The Art Of Suspending Your Disbelief
Zacharias Cornelius Vanderbron was a man who was truly full of faith. His appearance also reflected this, with confidence-inspiring glasses, a hairstyle in which every hair was neatly in place, a decent clothing style, a step with no doubt, and a serious, determined look in his eyes.
No one was ever as adept at the art of believing as he was. When he went to church, he believed in a god who had made the world, reigned affectionately, and fathered a son who rose from the dead to save mankind. If he was working, he believed in market forces, the right of the strongest, and the unbridled goodness of ambition.
He often went on business trips, and he came to the end of the day, sometimes in a nightclub, believing in his wildest imagination. When he came home, he was with his family, where he believed in the faithfulness of his wife and a bright future for his children, because they had exemplary behavior, performed well at school, and did an excellent job in their sports.
He did not think much about his life, and had you asked him if he was happy, he would probably have answered with something in the spirit of “Sure, why not?” And, well, who says it must be more complicated than that? If you’re happy because you do not see a reason not to be, then maybe it’s true.
One day, Zacharias received a postcard at his work address. On the front was a beautiful image of an idyllic mountain landscape, with a clear, rippling river; on the back, the following text:
“It’s not true. Sorry. Cheers, P.”
He really could not figure out who this P. could be. He had acquaintances whose first or last name started with a P, but there was really no one who would shorten their name to a letter. Moreover, he could not relate that sentence to anyone — not even someone whose name did not start with a P.
But what occupied him the most was the message that something was not true. He started to wonder what specifically was not true. Something he had very positively claimed? Was it something in his faith? Did something not work in his work? Was there something that one of his customers had claimed? Had something gone wrong during a nightclub visit? Was his wife always honest with him? Was anything wrong in the lives of his children?
It did not let him go. At church, he listened to the sermon with growing doubts. At work, he doubted what he was doing, as well as his goals, his relationships, and his ambitions. He started to feel more and more insecure about his nightclub visits; he was ashamed of his fantasies. And he even doubted his wife’s faithfulness and the bright futures of his children.
His doubt kept growing. He went to sleep worse, did his job less well, no longer came into the church, and, at home, developed a mounting tension between him and his wife and children. In short, it went downhill with him on all fronts. He was no longer sharp enough when doing business, so he went bankrupt. He became less and less attentive, more and more crippled and suspicious of his wife, and she finally left him, his children suffered badly from all that and subsequently performed miserably in school and sports.
Nobody asked him, but he now saw a number of reasons for not being happy.
And so one day, he was sitting on a lonely bench in a desolate park with the postcard in his hand, staring defenselessly at the idyllic mountain landscape. Only then did he see that this picture wasn’t quite right in some aspects. The sky was a bit too blue, the trees a bit too green, the light a bit too bright. But hey, he thought, it’s just a beautiful picture. He closed his eyes and walked through the landscape, felt the bright sun on his skin, filled his lungs with fresh mountain air, and listened to the clear babbling water.
For a moment, this was sufficient for him to be happy.
***
Excerpt from A Compassionate Guide For Social Robots.
No one was ever as adept at the art of believing as he was. When he went to church, he believed in a god who had made the world, reigned affectionately, and fathered a son who rose from the dead to save mankind. If he was working, he believed in market forces, the right of the strongest, and the unbridled goodness of ambition.
He often went on business trips, and he came to the end of the day, sometimes in a nightclub, believing in his wildest imagination. When he came home, he was with his family, where he believed in the faithfulness of his wife and a bright future for his children, because they had exemplary behavior, performed well at school, and did an excellent job in their sports.
He did not think much about his life, and had you asked him if he was happy, he would probably have answered with something in the spirit of “Sure, why not?” And, well, who says it must be more complicated than that? If you’re happy because you do not see a reason not to be, then maybe it’s true.
One day, Zacharias received a postcard at his work address. On the front was a beautiful image of an idyllic mountain landscape, with a clear, rippling river; on the back, the following text:
“It’s not true. Sorry. Cheers, P.”
He really could not figure out who this P. could be. He had acquaintances whose first or last name started with a P, but there was really no one who would shorten their name to a letter. Moreover, he could not relate that sentence to anyone — not even someone whose name did not start with a P.
But what occupied him the most was the message that something was not true. He started to wonder what specifically was not true. Something he had very positively claimed? Was it something in his faith? Did something not work in his work? Was there something that one of his customers had claimed? Had something gone wrong during a nightclub visit? Was his wife always honest with him? Was anything wrong in the lives of his children?
It did not let him go. At church, he listened to the sermon with growing doubts. At work, he doubted what he was doing, as well as his goals, his relationships, and his ambitions. He started to feel more and more insecure about his nightclub visits; he was ashamed of his fantasies. And he even doubted his wife’s faithfulness and the bright futures of his children.
His doubt kept growing. He went to sleep worse, did his job less well, no longer came into the church, and, at home, developed a mounting tension between him and his wife and children. In short, it went downhill with him on all fronts. He was no longer sharp enough when doing business, so he went bankrupt. He became less and less attentive, more and more crippled and suspicious of his wife, and she finally left him, his children suffered badly from all that and subsequently performed miserably in school and sports.
Nobody asked him, but he now saw a number of reasons for not being happy.
And so one day, he was sitting on a lonely bench in a desolate park with the postcard in his hand, staring defenselessly at the idyllic mountain landscape. Only then did he see that this picture wasn’t quite right in some aspects. The sky was a bit too blue, the trees a bit too green, the light a bit too bright. But hey, he thought, it’s just a beautiful picture. He closed his eyes and walked through the landscape, felt the bright sun on his skin, filled his lungs with fresh mountain air, and listened to the clear babbling water.
For a moment, this was sufficient for him to be happy.
***
Excerpt from A Compassionate Guide For Social Robots.
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