.  But this attitude is often a ‘mood killer’ and I genuinely respect those who don’t want to anticipate further than their next dinner.  Still, I am in the early days of a new path and I know perfectly well that the choices I make now will ripple into the future in unknown and unknowable ways.  I needed my friend to tell me that it’s ok to be scared… but that it’s not ok to resist my radical authenticity.  Embrace. Breath. Release. Repeat.  

We talked about the fascinating ways in which our minds work.  This is not an easy topic to approach because we usually assume that another mind functions just the way that our own does.  At the onset, it is the best assumption we can make — for we don’t have direct access to another person’s introspective subjectivity.  To gain hints at another’s experience of living, we must communicate — build an intersubjective understanding — and even then, our experience of another person’s mind will only be indirect.  Our human super-power of empathy merely opens the door to ‘other minds’; yet already, it is intermediated (and transformed) by the need to put lived experiences into words.   

Peter expressed his amazement at my dualistic linguistic abilities.  I confirmed that my French and English consciousnesses ‘understand’ different things for a text even when ‘literally’ translated.  Languages are indeed irreductible to one another — there is always something lost and something else created when we transform meaning across parallel symbolic systems.  

I shared that my mind functions less rationally than others seem to think.  For the most important decisions in my life, I feel my way forward.  With rationality (left side brain), we seem to be able to justify one thing and its opposite.  Knowing that rationality can lead me astray, I never give it the final say.  

There is a place in my brain that ‘feels’ like a deep well.  I can look at its surface and I may see two different things: 1) as a mirror, it reflects what I project.  This inner-mirror presents what my rationality has already constructed.  Reflecting on this reflection is useful but I must nonetheless be careful — for there is no reason to believe that Rationality is fundamentally ‘True’ simply because the very best it can be is ‘Internally-Coherent’.  ’Truth’ comes from somewhere else… From deep within the well.  

When I make the conscious effort to see beyond my inner-reflection, beyond what I have already chosen and how I have defined myself, I can see the well for what it is: 2) my unconsciousness.  The 90% of my brain that doesn’t use words to express itself.  It acts like an oracle to whom I can pose questions, yet one that I must decipher.  The well expresses itself in impressions that cannot be justified.  To be able to feel them, I must be silent.  Therefore, my mind doesn’t live in endless chatter.  Thoughts emerge, bubble over.  They come fully formed, with the strength of a conviction. Or tentatively, as potential solutions.  My psyche is only another sense-organ which processes, as inputs, those impressions emerging from my unconsciousness.  

To feel my way forward, I cannot dictate what I expect to find.  I must be sensitive to my impressions.  I embrace, interpret, hypothesize them and then wait to see how a proposal ‘sits’ within my well.  If it re-emerges later on with the same outline, then I know that I’m on the right path.  If not, I must ask a better question.  It’s definitely an iterative process.  I’ve changed circumstances many times in my past because my well told me that ‘I was wrong’.  The well is never wrong — only my capacity to read the tea leaves, to listen to its wisdom…  Already, giving a verbal explanation of this fundamentally pre-reflective process distorts it slightly.  But it also frees me!  How joyful is it to be known that intimately!  

Peter told me about his fundamentally mathematic mind.  As empathetic as I am, I could not relate as fully as I wished.  I do not dream in differential equations.  The closest I come to thinking through mathematic equations is through complex optimizations.  I see curves of future potential, opening and closing according to the choices we make today.  I try to anticipate the shape of these curves.  My decision-making abilities have slowed to a snail’s pace because I’ve reached the kink in the curve of exponential complexity.  I am consciously embarking on a journey that — I hope — will change not only my consciousness but that of Many.  Because of the recursive nature of human sentience, I cannot anticipate how my choices will affect other people’s choices.  I do not have access to the second degree feedback loop that may or may not ‘kick in’ as I live a more public life.  As a contributor to the creation of intersubjective understanding, I can only (and barely) control how to present my contributions.  Their effects extend infinitely beyond my reach. 

When I resolve to be less shy, it means that I will be more brave.  Less paralyzed by my optimizing mind.  I vow to proceed with my a-typical path in full awareness that I cannot optimize the consequences of my actions.  I’m emerging.  I must leap with unjustifiable faith into an unknowable future, one that my words and praxis will stir based on imperfect knowledge.  This is scary but the best I can do.  

A few nights ago, I went to my local theatre to see a production of a recently composed opera, based on an old Italian fairy tale.  The libretto was both light- and warm-hearted, the singing and playing were both competent, and while the evening was enjoyable, nonetheless I left the theatre dissatisfied.  The narrative structure in Act One hinted at Greek tragedy, but the concluding Scene in Act Two was pure Hollywood.  Reflecting on my disappointment, I concluded that there is good reason why fairy tales tend not to work well as the source material for opera.   In the best opera, most, if not all the principals lie dead on the stage by the time the curtain falls.  By contrast, the best fairy tales conclude with the narrator’s assurance that the main characters will now live “happily, ever after”.

I do not intend to say more about opera, at least not in this text.  Instead I want to write about living happily ever after: what would that be like?

I remember a poem by C P Cavafy, titled “Monotony”, written in 1908 and here translated from modern Greek by Aliki Barnstone:

From one monotonous day, another day
follows, identically monotonous. The same
things will happen. They will happen again.
The same moments find us and leave us.

A month passes and brings in another month.
We easily guess what is to come:
the same boring things from yesterday.
Then tomorrow no longer looks like tomorrow.

One reason I like this poem is for the way Cavafy generates tension between form and content: there is repetition as day follows day, month follows month, and the same things happen again and again.  But he is careful to tell us that the days are monotonous, and that the things are boring.  It is not their repetition that is the problem but their intrinsic uninterestingness.  Boredom is a feature of the events themselves not their repeated recurrence.  From which we might infer that a life of repetition could potentially be an interesting life – a happy life, a life in which tomorrow truly looks like tomorrow – even though this particular exemplar, the life about which Cavafy writes, is neither interesting nor happy because what is endlessly repeated is by nature dull.

Many of the moments of our lives, which find us and leave us, do so daily.  For most of the days of the rest of my life, however long that is, I will eat: which means that I will also buy ingredients, cook food and clear away the utensils after consuming what I have prepared.  For most of the days of the rest of my life, however long that is, I will go to sleep: which means that I will also brush my teeth, wash my face and make the bed after rising in the morning.  For most of the days of the rest of my life, however long that is, I will read: which means that I will also browse my shelves for material, sit for an hour or more in my chair and return my glasses to their case after perusing the chosen book or magazine.  For most days of the rest of my life – not the unusual days, the extraordinary days, but the normal days – it is these habitual activities that will determine whether my life is lived happily, ever after.

(I take it that “ever after” in this context means “for a good while”, and not “for time without end”.  For immortals, the problem of monotony will be harder to resolve).

One part of the secret to living a happy life comes from avoiding war, famine, or the premature deaths of those we love, but success in these cases mostly remains beyond our control.  We cannot always avoid adversity, however much we try, and unluckiness can surely be the enemy of happiness.  Finding satisfaction in the quotidian is, I think, another part of the secret: if we can adjust our sense of pleasure to focus on the enjoyment of the everyday, we increase the likelihood of a happy life.  Many facets of our daily lives can be thought of as tiresome chores which distract us from greater, more meaningful activities, but I suspect that thinking in this way makes the achievement of greater things less likely.

Which brings to my mind another poem, titled “I Want” and written in 1933 by Ricardo Reis, one of the anonyms of Fernando Pessoa, here translated from the Portuguese by Jonathan Griffin:

I want – unknown, and calm
Because unknown, and my own
Because calm – to fill my days
With wanting no more than them.

Those whom wealth touches – their skin
Itches with the gold rash.
Those who fame breathes upon –
Their life tarnishes.

To those for whom happiness is
Their sun, night comes around.
But to one who hopes for nothing
All that comes is grateful.

Chasing after wealth and fame is foolish, for all the obvious reasons, but so too is chasing happiness as an end-in-itself.  Enjoying what we have, what is given to us – the daily repetitions that structure our lives – can bring pleasure enough, and anything additional should be treated as a gift.  Reis (Pessoa) wants no more from life than his days of life: they suffice; living itself is good enough.

Pessoa’s poem echoes the writings of Benedict Spinoza, whose Jewish ancestors had left Portugal for Holland, rather than accept forced conversion to the Christian faith.  Spinoza was himself expelled from the Jewish community in Amsterdam for refusing to abjure his radical theological views.  He was a man denied the security afforded by membership of a strong national or religious community, a man who depended on the kindness and discretion of a small group of like-minded friends, themselves at the margins of Europe’s emergent Republic of Letters.  He was a man who, though he might think as he pleased, needed to be very careful about saying what he thought; he was a writer whose caution led him to remain unpublished in his lifetime.  Yet, he was also by all accounts a happy man.

At the start of his Treatise on the Emendation of the Intellect (written in the late 1650s), Spinoza writes that experience had taught him that “all the things which regularly occur in ordinary life are empty and futile”.  This might be taken as a wholesale rejection of my suggestion that happiness can be found in the enjoyment of the quotidian.  But while he dismisses the pursuit of wealth, honour or sensual pleasure for their own sake as routes to happiness, Spinoza is careful to note that these three need not be obstacles to happiness, so long as they are considered only means to a greater end.  That end – true happiness – he describes as “the knowledge of the union that the mind has with the whole of Nature”.  To understand what Spinoza means by this enigmatic statement would require extensive commentary on his great philosophical treatise, The Ethics (published in 1677, shortly after his death).  However, for my present purposes I want only to draw attention to a claim that he makes – emphatically – in the fourth chapter (paragraph 42), where he writes that “cheerfulness cannot be excessive, but is always good”; or, as another translation puts it, “there cannot be too much joy”.  Spinoza is sometimes portrayed as a man who lived an austere life and developed an austere philosophy.  On the contrary: he was a man who found great joy in both his life and his thought.

Whether we find the things that regularly occur in ordinary life to be empty and futile, depends less on their intrinsic nature and more on the way we think about them.  If we chase wealth, fame or pleasure as our goals, we are likely to find the daily routine to be no more than a daily grind.  By contrast, if we take pleasure in small, repeated actions – the daily making of coffee, a weekly swim, tending a garden through the seasons – our happiness can be founded upon these well-loved routines.  Should some wealth, fame or pleasure appear in our lives – by effort, merit, or accident – they may bring us supernumerary joy.  But we are more likely to be happy if we do not depend on the extraordinary as the source of our happiness.

Which is another way of saying that whether we are happy – or not – is consequent more on how we think about our lives and less on what happens to us during our lives.  If we understand, as Spinoza did, the union of the mind with the natural world, or if we learn, as Pessoa did, to hope for nothing, then we can enjoy the routines of daily life cheerfully because such a life can be lived with joy.  What once were considered obstacles can, in practice, become vehicles to true happiness, if only we adapt our minds to the reality of the world.

I do not mean by this that happiness if only to be found by withdrawal from the world, escaping into a sheltered, scholarly or poetic renunciation of public life.  Spinoza spent much time thinking and writing about politics and science: his retreat into domesticity was forced upon him by the lack of intellectual and social freedom of his time.  And he is the most materialist of all philosophers, denying the existence of a separate realm of spirit, mind or ideas, distinct from the physical universe.   His approach to happiness is not founded on an abandonment of the material world, but on the whole-hearted embrace of it.  And for him, as for most of us, for most of the time, this embrace is centred on the repetitive daily tasks that form the bones of our lives, the skeleton upon which all else we do hangs.

In classic fairy tales, the hero and heroine live happily, ever after, once the dragon has been slain, or the wicked witch/wizard has been defeated, or the enemy’s attacks have been thwarted, allowing the protagonists to enjoy many, many days in peace and quiet.  Happily, ever after, implies a time of calm, a time of wanting no more than the days themselves.  Does this sound monotonous?  Maybe so, but only if we choose to find days of peace and quiet to be dull.  If we learn to take pleasure in them and their sufficiency, we need not think of them as empty and futile.   And, in addition to the great pleasure we obtain from eating, sleeping and reading – over and over, time and again – we can also go to the opera once in a while, to enjoy the spectacle of der Lieberstod, content that it is others, not us, who chose death in ecstasy over repetitious daily life.

I have a new dog.  Her name is Rosie – well, I call her Rosie anyway, her name when I adopted her was Rosa.  I first met her a month and a half ago online, pet adoption basically now mimicking dating conventions, but me being me, I avoided looking online as long as possible because my heart was open and it didn’t matter on some level who I met online, just as long as the spark was there and it was, Rosa was perfect, and while I also met Dwight at the same shelter, my heart went towards Rosa and then I had my mom, who’s going to be doing a lot of the surrogate help with her, meet her, and Rosa was the one.  No question.  She’s perfect.

She also is terrified of change, as almost all of us are, and she’s now embarking on massive change.  So she pees on the floor more than the “housetrained – check” indicator on the shelter website indicated, and she sometimes bolts out of the yard because she doesn’t know that it’s all okay, and she’s not like Gordy, she doesn’t have ten years of trust and treats and foie gras under her belt.

She also has to deal with my son, a seven year old, and Gordy didn’t have to deal with that when he and I bonded eleven years ago.  Gordy had to deal with the odd energy – lots of love, but also lots of confusion and pain, that marked my marriage at the time – but he didn’t have to deal with the utter chaos of a seven year old boy.  My son is lovely on every level but he possesses that explosive energy of boyhood – and having Rosie interact with other children I do realize that it is a Y-chomosome issue – and that makes it more confusing.  Also Rosie is female, and Gordy was male.  Gordy was a bit aloof with my son, but that made sense, or at least, now it makes sense, now that I can see a female dog interact with a young boy.

As I write this, though, I realize I’m generalizing about gender and age and specie, and all of it is wrong.  Rosie is a rescue – she was picked up at the side of the road in the rural bits of Birmingham, Alabama, estimated age of two when she was picked up in January, a botched spaying operation made more tragic by a kind of weird white supremacist tattoo by the site of the operation, a cropped tail which is never something you do to a puppy you actually love – and all of her story is unknown except for that data on the page.  Gordy, on the other hand, was apparently tied up with several other dogs on an abandoned puppy mill in eastern Washington.  Gordy’s emotional scars revealed themselves in a terror of other dogs except for the biggest breeds, Great Danes and Bernese mountain dogs, who I assume were the ones who protected him in bad times; he didn’t like other people, was fiercely protective of me, of my ex-wife, of my son, of the ex-girlfriend.  He also never left my side, except when tempted by chipmunks, and then he felt guilty about it.  Rosie wants to like other people, but needs to explore.  She’s roamed across the neighborhood several times, and tonight, she chased out of my range across a state highway.  She just wants to explore, although she always comes back.

I’ve spoken of recursion often on this site, and I do think recursion – the capacity for infinitely applying the logic of our own observations to ourselves – is what separates sentient beings from non-sentient beings.  Dogs apply the logic of their own experience to the experience they have now, but in my experience, it’s a one-step thing; although I’m sure some can go one step further, most don’t.  Gordy, I think, went one step further; Rosie, I think, doesn’t, although it’s premature for me to assess that.  In any event, human beings aren’t that different.  We observe the world and learn lessons, and then go through one or more – or maybe just one – level of recursion to assess how those lessons will apply at a second level, at the second derivative, as it were.  We can apply those lessons we learn by observing others to ourselves, but mostly we don’t.  Rosie doesn’t, or at least she didn’t this evening – hence I had to walk across three neighbors’ lawns, across a highway, and pick her up and bring her back to my house.  But also, I had to give my son a time out because, despite a set of questions about “are you sure you want to color that picture with a glass of lemonade in front of you”, he colored a picture with a glass of lemonade in front of him and inevitably it spilled over the picture, his clothes, and the couch he was sitting on.

My son will (hopefully) learn to apply questions recursively against the lived experience he has; my new dog will (hopefully) start to see roads, highways, and lawn boundaries as varying steps of safety.  All of us, though, are joined by a leap of faith which (hopefully) we won’t have need to question: we opened our hearts of love, we opened ourselves to joy and hope, and we became companions on this earth.  We will (hopefully) apply our ability – limited in some sense, unbounded in others – to think recursively about love, and we will see the perfection of being open to love from those who are also, simultaneously, open to love.  I ask nothing of Rosie.  I ask nothing of Alan.  Well, not wholly true – I need them to be safe.  But if they aren’t, if he tries difficult things with electricity or she ventures across Route 9 at rush hour, I still love them – in fact, I love them so much I overreact and demand that they understand how much I love them and how much their danger hurts me.  And honestly, I don’t feel they ask anything of me.  I give them food and shelter, and they want encouragement and affection from me, but really, what I sense from both of them is that they just want me.  Me all of me, me with flaws, me with my inability to be there all the time, me with my doubts and fears.  And I want them as they are.

Companions are not possessions.  And companions have to be voluntary, on both sides.  Pets are hard because we provide so much – but you have to listen to them and make sure you are being accepted.  If you aren’t, then you’re just an owner.  You still have tremendous power, but oddly, you have that over your children too.  But we accept the power we have over pets, while we deny the power we have over children, because they will (generally) outlive us, they’ll at least become bigger than us.  But the moment either of them come into our presence, we need to welcome them as companions on our shared journey.  And we need to ask them to welcome us.  We need to be worthy of their company.  I have no right to get a dog; I have no right to have a son.  But I can ask permission of each of them – my son, my new dog – to be part of their life.  I hope they find me worthy of their companionship.  I have to accept the idea that I might not be.  But I’ll do my best.

When my daughter was about eighteen months old, we bought her some painted bricks to play with.  Cubic in shape – around 5cm long in each dimension – and numbering just over thirty in total, they were sufficient to build a tall tower, or two or three smaller towers.  Coloured red, green, blue and yellow, they were ideal for constructions that were aesthetically appealing for someone – like me – more attracted to the Bauhaus than the Gothic.  Made of wood, they were pleasingly tactile in the hand and when they fell to the floor, they produced a mellow marimba-tone that no plastic brick could hope to emulate.

They were the source of much fun.  I would build towers, of different sizes, colours and architectural designs, which my daughter would delight in knocking to the floor.  I would re-build and she would re-knock.  Build-up, knock-down; build-up, knock-down, build-up, knock-down; repeat ad infinitum.    I came to understand that there were two reasons why she preferred to destroy my carefully constructed towers rather than build with me.  First, the manual dexterity required to stack small cubic bricks is harder for a child than an adult, so for her the building process was much more like work than play.  Second, there is pleasure – great pleasure – to be had in the immediacy of a simple act of destruction.  What took me several minutes to build up, she could knock down in one second.  Thus, our division of labour became institutionalised: I would build-up, she would knock-down: work for me, pleasure for her.

As we grow up, our motor functions become more controlled and our architectural sensibilities more refined, increasing our willingness to take on the role of the builder in such games.  Our sense of time also changes, and we come to attach value to our expected future states as well as our actual present state.  We become capable of taking pleasure in construction as well as destruction, because we learn to be patient, taking satisfaction from the achievements of slow and steady work, not just the thrill of instant impact.  At least that’s the theory.  Personally, I have always been wary of the value of patience, suspicious of its status as a virtue, sceptical of the need to cultivate it as part of my character.   If something needs to be done, do it now and do it fast is my default philosophy.  Patience is often an excuse for dissembling, procrastination and general inefficiency in life.

Which brings me to a famous story about Alexander of Macedon, a figure from ancient history to whom I feel a bond, of sorts, since my middle name is Alexander, although I doubt we have much else in common, as I am neither Greek nor Great.     I draw my story from Flavius Arrianus Xenophon – known to posterity as Arrian – whose history, The Campaigns of Alexander is one of the principal sources for our contemporary knowledge of the adventures and achievements of the young imperialist.  In Book II, Arrian tells the story of the “untying” of the Gordian Knot.  Gordius was a poor man, but his son Midas became king of the Phrygians.  (It’s not a long story, but irrelevant to my purposes in this text, for which reason I pass on without comment.)  As a thank-offering to Zeus, Gordius’s wagon was parked on the local acropolis, its yoke tied to the wagon by a cord made from the bark of the cornel tree.  The Knot which kept the yoke in place was so designed that no one could see where it began or ended.   It was considered near impossible for the yoke to be untied: indeed, local myth suggested that he who managed to undo the Knot would become the ruler of the Persian Empire.

When Alexander arrived in Gordium at the start of his military expedition, it was clearly incumbent upon him to try to solve the puzzle of the Knot, in order to demonstrate his credentials as a conquering hero.  Arrian reports two different accounts of what Alexander did, when confronted by the refractory cornel bark.  One story says that he removed the wooden peg that held the shaft of the wagon to the yoke, around which the knot was tied; another story says that he cut through the knot with his sword.  Either way, as Arrian notes, “when he and his attendants left the palace where the wagon stood, the general feeling was that the oracle about the untying of the knot had been fulfilled”.  Now Alexander was ready to conquer Persia; and then India.  His solution to the problem of Gordian Knot – don’t procrastinate by trying to find the elusive solution to a complex problem, rather act speedily and decisively, thereby showing the problem to be misconceived – has long seemed to me a vindication of my distrust of the so-called virtue of patience.

Except, of course, that not all problems have a “quick” solution that can be revealed by a dash of élan and a rhetorical flourish; not all Gordian Knots can be unravelled by sleight of hand, or slash of sword.  Alexander’s impatience –or rather, his impetuosity – did not work out so well in the long-run, however impressed his immediate audience on the acropolis might have been by his audacity.   Knocking brings easy pleasure, but it requires that someone else is willing to rebuild, otherwise all that remains is rubble.  Defeating the enemy in battle is one thing, governing a newly won kingdom effectively is quite another.

Speaking of which, I write this text after a bizarre week in British politics, during which the smallish electorate that comprises the paid-up membership of the Conservative Party– mostly old, white and wealthy – have selected a new leader for their party, who – by quirk of constitutional tradition – also becomes the new Prime Minister.  For reasons known only to themselves, they have selected a man renowned for his laziness, dishonesty, irresponsibility and shamelessness; a man who, like me, disparages patience, but, unlike me, thinks the current challenges of British politics can be dealt with as if they were knots of cornel.

Two of the three principal challenges facing Boris the Great are shared by all developed democratic societies: first, how to design an electorally acceptable fiscal policy that provides sustainable funding streams to pay for the ever-growing demands on public services that support our aging populations; second, how to persuade the public to adjust their lifestyles by making significant changes to energy and food consumption, necessitated by global climate change.  Neither of these two challenges will be easy; not least because very few politicians are willing publicly to acknowledge the scale and urgency of the remedies that are required; not least because a central element of the solutions to both problems involves immigration into developed democratic societies on a significant scale, which is poorly understood and widely disliked.   I think it is reasonable to predict that Boris will make little if any progress towards serious solutions to either of these challenges, although in this regard, his record will be no more dismal than that of most of his contemporaries in other states.

His third challenge – in one sense more immediate, given treaty deadlines, but ultimately far less urgent, because it is wholly avoidable, what one might call a “fake challenge” – is to deal with the problem of how to exit the EU while not admitting to the electorate what is obvious to most dispassionate observers, namely that the economic and social costs of this foolish policy are enormous and will last for a generation; maybe longer.   As a leading proponent of “Brexit” it is highly unlikely that Boris will ever acknowledge publicly the amount of harm that the policy has already caused and will continue to cause for years to come.  But that cost is now likely to rise significantly, and to become much more obvious to the electorate, because of his propensity to treat the problem of disentanglement as if it were a knot to be sliced through.   Rather than concede that there is a high price to be paid for the gradual untying of relationships between Britain and the EU, Boris appears to believe that it would be clever for him to mimic Alexander at Gordium.

He is wrong – very wrong – as we are all soon going to discover.  Brexit only become a problem because some people insisted on the need to find a solution.   If we were to stop the frantic search for a way to untie the knot that yokes Britain to Europe, we might give ourselves the space to see that we are tied not by cornel bark, but by shared history, culture, genetics and economics.  Much as I dislike monarchy, both in its substantive and its decorative formats, it is sobering to remember that for the past two thousand years (approximately), since we rid ourselves of Roman (i.e. cosmopolitan Mediterranean) rule, British monarchs have come from Spain (Celts), Germany (Anglo-Saxons), Denmark (King Knut etc.), France ( William the Conqueror), Wales (Tudors), Scotland (Stuarts), Holland (House of Orange) and various German principalities (including Hanover and Saxe-Coburg).  The idea that we are different (and special) compared with continental Europe is ridiculous; the idea that our history demonstrates our separate identity is a preposterous self-delusion.   But it is one that Boris has nurtured.

It is impossible to unravel the Brexit Knot and it is irresponsible to try.  We are not cutting through bark, but flesh: we are kin with the rest of Europe.  We are not severing cumbersome and restrictive commercial ties that constrain our growth, but the very blood vessels of our economy.  For the past three years we have been engaged in a protracted bout of national self-harm: we are a country that should be on suicide watch.  How many pointless sword slashes will it take before Boris understands this?  It’s hard to say, but I predict that it won’t be a small number.  He is committed to knocking-down not building-up and he intends to hit an artificial deadline for no reason other than to try to disguise his own character weaknesses: namely, his laziness, dishonesty, irresponsibility and shamelessness.

As I have grown older, I have come to understand that some tasks take much longer to complete than others.  But when the task is long and complex then, I want to say, loudly and clearly, let’s start straight away and make progress as quickly as we can.  The harder the problem the more our tendency to hesitate, and every day of delay makes it harder to achieve a favourable outcome.   We have not improved our ability to adapt to climate change by waiting years to adjust our consumption of fossil fuels, nor have we made the funding of public services easier by piling up sovereign debt, the interest on which needs to be serviced out of current revenues.   The longer we wait the worse the problems have become.

By contrast, at other times, inactivity is the secret to success.  There is a segment of British society that dislikes the EU and dislikes immigration.  Their voices are loud, but they have no credible plan for managing an economy that is disconnected from its major trading partners and running short of labour.  Boris is committed to cutting the Brexit Knot, but has no clue what to do once the wagon and yoke are separated.  He offers a cure that is worse than the disease.  Like a small child, he will delight in knocking-down, but as yet, there is no-one ready at hand to start re-building work.  In times like these, the best policy is to do nothing, to stick with the status quo, to learn to live with the problem rather than try to solve it, to not rush in like a fool when an angel would fear to tread.   It might not be a virtue – I am still convinced that it is regularly an excuse – but I am now old and wise enough to know that sometimes patience is the best policy.