The Joyless Pantomime of Optimizing Ennui

The joyless pantomime of optimizing our alienation is not a substitute for authentic fulfillment.

We all know that geopolitics, the stock market, AI, the unemployment rate and all the rest of what's presented as "explaining" everything is "important," but all these analytic abstractions ignore what we actually experience. This divide between what we're told we should be experiencing and what we are actually experiencing is what I call the politics of experience, a term coined by R.D. Laing in the 1960s.

The basic idea is that there's a widening gulf between what we actually experience and what we're told we should be experiencing, and this disconnect is inescapably deranging. Since the entire realm we inhabit is telling us everything's great and the sky's the limit, we pantomime this same claim as if we're actually experiencing authentic joy because everyone else seems to believe it.

If we confess that we don't feel everything's great and what we actually feel is a complete disconnect from everything we're supposed to be feeling, then we risk an internal and social divide that threatens our entire status quo: if we recognize it's all a joyless pantomime, then what?

But everyone else doesn't actually believe it, either; they're just going through the motions in the hope that the joyless pantomime will keep everything they're afraid of losing glued together. But if we've substituted an optimized-for-optimization pantomime for authentic experience, then we've already lost ourselves and our ability to discern the hollowness of the civilizational psychosis that claims a life of ennui and alienation is "living our best lives."

The gulf between what we're told is joyful and wondrously promising and our lived experience is now so wide that the cracks are showing. Consider these excerpts from recent articles:

The Strange Feeling So Many Adults Can't Explain: The quiet epidemic not enough people are talking about. (medium.com)

Now I hear the same sentence from people all the time. "Nothing is wrong, I just don't really get excited about anything anymore."

They're not saying they're depressed. They're still working. Paying bills. Taking care of their kids. Walking the dog. Going to the gym. Life keeps moving. But the excitement isn't the same. That spark that used to make ordinary things feel meaningful doesn't seem to show up anymore.

What's strange is how many people seem to be feeling it at the exact same time. Spend a few minutes on TikTok, Reddit, or Instagram, and you'll find thousands of comments from people describing the exact same experience. Different ages. Different careers. Different backgrounds. But they're all asking a similar question. "When did I stop looking forward to life?"

Why does everything feel so joyless? Welcome to the age of decadence without pleasure: Decadence in our era comes in technologically mediated forms, emptied of desire and obsessed with self-optimization. (theguardian.com)

AI marks a triumph of artifice more sweeping than the old decadents could have imagined. Yet far from bolstering our capacity for perceptual intensity, AI presents new threats to both. Its productions are eerily hollow, with no felt experience, embodiment or sensation behind them. AI is the pleasureless decadence machine.

"There is no pleasure or pain for an AI, no skin in the game," the philosopher Carissa Veliz writes in her recent book Prophecy. As a result, an AI "cannot care, and therefore cannot value." Without some felt relation to pleasure and pain, judgments of value and taste become abstract and bloodless.

Art, sex, nature: why is everything sold to us as a means to an end, rather than an end in itself? How a reductive worldview is stripping meaning from our most valued activities. (theguardian.com)

I have seen countless other examples of all the things that are good in life being promoted not for their own sake but for the material benefits they bring. This instrumentalization has become normalized so insidiously that we don't even notice that it is odd, let alone wrong. Nor do we seem to be aware of quite how pervasive it is. Yet its effects are profound, leading us to lose sight again and again of what is truly of value in life.

Our autonomous agency has increasingly been expressed through our status as consumers. Freedom is above all the choice of how to spend our money, with the promise that everything we need can be obtained in exchange for cash. The consumer mindset has affected how we relate to everything, not just the things we buy.

The result is that the world has become essentially transactional, meaning that everything is an instrument for getting something else. It is no coincidence that dating apps give the impression that we are shopping for partners because we approach even relationships with the consumer framing.

Combine an inflated belief in personal autonomy, a transactional consumer mentality and a reductionist attitude to how things work, and it is inevitable that we treat the world as a collection of resources we can plunder to promote our own well-being. The tragedy is that when we do so, we neglect rather than serve our deepest needs.

The cornucopian fantasy of AI generating super-abundance is the joyless pantomime taken to the highest level of civilizational psychosis. The more we strive to optimize ourselves and everything around us, the more we rely on metrics as guides to "living our best lives," the more we strive to work harder and work smarter in the hopes that more stuff and more transactions will finally become fulfilling, the farther we drift from ourselves and our own experience.

The joyless pantomime of optimizing our alienation is not a substitute for authentic fulfillment. The pantomime--going through the motions of finding fake fulfillment in ultra-processed products, experiences and optimizations--is not just joyless, it drains our life force, leaving us in a depleted state of ennui, burned out and wondering why we don't feel the fulfillment we're supposed to be feeling in our hyper-optimized existence.

We don't need therapy and supplements, we need out.




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The Joys and Tragedies of Naivete

Our naivete is being exploited so ruthlessly and with such abandon that the golden age of the Big Con is consuming itself.

Naivete is interesting because it's so easily confused with confidence, native optimism, youthful enthusiasm, and a host of delusions, including mistaking idealized fantasies and fairy tales as templates for the real world. In a culture that prides itself on not being a chump, to be called naive is an accusation: don't be naive means don't be an easily conned chump.

In contrast, being confident, optimistic and filled with youthful enthusiasm are praised as the core of American Practicality, Idealism and Vigor, i.e. the can-do spirit. That naivete lends itself to youthful enthusiasm, sunny optimism and can-do confidence is rarely remarked upon.

So what is naivete other than credulity? It's a willingness to trust leaders, institutions and mythologies without running them through common-sensically skeptical filters, and a belief that everything will work out just fine regardless of what happens if we just keep working hard and working smart.

The difference between a willingness to trust leaders, institutions and mythologies, sunny optimism and youthful enthusiasm and naively mistaking self-serving fantasies and fairy tales for the real world is, well, there isn't any. Believing that an unending stream of patently transparent self-serving fairy tales accurately reflect "the real world" is the pinnacle of naivete, and that describes the entire American society, culture and economy: this is the golden age of the Big Con.

Which brings us to Herman Melville's under-appreciated classic, The Confidence-Man. Why read a book from 1857 which flopped so badly as commercial literature that Melville stopped writing and ended his career as a customs official? Because this book masterfully explores the entire nature of trust, confidence and cons. Though the setting is a riverboat on the Mississippi River just before the U.S. exploded into Civil War, its insights cross cultural boundaries.

This is not an easy book to read for several reasons. First, it is undoubtedly one of the first "post-modern" novels which breaks from traditional narrative storytelling. ( Another example: Dostoevsky's Notes From the Underground.) The Confidence-Man is a collection of 45 conversations between various people on the riverboat--beggars, absurdly dressed frontiersmen, sickly misers, shysters, patent medicine hucksters, veterans (of the Mexican-American War) and the "hero" in the latter part of the book, the Cosmopolitan.

In typical Melville fashion, you also get asides--directly to the reader, in several cases, as if Melville felt the need to address issues of fiction outside the actual form of his novel. The lack of structure, action and conclusion make this a post-modern type book, but if you read each conversation as a separate story, then it starts to make more sense.

For what ties the book together is not a story but a theme: the nature of trust and confidence. In a very sly way, Melville shows how a variety of cons are worked, as the absolutely distrustful are slowly but surely convinced to do exactly what they vowed not to do: buy the "herbal" patent medicine, buy shares in a bogus stock venture, or donate cash to a suspect "charity."

In other chapters, it seems like the con artist is either stopped in his tracks or is conned himself. Since the book is mostly conversations, we are left to our own conclusions; there is no authorial voice wrapping up each chapter with a neatly stated ending. This elliptical structure conveys the ambiguous nature of trust; we don't want to be taken, but confidence is also necessary for any business to be transacted. To trust no one is to be entirely isolated.

Melville also raises the question: is it always a bad thing to be conned? The sickly man seems to be improved by his purchase of the worthless herbal remedy, and the donor conned out of his cash for the bogus charity also seems to feel better about himself and life. The ornery frontiersman who's been conned by lazy helpers softens up enough to trust the smooth-talking employment agency owner. Is that a terrible thing, to trust despite a history of being burned?

The ambiguous nature of the bonds of trust is also explored. We think the Cosmopolitan is a con-man, but when he convinces a fellow passenger to part with a heavy sum, he returns it, just to prove a point. Is that a continuance of the con, or is he actually trustworthy?

The book is also an exploration of a peculiarly American task: sorting out who to trust in a multicultural non-traditional society of highly diverse and highly mobile citizens. In a traditional society, things operate in rote ways; young people follow in their parents' traditional roles, money is made and lent according to unchanging standards, and faith/tradition guides transactions such as marriage and business along well-worn pathways.

But in America, none of this structure is available. Even in Melville's day, America was a polyglot culture on the move; you had to decide who to trust based on their dress, manner and speech/pitch. The con, of course, works on precisely this necessity to rely on one's senses and rationality rather than a traditional network of trusted people and methods. So the con man dresses well and has a good story, and an answer for every doubt.



Our naivete is being exploited so ruthlessly and with such abandon that the golden age of the Big Con is consuming itself. Delusions are now the norm, as if our unhinged optimism that everything will turn out just fine as long as we believe in Technology and Finance, for that will be enough to stem the tsunami of consequences building up beneath the surface euphoria of stocks and AI making us all wealthy beyond measure.

These are the joys of naivete. The tragedies are still over the horizon, a gathering storm we are unprepared for.


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Thank you, Joe S. ($70), for your superbly generous subscription to this site -- I am greatly honored by your support and readership.		Thank you, Randy J. ($70), for your marvelously generous subscription to this site -- I am greatly honored by your support and readership.

Thank you, Nick H. ($7/month), for your massively generous subscription to this site -- I am greatly honored by your support and readership.

Thank you, Jeff M. ($7/month), for your splendidly generous subscription to this site -- I am greatly honored by your support and readership.

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