From none but self expect applause
He noblest lives and noblest dies
Who makes and keeps his self-made laws.
Sir Richard Burton
The man mindful of his reputation
Does not reveal his sadness.
early Anglo-Saxon author
If we are so desperately dependent on our connection to other human beings, why are we plagued with the peculiar notion that we should be detached, aloof, dignified, and independent? Why does the modern ideal of self-sufficiency appeal to us so strongly?
The theme of self-sufficiency crops up in pop psychology with nagging consistency. Marilyn Machlowitz, author of a 1985 book called The Whiz Kids, for example, profiled entrepreneurs who achieved success before the age of forty, then criticized them for being insecure. Often, Machlowitz said, these young businessmen and women don’t feel worthy of their success. Implicit in her complaint was the notion that healthy humans would never be plagued by such doubts.122
But do the supremely confident and sell-contained individuals to whom you and I are constantly compared exist? Apparently not. Ernie Bradford, the military historian, portrays both the legendary Carthaginian general Hannibal and the Roman who defeated him, Scipio Africanus, as men who were easily able to exist without emotional dependence on others. In reality, these men were anything but self-contained. Their fortunes from one day to the next relied on the loyalty of tens of thousands of troops, and on their ability to maintain the confidence of figures even farther from them in the grand web of the superorganism: the powers of the state back home. Without the financial backing of the Roman senate and the council of Carthage, both men’s efforts would have been doomed.123
When Rome’s senators accused Scipio of pilfering money from the public treasuries, the general was far from indifferent to the charge. He burst into the senatorial hall with his account books, tore them up in front of the lawmakers, and stormed out of Rome, never to return—not exactly the gesture of a man untouched by the opinions of others.124
Bradford, convinced that Scipio was, indeed, a master of self-reliance, had probably been deceived by a trick of aristocracy, a theatrical charade used by those who wish to exert power over others. It’s a device even ambitious chimpanzees employ to maintain authority. The ruse goes something like this: The dominant male sits in the center of a noisy multitude looking utterly indifferent to what goes on around him. Lower-ranking apes nervously glance left, right, and behind them for clues as to what they should do next. They cast frequent, furtive glances at the master chimp to see if it is time for them to honor him with a deferentially downcast gaze or to discover if he has turned aside. For when his back is toward them, the underlings can get away with some forbidden gesture. However, the lofty head of the chimpanzee clan seems to look at no one and gives the impression that he need take his cues from no mere earthly beast.125
But even the chimpanzee at the top of the hierarchy who looks so impressively aloof is boiling with social emotions he doesn’t dare show. Ethologist Frans de Waal made a six-year study of chimps in Belgium’s Arnhem Zoo and published the results in a brilliant and illuminating volume called Chimpanzee Politics. In it, de Waal describes two males competing for top position in the group. The combatants confront each other with all the dignity of chivalric knights. Each stands erect, his hair raised in a magnificent mantle about him, looking massive and heroic. The pair stare into each other’s eyes without flinching.
The manly stoicism with which the duo square off is a pose maintained only by an extreme exertion of self-control. After the confrontation is over, both chimps march away. When one is certain he is out of sight of gawkers, all the emotions he’s been holding back suddenly ram page across his face. His upper lip flies up, leaving his teeth bare—the ultimate chimpanzee sign of nervousness. Realizing that another member of the tribe might spot him and note his delayed terror, the recent combat ant tries again and again to pull the rebellious lip down over his teeth and regain his dignified appearance, but the stress-filled grimace simply will not leave his face.126 Under the dignity and confidence of a few moments before was a seething cauldron of insecurity.
Hitler used to go through something similar at the height of his power. He would bully an opposing head of state, shouting, fuming, seemingly invulnerable to the inhibitions that weaken other men. Then, when he was alone in his room, the indomitable leader would collapse into a screaming nervous wreck. To make sure no one he wanted to intimidate ever saw that side of his personality, the führer would carefully rehearse for major meetings in front of a mirror.127
T. E. Lawrence even saw the ruse of imperturbability at work among the desert aristocrats of Arabia. Lawrence described a group of Arab chiefs summoned to the tent of their leader, who had just discovered that he and his vassals were about to be given two thousand camels—a veritable fortune in livestock—by the British. The chieftains scrambled excitedly toward the dwelling where their meeting was about to take place, then quickly stopped themselves outside the tent flap to compose their faces and postures into an appearance of hauteur, so that they would not march in with the silly looks of glee that the news of the unexpected fortune had stamped all over them.128
The lofty independence projected by Scipio, Hannibal, Hitler, and the Arab chiefs was nothing but an old reflex left over from prehuman times—a masquerade designed to further the impression of stature, magnificence, and strength. But under the mask of independence, even the most fearsome leaders are vulnerable to the views of others. Men of power pull off their disguise of aloofness well enough to fool even the psychological experts. Yet, the success of their sham is our undoing, saddling us with a false ideal of self-sufficiency, imbuing us with guilt for our dependence on the superorganism.