. . . Avoid raising men's laughter; for
it is a habit that easily slips into vulgarity, and it may well suffice to
lessen your neighbor’s respect. . . .
—Epictetus,
The Handbook, Chapter 33 (tr
Matheson)
Laughter
is such a wonderful and frustrating thing, because as soon as I try to define
what causes the joy, I have lost the very source of it. I’m reminded of
Wittgenstein in the Philosophical
Investigations, when he asked what would happen to a game if you removed
all the rules. Would it still be a game?
I
sometimes laugh because I find something funny, but once I explain the joke it
is hardly funny at all. Now I am stuck with trying to explain a spontaneous
experience in a clinical manner. The Ancient and Medieval Four Humors help us
to understand the root of all this, because we find reality amusing when it is
exaggerated and grossly distorted, much like extreme physical features in a
good political cartoon.
I will
often laugh, however, not because something is humorous, but because I am
nervous, because I am uncertain about what to do, because I have absolutely no
clue what is happening, or because everyone else is doing it.
More
importantly, I will sometimes laugh as a form of ridicule, which is a veiled
expression of my own arrogance and power.
A
legendary professor at my college was known for calling out young
whippersnappers who were chuckling and guffawing behind their hands during his class.
He would
ask them a simple question: “Are you laughing with me, or laughing at
me?”
The
inevitable answer, that of the bully who is really a coward, was “we’re
laughing with you, Professor.”
“Funny,
but I’m not laughing.”
I was
once sitting on a park bench by my old elementary school, enjoying that last
cigarette from a pack of Rothmans, and a car raced erratically into the parking
lot.
A fellow
rushed out of the car and tried the school door. I have no idea what he was thinking,
but I suspected he was having a bathroom emergency, and it had not occurred to
him that it was a Saturday evening. If he’d been a good Irishman, he’d have
found a well-placed tree or bush.
As I
looked back at the car, there was the lost love of my life sitting in the
passenger seat, the one who had now refused to speak to me for four years.
Instead of ignoring me, this time her finger was pointed straight at me, and
she was laughing hysterically. I had seen that same laugh many times before,
and it wasn’t pleasant.
I simply
got up and walked away, uncertain about what else I could possibly do. The car
sped off again. As I walked, I still saw that finger pointed at me, along with that
broad dismissive grin.
The
image of being mocked by someone I had once thought of as my best friend haunts
me to this day.
Laughing
is not always about sharing something funny, or enjoying a good time. Too
often, it is about trying to hurt the very same people we ought to love.
Whether
it is at the honky-tonk or at a fancy dinner, we are all tempted to use humor
as an excuse to be important, and to make others feel less important. I often
find that the most popular people are the ones that make everyone laugh, not
because they are sharing something humorous, but because they are putting
someone else down.
No man
can show respect through the ridicule of others, and no man should expect
respect from others through his insults.
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