This Is Water Read online

  Look, if I choose to think this way, fine, lots of us do — except that thinking this way tends to be so easy and automatic it doesn’t have to be a choice.

  Thinking this way is my natural default setting.

  It’s the automatic, unconscious way that I experience the boring, frustrating, crowded parts of adult life when I’m operating on the automatic, unconscious belief that I am the center of the world and that my immediate needs and feelings are what should determine the world’s priorities.

  The thing is that there are obviously different ways to think about these kinds of situations.

  In this traffic, all these vehicles stuck and idling in my way: It’s not impossible that some of these people in SUVs have been in horrible auto accidents in the past and now find driving so traumatic that their therapist has all but ordered them to get a huge, heavy SUV so they can feel safe enough to drive; or that the Hummer that just cut me off is maybe being driven by a father whose little child is hurt or sick in the seat next to him, and he’s trying to rush to the hospital, and he’s in a way bigger, more legitimate hurry than I am — it is actually I who am in his way.

  Or I can choose to force myself to consider the likelihood that everyone else in the supermarket’s checkout line is probably just as bored and frustrated as I am, and that some of these people actually have much harder, more tedious or painful lives than I do, overall.

  And so on.

  Again, please don’t think that I’m giving you moral advice, or that I’m saying you are “supposed to” think this way, or that anyone expects you to just automatically do it, because it’s hard, it takes will and mental effort, and if you’re like me, some days you won’t be able to do it, or else you just flat-out won’t want to.

  But most days, if you’re aware enough to give yourself a choice, you can choose to look differently at this fat, dead-eyed, over-made-up lady who just screamed at her kid in the checkout line — maybe she’s not usually like this; maybe she’s been up three straight nights holding the hand of her husband, who’s dying of bone cancer, or maybe this very lady is the low-wage clerk at the motor vehicles department who just yesterday helped your spouse resolve a nightmarish red-tape problem through some small act of bureaucratic kindness.

  Of course, none of this is likely, but it’s also not impossible — it just depends what you want to consider.

  If you’re automatically sure that you know what reality is and who and what is really important — if you want to operate on your default setting — then you, like me, probably will not consider possibilities that aren’t pointless and annoying.

  But if you’ve really learned how to think, how to pay attention, then you will know you have other options.

  It will actually be within your power to experience a crowded, hot, slow, consumer-hell-type situation as not only meaningful, but sacred, on fire with the same force that lit the stars — compassion, love, the subsurface unity of all things.

  Not that that mystical stuff’s necessarily true: The only thing that’s capital-T True is that you get to decide how you’re going to try to see it.

  This, I submit, is the freedom of real education, of learning how to be well- adjusted: You get to consciously decide what has meaning and what doesn’t.

  You get to decide what to worship….

  Because here’s something else that’s true.

  In the day-to-day trenches of adult life, there is actually no such thing as atheism.

  There is no such thing as not worshipping.

  Everybody worships.

  The only choice we get is what to worship.

  And an outstanding reason for choosing some sort of god or spiritual-type thing to worship — be it J.C. or Allah, be it Yahweh or the Wiccan mother-goddess or the Four Noble Truths or some infrangible set of ethical principles — is that pretty much anything else you worship will eat you alive.

  If you worship money and things — if they are where you tap real meaning in life — then you will never have enough.

  Never feel you have enough.

  It’s the truth.

  Worship your own body and beauty and sexual allure and you will always feel ugly, and when time and age start showing, you will die a million deaths before they finally plant you.

  On one level we all know this stuff already — it’s been codified as myths, proverbs, clichés, bromides, epigrams, parables: the skeleton of every great story.

  The trick is keeping the truth up front in daily consciousness.

  Worship power — you will feel weak and afraid, and you will need ever more power over others to keep the fear at bay.

  Worship your intellect, being seen as smart — you will end up feeling stupid, a fraud, always on the verge of being found out.

  And so on.

  Look, the insidious thing about these forms of worship is not that they’re evil or sinful; it is that they are unconscious.

  They are default settings.

  They’re the kind of worship you just gradually slip into, day after day, getting more and more selective about what you see and how you measure value without ever being fully aware that that’s what you’re doing.

  And the so-called “real world” will not discourage you from operating on your default settings, because the so-called “real world” of men and money and power hums along quite nicely on the fuel of fear and contempt and frustration and craving and the worship of self.

  Our own present culture has harnessed these forces in ways that have yielded extraordinary wealth and comfort and personal freedom.

  The freedom all to be lords of our tiny skull-sized kingdoms, alone at the center of all creation.

  This kind of freedom has much to recommend it.

  But of course there are all different kinds of freedom, and the kind that is most precious you will not hear much talked about in the great outside world of winning and achieving and displaying.

  The really important kind of freedom involves attention, and awareness, and discipline, and effort, and being able truly to care about other people and to sacrifice for them, over and over, in myriad petty little unsexy ways, every day.

  That is real freedom.

  That is being taught how to think.

  The alternative is unconsciousness, the default setting, the “rat race” — the constant, gnawing sense of having had and lost some infinite thing.

  I know that this stuff probably doesn’t sound fun and breezy or grandly inspirational the way a commencement speech’s central stuff should sound.

  What it is, so far as I can see, is the truth, with a whole lot of rhetorical bullshit pared away.

  Obviously, you can think of it whatever you wish.

  But please don’t dismiss it as some finger-wagging Dr. Laura sermon.

  None of this is about morality, or religion, or dogma, or big fancy questions of life after death.

  The capital-T Truth is about life before death.

  It is about making it to thirty, or maybe even fifty, without wanting to shoot yourself in the head.

  It is about the real value of a real education, which has nothing to do with grades or degrees and everything to do with simple awareness — awareness of what is so real and essential, so hidden in plain sight all around us, that we have to keep reminding ourselves over and over:

  “This is water.”

  “This is water.”

  “These Eskimos might be much more than they seem.”

  It is unimaginably hard to do this — to live consciously, adultly, day in and day out.

  Which means yet another cliché is true: Your education really is the job of a lifetime, and it commences — now.

  I wish you way more than luck.

  David Foster Wallace wrote the acclaimed novels Infinite Jest and The Broom of the System and the story collections Oblivion, Brief Interviews with Hideous Men, and Girl with Curious Hair. His nonfiction includes the essay collections Consider the Lobster and A Supposedly Fun Thing I’ll Never Do Ag
ain, and the full-length work Everything and More. He died in 2008.

 

 

  David Foster Wallace, This Is Water

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