Cynicism: The Art of Seeing Things As They Are

Yes, Doug, it certainly is. . .cynicism, I mean. I was a naïve, small town boy when you said those words in Chapel Hill so many years ago. Today, I remain open to new ideas and believe in the intrinsic value of all creatures (including humans), and the ineffable movements of God in our hearts. But I have also as one coworker remarked a few months ago ". . .gone way beyond cynicism."

Younger coworkers see me as "cynical." I believe that is because I do not buy the promise of paradise that artificial intelligence, genetic engineering and Britney Spears are supposed bring to the human race. Most of them probably do not understand my skepticism of the corporate world and must surely wonder why I place so little emphasis on scrambling up the corporate ladder.

My attitude has always been: You take the suit and power tie (Is yellow still the power color?); give me the jeans and open shirt; weekends free and as many days off as possible. In another incarnation, I probably could have been a student of the infamous Greek philosopher, Diogenes of Sinope.

In addition to living in a barrel among stray dogs, the most renowned cynic of antiquity was famous for walking the streets of Athens in daylight waving a lantern and declaring that he was looking for a "real human being.

Diogenes and his fellow Cynics emphasized the truth of everyday living rather than Plato's perfect world of forms awaitng the soul after death. They felt that that afterlife (or reincarnation) may or may not exist; in the meantime there was the current life to live as well as possible.

My favorite story about Diogenes concerns Alexander the Great, who had heard of the irascible wit. As the legend goes, Diogenes was sunning himself when Alexander came up, stood over him, and said: "Ask of me any boon you like".

Diogenes replied: "Get out of my light."

The great Irish poet, William Butler Yeats was also something of a cynic. I mean, just look at his epitaph:

Cast a cold eye,
On life, on death,
Horseman, pass by.

Yeats has a little poetic gem (one of his few efforts to which I would attach the moniker, verse) that goes like this:

Why should not old men be mad?
Some have known a likely lad
That had a sound fly-fisher's wrist