…I die a little, wrote Gore Vidal. And it's painfully true that others' success can be the hardest thing to bear. We measure our status in the world against our friends', and their spectacular elevation can be deeply unsettling—and doubly traumatic because we don't want to resent them, but can't quite manage not to
Of course, it's much easier to be delighted by friends' quiet successes than by their loud ones. Warm hearts and genuine smiles come naturally enough at weddings, christenings, birthdays or anniversaries—but less so at book launches, prize acceptances or the appearance of fawning puffs in the press. Why is this?
Part of the reason is, I suspect, that the mechanics of talent-recognition are so brutally absolute. You're either a published author or you're not; you've either had your single played on the radio or you haven't; you're either in the press or you're not. And mostly, no matter how good you may think you are, you're not. You don't exist on a continuum of public success ranging from the blandest amateur to the unique genius. The experience is more like standing on one side of a deep chasm, alongside almost everybody else—while looking back from the distant other side are the chosen, a number that suddenly includes your friend. They've made it, and you haven't, and perhaps you never will…
All this is on my mind partly because a good friend of mine is just about to publish his first book (I will be at the launch, and I am entirely and unconditionally delighted for him. I've been practising), but also because a reader has just directed me towards an excellent debate in the Wall Street Journal that discusses, among other things, why this paradigm exists and how it might be changing. In it, David Weinberger, author of Everything is Miscellaneous, argues:
Of course, it's much easier to be delighted by friends' quiet successes than by their loud ones. Warm hearts and genuine smiles come naturally enough at weddings, christenings, birthdays or anniversaries—but less so at book launches, prize acceptances or the appearance of fawning puffs in the press. Why is this?
Part of the reason is, I suspect, that the mechanics of talent-recognition are so brutally absolute. You're either a published author or you're not; you've either had your single played on the radio or you haven't; you're either in the press or you're not. And mostly, no matter how good you may think you are, you're not. You don't exist on a continuum of public success ranging from the blandest amateur to the unique genius. The experience is more like standing on one side of a deep chasm, alongside almost everybody else—while looking back from the distant other side are the chosen, a number that suddenly includes your friend. They've made it, and you haven't, and perhaps you never will…
All this is on my mind partly because a good friend of mine is just about to publish his first book (I will be at the launch, and I am entirely and unconditionally delighted for him. I've been practising), but also because a reader has just directed me towards an excellent debate in the Wall Street Journal that discusses, among other things, why this paradigm exists and how it might be changing. In it, David Weinberger, author of Everything is Miscellaneous, argues:
Because it's been so expensive to produce, market and distribute cultural products (books, records, films), the lucky few who get published get access to a mass audience, and the rest trail off the map. So, traditional distribution makes it look like talent is a you-got-it-or-you-don't proposition—you're an artist or you're a monkey. That doesn't reflect the scarcity of talent so much as the scarcity of distribution, a result of the high cost of delivering the first copy of a mass produced item. In fact, we have every reason to believe that talent is distributed in a far smoother (but still steep) curve. My friend Joe is an amazing guitarist, but he's not the best guitarist around. Neither is my sister-in-law Maria the best singer in the world, but she's good and you would spend an enjoyable, and sometimes moving, night listening to her in the local chorus. Talent is not either/or. Recording contracts are.You can read the rest of the debate here. And for a definitive study of why we need others to fail, I recommend Mr Martin Amis.
