Some are actual advice and even reasonable commentary on the condition of existence. Okay, some of his posts aren’t the sarcastic, cutting, poke you in the eye with a sharp stick sort that I prefer to read. The rest of the piece continues in the same vein, with the occasional digression into sappiness counterbalanced by his trademark profanity. And it’s not going to get any easier just because you found out you love your job cleaning septic tanks or you scored a dream gig writing indie movies. Life is all about not knowing, and then doing something anyway. …what I want to say to these people is this: that’s the whole point - “not knowing” is the whole fucking point. For example, after he receives the, “…11,504th email this year from a person telling me that they don’t know what to do with their life,” Manson comments: And I like that in a writer because I am, too. But I’m not really concerned about his sex life or his past, sleazy or otherwise. And his ex GF certainly has some uncomplimentary things to say about him, calling him a “master manipulator” among other things. I can only assume he’s being tongue in cheek (my own CV will soon feature my trip to the moon where I rescued the astronauts…). Sure, we all puff our CVs, but “saved their life”? And “personal development advice” just sounds like more New Age life-coach-guru codswallop. I specialize in personal development advice that doesn’t suck. I am a bestselling author, blogger and internet entrepreneur.
Mark Manson is a blogger of some enviable skill, with an often humorous bent towards profanity, but I gotta admit I wasn’t sold by this self-aggrandizing intro on his website: There weren’t angels attending your birth, the gods don’t favour you and unicorns don’t follow when you commute to work. Indigo children are just spoiled kids with loopy parents. I’m tired of the ‘I’m special, you’re special, we’re all exceptional’ folderol, the awards for losing instead of winning, the deflection of constructive criticism in case it dents a bubble of precious self esteem and the claptrap about indigo children. But what really sold me was the chapter titled “You Are Not Special.” Yep, I need to read that one.
I had to buy a copy with a title like that. Especially after an hour on Facebook or watching Collingwood Council drag us into municipal despair. Such is the case of Mark Manson’s The Subtle Art of Not Giving a F*ck (HarperCollins, 2016).Īfter all, isn’t that just what you feel like sometimes? Not giving a f*ck. True, not many today, because thinking is too hard for the selfie generation and interrupts their obsessed gazing at their smartphones, but now and then a book pops up in the self-help section that makes me look twice. Some aren’t as much step-by-step lessons as invitations to think about the options and consequences. Some are lessons in philosophy and politics drawn from personal experience and deep thought. Snake oil wrapped in cotton candy.īut some run deeper. Often these books are little more than sales pitches for more of the same for subscriptions, or additional products.
Life lessons on how to live, love, shop, drive, code, wash your dog, plant your garden. They’re author help, not self help, like the old paper Arthur Murray dance steps on the floor which you carefully step across without the music. “Self help” books are really oxymorons: they’re someone else telling you what to do. Self-help or self-improvement books have been close behind, with us ever since the dawn of writing. Religion has been handing the red pills out for our entire history. Take the red pill and I’ll give you all the answers you need to know. Sometimes it’s easier to just take what you’re fed than work them out the hard way. But people want answers to the meaning of life, and in our culture they want them quickly. Even in the Sixties when Timothy Leary was leading the charge for better living through chemistry, I was skeptical about claims of instant gratification available through the all-of all-the-answers-to-be-found-within-my-(book/religion/teaching/drug/politics) outlets for mass gratification. I’ve never been into that cosmic happiness- bucket list self-esteem-boosting selfie thing. I don’t post pictures of kittens, puppies or angels on my Facebook timeline. I’m more of the “life’s a bitch and then you die” outlook kind-of-person than someone in search of a happy-platitude guru. I am, as you know from this blog, cynical towards the unending volume of New Age woo hoo, fads and pseudoscience that pollutes bookstore shelves and the internet. I have a healthy skepticism towards anything labelled a “self-help” book – especially those that aim at making your life happier or more fulfilled through some fad, superstition or pseudoscience.