So we finally meet, Alain. I've always seen you cheekily taking your place between the great philosophers in book stores, and I've been skeptical. Now, I think I can say, some of that skepticism has been proved right. But honestly, who would care - I mean really care - about the indexing system of bookstores that puts Alain de Botton's wittily titled books between Bentham and Disraeli, Aristoteles and Descartes. Hell, who am I to judge what does and doesn't make the cut? I guess this is how the books are marketed, so good on them. I do have to say, though, that I find it hard sometimes to see the difference between the writings of someone like Rebecca Solnit and this guy here. Philosophy schmilosophy (or so he grumbled).
And while we are shooting straight (and in that regard I should probably not use that plural pronoun there - I should take full responsibility), here's another general remark. I am usually not one to go into a book in full fighting regale. By which I mean: I do not plan to argue with the writer. I try to go along peacefully and voluntarily. Even if I don't necessarily agree, I try to follow the argument, try to see the point of view; I find this very constructive to widen the mind. Once me and the writer stand at the end of the road, I can still swiftly excuse myself, wave, and quickly walk away. I can still dismiss. I've many a times found remarks scribbled in the margins of second-hand books, smugly arguing with the writer; the worst of those are offhand dismissals like "really?" and "surely not" regarding specific underlined passages of the book. Of late I've tried to do that myself, just to see how that would feel. When I started out I immediately found myself imagining a future reader, imagining the book to become a used book and to fall into the hands of a gullible youth. There is an undeniable smugness about correcting the author for an imaginary audience. There's no getting around that. What are you trying to prove really?
So much for tangential comments. I guess the point I was getting at is that I found myself frowning sometimes while reading this book. De Botton has a tendency to make straw man arguments, I feel (or something akin to this). He defends that which hardly needs defending, and it makes his inevitable triumphs feel hollow. For instance, in his essay on Boring Places he defends Dutch painter Jan Steen against one specific critic of the 18th century who made the ridiculous argument that only paintings of grand scenes can be grand paintings (I am paraphrasing poorly, but please humour me).
The essay about work and happiness I found especially confusing. Here, de Botton makes the case that today, more than never before, we identify people with the job they do. He illustrates this by conjuring up the stock question "What do you do?" Fair enough. But then he travels back in time to compare this to the fate of slaves. Surely, slavery was not in our modern sense an occupation. The larger point here of course, which De Botton fails to make, is that now, more than ever, we choose our occupation, so naturally we attach more personal values to this choice. Surely, too, people in the past who were not enslaved were definitely identified by their trade. Perhaps in a different way, but hardly less so than now. Now, I would argue it is possible to say you "run a farm," whereas in the past, you were a farmer, and you were a blacksmith. Perhaps now we ask "what do you do?", but before we might have asked "What are you?" In that sense, occupation and personality were far more connected in the past (only personality did not "exist" as such).
Another tangential remark: the good thing about Goodreads is that those who read the first part of my review, and expect a diatribe, will perhaps be able to soldier on because the review is embedded in an interface that also shows three little stars next to the words.
So it's hardly all bad: De Botton obviously has a keen eye and is a sharp observer. I really liked the first essay here, on Hopper and 'liminal' places. It shirks closely to psychogeography, that new places visited in new circumstances will shake you up and decluster (is that a word? or how about de-cobweb?) your mind. And of course there is a strong relation to the essay on Boring Places: there can be beauty not just in the sublime, but in the mundane, which is the same as to say the unconscious, the tasks that are so ingrained you could not even explain them to people, you have long since forgotten the overt commentary track running over them. Hopper was the master of that, yes, but its not just in Hopper; I believe you can find something in everything. It just depends how you look. And things that are curiously lacking in something good, or even in everything good or meaningful, become meaningful just because of this absence.
Truths are constructs, anyway, aren't they? So you can see and notice anything. The floor is yours. You can be De Botton. Just start writing.