No Man Is an Island—Except the Smart Ones Who've Read the Fine Print

 

image generated by Grok AI

I have lately taken to wondering why folks persist in certain customs. Take the habit of greeting one another with "Good morning" or "Hello" as though the words carried some freight of meaning. They do not. They are empty. One might as well bark at the postman or nod at the lamppost; the exchange signifies nothing beyond the fact that two creatures capable of speech have briefly occupied the same patch of air. I have tried omitting the ritual on occasion, and the world did not end, nor did anyone appear noticeably wounded. The sun rose regardless, and the coffee tasted the same. A man might save himself a good deal of breath by simply passing in silence, yet convention demands the performance.
The more I learn of people—their motives, their little vanities, their endless capacity for self-deception—the sicker I become in their company. It is a progressive ailment. At first one notices only the small hypocrisies, the polite lies told to grease the wheels of daily intercourse. Then come the larger revelations: envy dressed up as concern, greed masquerading as ambition, cruelty wrapped in the flag of principle. Before long the stomach turns, and one begins to dream fondly of simpler companionship. A dog, now—there's a creature whose affections are honest and whose treacheries are at least straightforward. He wags when pleased, growls when displeased, and never once pretends his loyalty is anything grander than a full bowl and a warm spot by the fire. No dog ever invited me to a committee meeting or asked my opinion on matters he had already decided.Speaking of meetings, most of them are monuments to wasted time, erected by folks who mistake talk for progress. A man calls a gathering, sits at the head of a long table, and proceeds to say what everyone already knows, while the rest nod sagely or doodle in the margins of their notes. Hours pass in this fashion, and at the end the same decisions are reached that might have been arrived at by a single sensible fellow in ten minutes—or, better yet, by no meeting at all. Yet the ritual persists, for to skip it would be to admit that the whole apparatus is a sham, and no one likes to be the first to call the emperor naked.Then there is the preacher—Pastor So-and-So, let us call him—who assures me with perfect confidence that no man can make his way alone in this world. "Come to the church," he says, "for fellowship, for support, for the strength that only comes from gathering together." How convenient for him! His pews fill, his collection plate circulates, and his authority is confirmed—all because solitary virtue is declared impossible. I have yet to see evidence that the Almighty requires a middleman to approve my existence, or that divine favor is apportioned by attendance records. The good pastor's prescription sounds less like salvation and more like a subscription service: pay your dues, show up regularly, and receive the promised community in return. I suspect the community would vanish the moment the dues stopped flowing.But what is this "community" anyway? Folks throw the word around as though it were a solid thing you could lean on, like a fence post or a good stout door. In truth there is no such thing. There are only individuals, each pursuing his own interests, colliding now and then in pursuit of them, and calling the collisions "society" when it suits. "The public good" is another fine phrase—grand, sonorous, and vague enough to cover any mischief. Who comprises "the public"? Everyone except the speaker, perhaps. And who decides its "good"? Usually the same folks who stand to profit by the decision. It is a splendid arrangement: declare a cause noble, rally the crowd with appeals to virtue, and quietly pocket the benefits while the crowd pats itself on the back for its altruism.As for the old saw that "no man is an island unto himself," it is pious nonsense. A man may be an island, a peninsula, or even a solitary rock in the middle of the ocean, and get on quite well if he minds his own business. The notion that we are all bound together in some mystical web of mutual dependence is mostly a comfort for those who cannot bear their own company. Islands have their advantages: no noisy neighbors, no endless obligations, no need to pretend enthusiasm for other people's troubles. True, a storm may come along now and then, but a man who builds his house properly can weather it without borrowing trouble from the mainland.In the end, perhaps the wisest course is to keep one's expectations modest, one's greetings brief, and one's faith in humanity firmly in check. A dog for companionship, a quiet corner for reflection, and as little truck with meetings and moralizers as possible—that seems a reasonable program. The rest is mostly noise, and I've had my fill of it.There. Let the world go on with its greetings and gatherings; I'll take the dog and the silence, and count myself the richer for it.