The Confessions of...Who?

“This is the only story of mine whose moral I know.  I don’t think it’s a marvelous moral; I simply happen to know that it is: we are what we pretend to be, so we must be careful about what we pretend to be.”

That is Kurt Vonnegut in the Introduction to Mother Night.  The story is about an American spy in Nazi Germany, who pretends to be a Nazi because, he is, after all, a spy, but the American government can’t acknowledge that he is working for the government because he is, after all, a spy, so everyone thinks he really is a Nazi.  His cover story is really good; you would never know he wasn't a Nazi.  So, is he a Nazi or not?  Vonnegut is claiming that if it walks like a Nazi and talks like a Nazi and acts like a Nazi, then it is, in fact, a Nazi.

In other words, Perception is Reality.

Another way of putting this: Vonnegut seems to be some sort of modern day Berkeley in which the thing which exists actually exists only in my mind—there is not reality outside of perception—but Vonnegut is adding that there also is no individual outside others’ perception of that individual.  I exist in your mind.  The “me” that you perceive is “me;” I am under a delusion if I think that there is some entity called “me” separate from your perception of “me.”  “Know thyself” is simply a command to “find out what others think about you.”

At first glance, it is hard to think Vonnegut is serious here.  Surely I exist separate from your perception of me.  Really, I do.  [Insert foot stomping.]

But, then I imagine:  suppose we have a person who knows himself to be really kind and generous.  Truly kind and generous; the most kind and generous person ever to exist.   This person never has a thought which isn’t kind and generous.   But everyone thinks the person is mean and nasty and completely self-absorbed.  Is that person kind and generous?  It is hard to imagine an argument that self-perception trumps external perception in a case like that.

Flip the question another way:  if I am kind in my heart and cruel in my actions, am I a kind or a cruel person?  It works the other way too: I am a very cruel and mean person at heart, but everyone thinks I am really nice and wonderful and kind.  What is the right way to describe me?  I run into that all the time. Theologically, I know that mankind is totally depraved.  Thus, I am totally depraved.  I am evil. I know the evil that lurks in my own heart.  Yet, when I tell people that I am evil, I am always met with an immediate shock and a rapid insistence that I am not evil at all.  Try as I might to convince people that I am evil, I always fail.  Always.  I insist that really, my heart is evil and nobody believes that my heart defines who I am.

Identity is a tricky thing.  If Vonnegut is right, I don’t get to define my own identity.  Others define my identity.  If I think I am a Giant Squid, if I truly believe that I am a Giant Squid, am I a Giant Squid?  I feel safe in assuming that you, Dear Reader, just thought: anyone who says he is a Giant Squid is crazy.  And crazy people don’t get to define their own identity.  We, Enlightened Society, get to decide the identity of Crazy People.  I am not Napoleon even if I think I am Napoleon. 

But, am I Jim Hartley if I think I am Jim Hartley?  Or am I only Jim Hartley if you, Dear Reader, think I am Jim Hartley?  And before you hasten to say that my identity exists independent of your evaluation of my identity, remember as soon as you say that I am the one who determines my identity, then I am going to insist that I am a Giant Purple Squid named Qxxwzk.  Will you then henceforth address me in terms appropriate to my true identity?

Here is where it gets troubling.  I write reflections on this blog.  Let’s imagine someone reads these reflections.  (Don’t laugh.  Let’s pretend that someone, somewhere, actually reads this blog.  (Wow!  Now that I think about it: if I think there is a Reader, does that mean there is a Reader?  Is it the case that not only is the identity of a person but the person’s actual existence dependent on perception?  So, does perceiving a Reader actually Create a Reader?  The mind reels. (It reels even more: if I think there is no Reader, does that mean you don’t exist? (That last question is seriously troubling.)))  To return:  imagine there is a Reader.  The Reader perceives me through my writings.  Am I then my writings? If Vonnegut is right and I am what I pretend to be, then that seems to mean I am what I write.  And if that is true, I truly am what I write on this blog, then perhaps I should be more careful about what I write. 

Perhaps I should stop denying my True Identity.

Cue The Who.