Kitabı oku: «Self-Confidence: A Philosophy»

Contents

1  Cover

2  Title Page

3  Copyright

4  Dedication

5  Contents

6  Introduction

7  1. Cultivate Strong Ties

8 2. Go into Training

9  3. Listen to Yourself

10  4. Expose Yourself to Wonder

11  5. Decide

12  6. Get Your Hands Dirty

13  7. Swing into Action

14  8. Admire

15  9. Stay True to Your Desire

16  10. Trust the Mystery

17  Conclusion

18  Works Contributing to This Book

19  Index

20  About the Author

21  About the Publisher

LandmarksCoverFrontmatterStart of ContentBackmatter

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Introduction

The stabilisers came off this morning. All of four years old, she hops on her bike and takes off under a blue sky. Her father runs alongside, one hand at her back, the other gripping the bicycle seat. She pedals faster and faster, clutching the handlebars. Her father encourages her: ‘Don’t stop pedalling,’ he says. ‘Look straight ahead. You’re doing great!’ He lets go of the seat. The child picks up speed. She maintains her balance, rolling along without her father’s help. When she realises this, she shouts with joy and speeds ahead. She feels buoyant and free: she has confidence.

But what does she have confidence in, exactly?

In her own abilities? In her father? In this moment of family happiness?

Self-confidence, we sense, is the result of alchemy. It arises from a combination of factors. The routes leading us to it are various, but once we’ve acquired it, it supports each of us in the same way. There is only one self-confidence, but there are a number of ways to get there.

Madonna belongs on the stage: she is an artist who has been able to reinvent herself all her life. Yet she was a shy child, scarred by the loss of her mother when she was only five. So how did she find the strength to make her mark?

Patrick Edlinger was one of the pioneers of free climbing. When he free soloed a route, his gestures were so fluid that he seemed to dance above the void. He moved from one handhold to the next with extraordinary grace. What was his secret?

Landing on an aircraft carrier at night, a pilot faces an ultra-short runway at speeds of 180 mph, with extremely limited visibility. How does he master his fear?

With traffic whizzing by all around him, an emergency services doctor has to pick out which of the trauma cases and which of their traumas need treatment first. How does he avoid making mistakes?

And what about musicians who improvise in front of large crowds? Tennis players who keep their nerve during match point? Students who are at their best on exam day? All these men and women who have the courage to listen to their inner voice and put their lives on the line, where do they get their self-confidence? What is it that they all have in common?

The little girl on her bike can point us in the right direction. There are three places from which she gets her confidence.

First, from her father. She doesn’t take off alone, she does it with her father, and thanks to her father. Self-confidence is confidence in someone else.

Then there is her own capability. She has absorbed her father’s advice about how to pedal, how to hold the handlebars. She has acquired a skill, without which nothing would be possible. Self-confidence is confidence in one’s own abilities.

But there’s more. Her bubbling joy as she gathers speed is more than just the satisfaction of knowing how to bicycle. It is a deeper, more encompassing joy, which resonates with gratitude toward life. Self-confidence is confidence in life.

These three drivers of self-confidence will recur, in various forms and to varying degrees, again and again: confidence in others, confidence in one’s own capabilities, and confidence in life. That’s how it all starts, maybe – when you go at it with the freshness of a child, confident without even knowing what you have confidence in.

‘Confidence is the childish ability to walk toward something unfamiliar as though recognising it,’ Christian Bobin has written. We know more about risks and dangers than when we first hopped on our bikes as children. Our greater understanding makes us more anxious. But it shouldn’t blunt our boldness, our ability to go for it. Having confidence in ourselves requires us to keep the heart that we had as children – a child’s soul in the mind of an adult.

All this is forced on us by the times we live in. In traditional societies, every person had his place. You didn’t need self-confidence when everything was settled for you at birth, when there was nothing to be conquered. But modern life, on the other hand, makes us free agents, responsible for our own fate. It’s our job to get our projects going, to prove our worth, and to build our happiness – our job to invent our own lives. This requires self-confidence.

Yet things are more complicated than they once were. Self-confidence has never been more important, and it’s never been so hard to acquire. Fixing a car engine or building a ladder might once have been a balm to a man’s wounds. Feeding one’s family entirely with the produce from one’s own vegetable garden might once have filled a person’s heart with pride. But spending all day in meetings or responding to emails doesn’t play the same role. We’ve lost direct contact with things. Our systems of production are so complicated that we no longer know what it is we do. We follow protocols and processes, but we have a hard time pinpointing our profession. Being as superconnected as we are puts us all at a remove from basic doing, and leaves us with few concrete opportunities to develop confidence. We need to find a base on which to build our confidence, both personally and collectively.

The journeys taken by Madonna, Patrick Edlinger, George Sand, John Lennon, Serena Williams and others will give us insight. We aren’t born confident; we become confident. Self-confidence is always something that has to be worked at patiently. It is also something that, once we gain a certain level of effortless command, can give us profound joy.

To probe the mystery of self-confidence, we will look to ancient wisdom and modern philosophers, among them Emerson, Nietzsche, and Bergson. These thinkers often approach the subject indirectly – it’s when they are thinking about freedom, audacity, or individuality that they talk about confidence. We’ll also look farther afield, to psychologists like Boris Cyrulnik and psychoanalysts like Jacques Lacan, and to the writings of researchers and teachers. We’ll also examine the experiences of athletes, fighter pilots, and emergency room doctors, the words of poets, and the visions of great mystics.

Self-confidence is so central to our existence that it can’t be encompassed by a single discipline. We won’t learn to understand how it works by studying it in a laboratory. Instead, we’ll have to observe it in real life, watch its birth and development, adopt its rhythm and follow its movement, its hesitations and swerves. We’ll have to run alongside it just as you run alongside a child – a child who almost falls, catches herself, and then takes off.

1

Cultivate Strong Ties

Confidence through relationships

Gentleness is invincible.

– MARCUS AURELIUS

Self-confidence first comes from others. This statement might seem paradoxical. It is not. Human infants are extraordinarily fragile and dependent. In their first months of life, they are unable to live on their own. The fact of their survival is proof that they have been cared for by others. Their confidence is first and foremost a confidence in their caregivers: self-confidence begins as confidence in others.

It is because we are born at a relatively early stage of foetal development that we need others so much. Embryologists tell us that embryonic cells would require about twenty months to reach maturity. Aristotle had already made the observation that we are born incomplete. It’s as though nature had failed to finish its task, propelling us into existence weaker and more unready than any other mammal. We are born not knowing how to walk, a skill that takes a year on average for us to learn. A colt, on the other hand, needs only a few hours, and sometimes only a few minutes, before it starts to gambol. And we should have self-confidence?

We compensate for this natural deficiency through culture – family, mutual assistance, and education. Thanks to the artistry of human relations, we eventually finish the work that nature left in draft form, and we acquire the confidence that nature withheld from us.

Little by little, children gain confidence in themselves, thanks to the ties they have developed with others, the care that has been lavished on them, the attention focused on them, the unconditional love they receive. Small children don’t feel that this love is given to them for the things they attempt or succeed at. They are loved for what they are and not for what they do. This is the most solid base for the self-confidence they will later acquire. Being loved and looked at in this way gives us strength throughout our life.

Our struggle to achieve self-confidence starts by overcoming what Freud called infantile anxiety. When an adolescent is eager to go out and discover the big wide world, when an adult is confident and manages to get his or her projects up and running, it’s primarily because they were lucky enough to develop early on, in the course of what Boris Cyrulnik calls their ‘precocious interactions’, the inner sense of security that psychologists have determined is so important.

While self-esteem is based on our assessment of our own value, self-confidence is tied to our capacity for action, our ability to venture forth despite our doubts, to take risks in a complex world. To find the courage to adventure into the outside world, you have to have an inner assurance.

In his masterly essay on the ‘mirror stage’, Jacques Lacan describes the moment at which a child first becomes conscious of himself. When children are still at the toddler stage – the average age is between six and eighteen months – they recognise themselves in the mirror. But what exactly happens that first time? The child is in the arms of an adult, who holds him up to the mirror. No sooner has the child recognised himself than he turns toward the adult and asks him with searching eyes, Is this me? Is it really me? The adult answers with a smile, a look, or a few soothing words. The adult reassures the child: Yes, that’s really you. The philosophical implications of this first encounter are enormous – the other is there from the outset between me and myself. I am conscious of myself only through that other person. The child has confidence in what he sees in the mirror only because he has confidence in the other. It’s in the eyes of others that he seeks this inner reassurance; it’s in the eyes of others that he seeks himself.

The same experiment has been tried with rhesus monkeys, which are closely related to us genetically. Their intelligence is apparent in that they quickly start using the mirror to inspect parts of their bodies they can’t see otherwise, like their backs and buttocks. But on first encountering a mirror, they don’t turn toward other rhesus monkeys in the room; they don’t look questioningly at each other. Rhesus monkeys are undoubtedly social animals and learn much from each other, but during their developmental phase they are not as dependent on the bonds between them as humans are; they are not relationship-based creatures to the same extent. Without others, we could not develop our humanity; without others, we could not become what we are.

Look at feral children, those children who have been abandoned at birth and raised by animals (bears, wolves, pigs …), only to be found and reintroduced into human society at a later stage. As François Truffaut’s The Wild Child dramatises (in a film based on real events), these children’s lack of attachment to other humans obstructs their development. They are as frightened as hunted animals, unable to learn human speech, seemingly irrecoverable to humanity. In the very best cases, using great patience and gentleness, the professionals who look after these children have managed to nurture fragile bonds with them and guide them toward limited progress. But their self-confidence always remains precarious, vanishing at the slightest obstacle. In the language of modern psychology, these wild children suffer from a lack of ‘attachment’ to other humans. They never bonded with others during their early childhood. They had no one to protect them, reassure them, speak to them, look at them. Deprived of the inner sense of security that comes from these attachments, they are unable to muster the minimal confidence they would need in order to see the world and other people as anything but hostile.

According to such psychiatrists as John Bowlby and Boris Cyrulnik, if a little boy of two is able to say hello to a stranger who comes into his house, smile at him, approach him, and address or touch him, it’s because his sense of inner security is strong enough to deal with this unfamiliar situation. The people he has attached to have given him enough confidence for him to move away from them and approach the stranger.

The education process has been successful when the ‘student’ no longer needs his teachers, when he has enough self-assurance to leave his teachers behind. By taking a few steps toward the stranger who enters his house, the little boy is already starting to learn to be on his own. Others have shown him confidence, and it’s now his turn to act and show he merits it. In order to set off on his own, he draws on the love and attention given him by his family and those around him.

The first years are decisive, but luckily we can build relationships that give us confidence at any age. If we did not have the good fortune to grow up in a nurturing emotional environment, it’s never too late to form the bonds that we lacked early on. But it does require knowing oneself well enough to realise that these bonds are missing and need to be compensated for.

Madonna Louise Ciccone was at first a shy child who lacked self-confidence. She lost her mother to breast cancer at the age of five and resented that her father remarried almost immediately and had a new set of children. She had trouble finding her place in the family circle. She studied piano and ballet from a young age but felt she wasn’t much good at either, that she had to work hard for modest results. But in adolescence, after her stepmother enrolled her in a Catholic school in Detroit, she met Christopher Flynn, a dance teacher who changed her life. While she was rehearsing for the end-of-year show, he said something to her that no one had ever said before, or at least not in so many words: that she was beautiful and talented, and that she had enormous charisma. Years later, Madonna explained that these words changed her life. Before, she hadn’t believed in herself. Now, she could see herself as a dancer in New York; she felt herself being born as an individual. At the end-of-year production, she surprised everyone – her teacher most of all – by dancing with extraordinary energy, and half naked! Madonna was born. Before Christopher Flynn, she’d had other piano and dance teachers. They had taught her many things, given her insight into movement and technique. But none had ever given her the gift of confidence.

I remember a concert that Madonna gave in Nice, France, when I was not yet eighteen. I was fascinated by her stage presence, her way of singing and dancing, her freedom. I remember the giant screen and her face in close-up when she sang ‘Like a Prayer’. Drops of sweat dripped into her eyes. In the look she gave the audience, in her smile, there seemed to be enormous gratitude. Naturally, Madonna was a highly skilled and experienced performer. The woman striding across the stage in every direction already had years of concerts behind her. But charisma can’t be attributed entirely to skill. There’s something more, an element of grace that the charismatic person must have. It’s in the eyes of others that the charismatic person seeks her own truth; she relates to others through constant reinvention. At the time, I didn’t understand very well what I was seeing on that giant screen. Today when I think back to Madonna’s vibrant smile, I believe she was finding in the audience’s response, in their energy, in their love even, that same confidence she had seen long before in the eyes of her dance teacher.

Madonna didn’t grow up in an environment that gave her security, but she found a way to compensate for it later.

If we have had the good fortune, in our early years, to experience warm and nurturing personal ties, later encounters that reinforce our confidence will still be important. But they will be experienced in a different way: through them we will relive, at decisive moments, the grace of someone’s early confidence in us.

Yannick Noah, the great French tennis star, was greatly loved by his parents, Zacharie and Marie-Claire. Deeply in love with each other, they lavished affection on their son. When Yannick was eleven, he met African-American tennis champion Arthur Ashe, who was then ranked fourth in the world and had stopped for a layover in Yaounde, Cameroon, on a tour of Africa. Yannick was lucky enough to hit a few balls with Ashe, who was so struck by the youngster’s level of play that at the end of the session he gave him his racket. The next day, as Ashe was waiting in the airport to board his plane, the young tennis player ran up to him breathlessly holding out an Arthur Ashe poster for the champion to sign. Ashe did more than give the boy an autograph. He wrote, ‘See you at Wimbledon!’ As Yannick Noah would tell the world a few years later, having won the men’s singles title at the French Open, those four words were an invaluable gift. They galvanised him and stayed with him. They allowed him to believe in his own star; they helped him become a tennis player on a level with Arthur Ashe.

With Madonna and Yannick Noah, we see that sometimes it only takes a few heartfelt words from a teacher or a friend to instill self-confidence, and that these words from the heart can give a person confidence for a lifetime.

Others can also give us confidence, without making a big speech or offering words of encouragement, just by trusting us with a mission.

Once I was visiting a corporation to give a talk on ‘The Mystery of Confidence’. A woman came up to me afterward to say that, on returning to work after taking her maternity leave, she had lost all her self-confidence but that she had eventually regained it. It had all started because of her misery at having to leave her toddler behind. She felt brittle and on edge, and she thought she wasn’t up to performing her job, with all its many responsibilities. A few days after her return, her boss called her into his office. She expected the worst. To her surprise, he appointed her to take on a project of crucial importance. No one had ever given her so much responsibility. She immediately regained her self-confidence.

Aristotle gives a very unusual and accurate definition of friendship. A friend, says the author of The Nichomachean Ethics, is someone who makes us better. When he or she is around, we feel good, we make progress, we become more intelligent or more sensitive, we open ourselves up to new aspects of the world and of ourselves, aspects we had not previously known. A friend, says Aristotle, is a person who helps us ‘actualise our own power’. Thanks to our friend, or more accurately, thanks to the relation that we have with our friend, we develop ‘in action’ such talents that had only been latent or ‘in potential’ before. The friendship relation is therefore the occasion for our growth and development. The friend need not be motivated by pure generosity or listen endlessly to our complaints. If our relation to that person is good for us, for our talent, if it allows us to make progress, then that person is our friend: a friend to the life inside us. From this perspective, our piano or dance or drawing teacher, or the sports champion we happen to meet, or our boss at work, can be our friend, on condition that he or she gives us the opportunity to develop, to make progress.

When we spend time with a martial-arts teacher, a sports coach, a yoga instructor – all possible friends in Aristotle’s sense – we gain confidence in ourselves, and not just because we are acquiring skills. Sensitive to the positive attention of another, in the company of someone who wants good for us, we rediscover our truth as relational beings. It isn’t our piano teacher or our martial arts instructor as such who gives us confidence but the relationship that we have with that person. The relationship is experienced as a series of regular meetings that punctuate the progress we are making. Each time, we feel the other’s satisfaction at seeing us improve, we feel the ability that person has to motivate us, to support us when we run into difficulties. Little by little, our mentor’s confidence in us becomes our own. That is how confidence works, and it’s the human way, properly speaking, to learn.

A good teacher instills confidence in us by making us repeat correct actions, by making us practice our scales. Then he invites us to act on what we have learned: he shows confidence in us. When someone makes us confident, these two facets are always intertwined.

While working on this book, I met a quite unusual mountain climber, Érik Decamp. A graduate of the prestigious École Polytechnique, he had climbed some of the highest peaks in the world, including Ganesh IV in the Himalayas and Shishapangma in Tibet, with his wife, the well-known climber Catherine Destivelle. But he was also an alpine guide, that is, a professional in the field of self-confidence. To practise this profession, you need to have confidence in yourself and you need to be able to impart it to others, to the clients you are guiding. To help a person overcome his fear, Érik Decamp uses a strategy that might seem risky but that often proves very effective. When someone seems particularly nervous during the preparation and training before departure, Érik Decamp will sometimes pick them to lead the climb. Often that is enough to free the person of their anxiety. Because the guide shows trust in them, the nervous climber suddenly feels stronger. Érik Decamp begins by instilling confidence in his client, through his advice, his explanations, and by rehearsing various moves and protocols until they became second nature. Then he shows that he trusts the climber by asking them to lead off. With the others roped in behind them, the designated leader has to show that they are worthy of the confidence that has been placed in them.

This was the central precept of Maria Montessori’s pedagogical programme, which was based on kindliness and trust – and is still successfully being practised today. ‘Never help a child perform a task that he feels capable of accomplishing himself,’ was the mantra constantly repeated by the great Italian physician and teacher. In other words: trust the student as soon as possible. And placing your trust in a student means not doing the task for them, it means letting them do it themselves. We can now understand better why our children are annoyed when, on the pretext of showing them, but often just to make things go faster, we help them do something they can perfectly well do on their own. They are right to be unhappy about it: we have shown that we don’t fully trust them.

Every parent, every instructor, every teacher, every friend in Aristotle’s sense, should keep in mind this two-pronged method of making someone confident: first instill confidence, then show confidence. First, give them a sense of security, then make them a little insecure. We need both sides to be able to go out into the world. And often, these two dimensions are mingled in the gaze that others train on us: seeing the confidence in their eyes, we feel ourselves to be stronger.

I often experience this in my role as a philosophy teacher and lecturer. Carried away on a flood of words, or deep into a chain of digressions, I can sometimes lose the thread of my argument and come perilously close to having my confidence desert me. But the fact of seeing interest or curiosity in the eyes of my audience is usually enough to get me back on track. Or else I might look at a philosophical text that I have just handed out to my students and find its meaning hopelessly obscure. But as soon as I feel, through the questions they ask, how much confidence they place in me, the text becomes much clearer. Érik Decamp told me he has the same experience: as an expedition sets off, the confidence that others have in him reinforces his own. Given that we are animals who depend very much on our relationships, there is nothing surprising here. The two of us, Érik Decamp and I, are like the beginning mountain climber who Érik steadies by giving him responsibility: when we feel the confidence that someone else places in us, we rediscover ‘our own’ confidence. Confidence is a gift that others give us, and one that we willingly accept. When my students ask me a difficult question, I offer them a similar gift in return: I tell them that they know the answer. I show that I have confidence in them, and that is usually enough to make them come back quickly with an interesting response.

We sometimes hear that a co-worker, a family member, or someone in the neighborhood lacks self-confidence, as though this confidence were purely an internal matter, something that they had failed to generate on their own. But if no one has ever taken the trouble to give them confidence or placed trust in them, it’s not surprising that they suffer from anxiety. People are puzzled that these acquaintances of theirs lack self-assurance, given their abilities. But this is to forget that we are creatures that exist within relationships, not isolated skill-accumulating monads, and that our confidence grows out of the kinds of bonds we have developed with others.

This truth about relational confidence helps us to better understand the suffering of certain oppressed minorities. Often, the best way to oppress them has been to destroy the bonds between individuals by every means possible, and even to remove the possibility of forming interpersonal solidarity. The accounts of former black slaves, and survivors of the Nazi camps, illustrate this unequivocally: nothing is more effective in breaking men than breaking the bonds between them, separating families, pitting one against another, and creating a climate of pervasive distrust and denunciation.

In his powerful book The Fire Next Time, published in 1963, African-American writer James Baldwin exposes this implacable mechanism of oppression and at the same time confirms that the only way to resist it and maintain one’s confidence is to know the value of one’s ties to others, to find in them the strength to fight: ‘Yes, it does indeed mean something – something unspeakable – to be born, in a white country, […] black. You very soon, without knowing it, give up all hope of communion. Black people, mainly, look down or look up but do not look at each other, not at you, and white people, mainly, look away. And the universe is simply a sounding drum; there is no way, no way whatever, so it seemed then and has sometimes seemed since, to get through a life, to love your wife and children, or your friends, or your mother and father, or to be loved. The universe, which is not merely the stars and the moon and the planets, flowers, grass, and trees, but other people, has […] made no room for you, and if love will not swing wide the gates, no other power will or can.’