Hitler and Churchill, Roosevelt and Lindemann - all of them signed on to psychologist Gustave Le Bon’s claim that our state of civilisation is no more than skin deep. They were certain that air raids would blow this fragile covering to bits. But the more they bombed, the thicker it got. Seems it wasn’t a thin membrane at all, but a callus.
This is a book about a radical idea.
An idea that’s long been known to make rulers nervous. An idea denied by religions and ideologies, ignored by the news media and erased from the annals of world history.
At the same time, it’s an idea that’s legitimised by virtually every branch of science. One that’s corroborated by evolution and confirmed by everyday life. An idea so intrinsic to human nature that it goes unnoticed and gets overlooked.
If only we had the courage to take it more seriously, it’s an idea that might just start a revolution. Turn society on its head.
Because once you grasp what it really means, it’s nothing less than a mind-bending drug that ensures you’ll never look at the world the same again.
So what is this radical idea?
That most people, deep down, are pretty decent.
‘My own impression,’ writes Rebecca Solnit, whose book A Paradise Built in Hell (2009) gives a masterful account of Katrina’s aftermath, ‘is that elite panic comes from powerful people who see all humanity in their own image.’ Dictators and despots, governors and generals - they all too often resort to brute force to prevent scenarios that exist only in their own heads, on the assumption that the average Joe is ruled by self-interest, just like them.
To this day, the influence of Hobbes and Rousseau is staggering. Our modern camps of conservative and progressive, of realists and idealists, can be traced back to them. Whenever an idealist advocates more freedom and equality, Rousseau beams down approvingly. Whenever the cynic grumbles that this will only spark more violence, Hobbes nods in agreement.
It seems we have to face a painful fact. ‘The mechanism that makes us the kindest species,’ says Brian Hare, puppy expert, ‘also makes us the cruelest species on the planet.’ People are social animals, but we have a fatal flaw: we feel more affinity for those who are most like us.
In Norway, prison is not about preventing bad behaviour, but preventing bad intentions.
Guards understand it to be their duty to prepare detainees, as best they can, for a normal life. According to this ‘principle of normality’, life inside the walls should resemble as closely as possible life on the outside.
What makes us so eager to believe in our own corruption? Why does veneer theory keep returning in so many permutations? I suspect it has a lot to do with convenience. In a weird way, to believe in our own sinful nature is comforting. It provides a kind of absolution. Because if most people are bad, then engagement and resistance aren’t worth the effort.
Belief in humankind’s sinful nature also provides a tidy explanation for the existence of evil. When confronted with hatred or selfishness, you can tell yourself, ‘Oh, well, that’s just human nature.’ But if you believe that people are essentially good, you have to question why evil exists at all. It implies that engagement and resistance are worthwhile, and it imposes an obligation to act.
Most of us feel ashamed when our faith turns out to have been misplaced. But maybe, if you’re a realist, you ought to feel a little proud. In fact, I’d go even farther: if you’ve never been conned, then you should be asking if your basic attitude is trusting enough.
For the last couple of centuries, philosophers and psychologists have racked their brains over the question whether there is such a thing as pure selflessness. But to be honest, that whole debate doesn’t really interest me. Because just imagine living in a world where you got a sick feeling every time you performed a kind act. What sort of hell would that be?
The wonderful fact is that we live in a world where doing good also feels good. We like food because without food we’d starve. We like sex because without sex we’d go extinct. We like helping because without each other we’d wither away. Doing good typically feels good because it is good.
Where we need our capacity for reason most of all is to suppress, from time to time, our desire to be nice. Sometimes our sociable instinct gets in the way of truth and of equity. Because consider: haven’t we all seen someone treated unfairly yet kept silent to avoid being disagreeable? Haven’t we all swallowed our words just to keep the peace? Haven’t we all accused those who fight for their rights of rocking the boat?
I think that’s the great paradox of this book. I’ve argued that humans have evolved to be fundamentally sociable creatures, but sometimes our sociability is the problem. History teaches that progress often begins with people like Buurtzorg’s Jos de Blok and Agora’s Sjef Drummen - whom others feel to be preachy or even unfriendly. People with the nerve to get on their soapbox at social occasions. Who raise unpleasant subjects that make you uneasy.
Cherish these people, because they’re the key to progress.
Modern psychologists have discovered that when people do something out of the goodness of their hearts, they often fabricate selfish motives. This is most prevalent in individualistic Western cultures where veneer theory is most entrenched. And it makes sense: if you assume most people are selfish, then any good deed is inherently suspect. As one American psychologist notes, ‘People seem loathe to acknowledge that their behaviour may have been motivated by genuine compassion or kindness.‘
Unfortunately, this reticence works like a nocebo. When you disguise yourself as an egotist, you reinforce other people’s cynical assumptions about human nature. Worse, by cloaking your good deeds, you place them in quarantine, where they can’t serve as an example for others. And that’s a shame, because Homo puppy’s secret superpower is that we’re so great at copying one another.