Hence arises that weariness and
dissatisfaction with oneself, that tossing to and fro of a mind which can
nowhere find rest, that unhappy and unwilling endurance of enforced leisure. In
all cases where one feels ashamed to confess the real cause of one's suffering,
and where modesty leads one to drive one's sufferings inward, the desires pent
up in a little space without any vent choke one another.
Hence comes melancholy and
drooping of spirit, and a thousand waverings of the unsteadfast mind, which is
held in suspense by unfulfilled hopes, and saddened by disappointed ones.
Hence comes the state of mind of
those who loathe their idleness, complain that they have nothing to do, and
view the progress of others with the bitterest jealousy. For an unhappy sloth favors
the growth of envy, and men who cannot succeed themselves wish everyone else to
be ruined.
This dislike of other men's
progress and despair of one's own produces a mind angered against fortune,
addicted to complaining of the age in which it lives to retiring into corners
and brooding over its misery, until it becomes sick and weary of itself: for
the human mind is naturally nimble and apt at movement.
How
clear the whole progression now seems to me, when it is laid out in such a manner.
The causes on the inside lead to the effects on the outside. I don’t see it, of
course, when I am caught in the middle of it, because I haven’t bothered to
step out of myself, and look at myself as I may look at another.
First,
there is an absence within myself. My judgments are flawed, and so my very
sense of self is flawed. I am restless precisely because I am failing to be
human.
Then, I
can feel nothing but sadness within myself. The sadness is itself not a
consequence of anything that has happened, but flows directly from my poor
judgments about what is right and wrong.
Finally,
there can only be resentment and jealousy for those other than myself. Give me
what you have, whatever it might be, since I have nothing at all of any worth within
my own soul. Now I will hate you, and I will blame you, when you fail to give
it to me.
I could
never quite figure out why my conscience always told me not to care one bit for
the worldly glory achieved by others, yet here I was, gritting my teeth and
banging my fists on the table, consumed with envy whenever I saw them win even
more pleasure, position, or power.
My first
excuse, of course, was to blame them for being so petty and shallow, and to
hide my frustration behind a self-righteous anger. No, it had nothing to do
with them at all. It had everything to do with me, and the fact that my own
moral failings made their possessions seem so enticing.
If I
starve myself for a day, or a week, or a month, any morsel, however meager or
unhealthy, will suddenly appear appetizing.
I may
become convinced that they have something I lack, only because I lack something
quite different that I should already have. If a man takes away his own
character, he has nothing left but to crave external blessings, and when they
don’t happen to come his way, he has nothing left but to begrudge others for
having them.
Jealousy
can have such an incredible power, but there is no great mystery to it. Those
who believe that happiness is about pride, conquest, or gratification, the
disciples of a Nietzsche or a Freud, will assume that jealousy can never truly
be tamed. They are mistaken, however, because it is quite possible for a man to
think beyond his belly, if he only decides to open his mind to Nature.
Written in 5/2011
IMAGE: Edvard Munch, Jealousy (1907)
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