Hey there,

this week my classes at university started again. It's something I'd been dreading -- not because of all the studying but rather because of the potential intrusion with my writing schedule that I'd meticulously cultivated during the semester break. And it was an intrusion, alright.

But surprisingly, this was just what my creativity needed.

Now I have to leave the house at least once a day, bike to university, chat with a few people, and, you know, get out of my own head. The change of scenery works wonders.

In fact, it's what inspired today's essay.

Hypothetical Happiness

"Why are some people so much happier than others?"

This question didn't come up in one of my philosophy seminars but, unexpectedly, in Portuguese class. We'd been talking about the pretérito mais-que-perfeito do conjuntivo (the past perfect subjunctive) and had discussed a few examples. My professor said the easiest way to think about it is to imagine a person who completely wants to rewrite their past. Like this:

• "If I had won the lottery, I would be rich now."
• "If I hadn't accepted that job, my career would have flourished."
• "If I had married her, I could have been happy."

Why are some people stuck in this thinking and unable to find happiness?

The German sociologist Hartmut Rosa has an answer: whether a person describes their life as "well-lived" or not depends on their frequency of experiencing resonant moments. What are resonant moments? These are the instances where you feel like you're on the same frequency as everything around you. You listen to a beautiful bird song, enjoy the walk to the office, and have nice chats with your colleagues. You, other people, the world are in resonance with each other.

But of course, you can also get out of sync: birds sound like a mismatched school orchestra, the walk to the office is ruined by car cutting you off, and you never liked your colleagues anyway. It's only a natural consequence, then, that you'd want to escape to the past perfect subjunctive, attempting to rewrite your life's story. If I only had [money, good looks, health], then, at last, my life would be okay.

It's tempting to think resources like money or status would improve our lives. But Rosa thinks differently. Consider two painters. One spends weeks accumulating rare oil colors, sophisticated brushes, and an immaculate canvas. This painter also spends his days amassing knowledge about brush stroke techniques, image composition, and color theory. Months go by until the paint first touches the canvas.

The other painter, in contrast, ransacks his basement for any equipment that remotely qualifies for artistic activity and gets straight to work.

Who do you think paints the better picture?

And not just that: Which painter can actually enjoy the process of painting?

It's a similar story in life. Cash in some money here, get a promotion there. You know the deal. But when do we start painting? When do we stop wishing for our resources and past to change and deal with what we have?

When do we start living?

All this reminded me of a novel I recently read: The Remains of the Day by Kazuo Ishiguro. In it, the protagonist -- a butler in a fine English house -- dwells on his past as he goes on a road trip to visit an ex coworker who had become his friend. At the end, this friend tells him she might have had feelings for him but somehow ended up with someone else. Eventually, it's time to say goodbye. A bittersweet moment.

But then, something miraculous happens. The protagonist sits down at a beautifully lit pier and, rather than asking himself the usual what-if questions, he comes to a revolutionary conclusion:

Some people think they have to get everything right in life: get rich, achieve lots of things, marry the perfect person. But our humble butler here suggests a more reasonable approach: trying to make a contribution in the present is far more worthwhile than wishing for a perfect past.

I guess I've understood by now how to use the past perfect subjunctive in Portuguese. But I intend to use it scarcely. In all languages I speak.

Until next time,

Stephan

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