Pavlensky after cutting off his earlobe on the Serbsky Center, 2014
Pavlensky after cutting off his earlobe on the roof of the Serbsky Center, 2014

Cynicism is widespread, largely unwilled, and viewed as an affliction. It has no redeeming features, or so we are taught to think.

This was not always the case. The word “cynicism” once referred to a lived philosophy that originated in the ancient Greek world. It was renowned, even respected. Not bad for a tradition that treated the humble fart as a mode of communication and taking a shit as a worthy argument. I’ll come back to that.

Modern cynicism has been blamed for a multitude of ills, ranging from the rise of “post-truth” and the alt-right to the weakening of liberal democracy and progressive politics. It has been denounced from all positions on the political spectrum for its negativity, for its ability to sap energy from hopeful activity, and for providing so many excuses to do nothing when so much needs to be done. From this perspective, cynicism teaches a harsh, nihilistic lesson:

Everything is bad. Nothing can be done about it. Let’s do nothing.

But there are many faces to modern cynicism: from the cynicism of the powerful and monied, prepared to manipulate others to further their own interests, to that of the disempowered who have nothing left to lose. And then, somewhere between, is the insider cynicism of those who understand the real workings of institutions and know well the inane and unjust processes they serve to uphold.

Although the first type of cynicism (that of Donald Trump or Boris Johnson, for example) might be easily denounced, it is not clear that the latter two cynicisms – the insider and alienated forms – deserve the kind of blanket dismissal they usually receive. Indeed, modern cynicism might not be as dangerous and corrupting as some claim.

For instance, as an attitude, modern cynicism is often expressed reluctantly. We often say “I hate to be cynical but. . .” This cynicism appears before itself as if it were a personal flaw, or something that is better left private. We are, in effect, quite good at policing our own cynicisms.

Cynical remarks also function as a way of letting off steam, or as an excuse for moving on. After saying something cynical one might add: “So, I’ve said my piece. . .” In effect, a cynical outburst can provide an excuse to retreat from the harsh criticisms just aired. Many cynicisms appear, moreover, to be only half-believed, hence a remark might be introduced by the phrase: “If I was to be cynical I would say. . .”

Lastly, cynicism is what allows people to stay in their jobs, especially insider cynics, who might justify their position with the words: “Well if I didn’t do it, then somebody else would.” This can be another way of saying, “Better the devil you know”.

So modern cynicism is not necessarily a threat to the institutions, social beliefs and political attachments it appears to question. In fact, it may have a role in allowing these establishments to continue: by giving people a way to let off steam, by keeping critique active and yet restrained, and by ensuring that people stay on the job – cynical, but still in large part obedient.

While cynicism appears at first sight to be critical and doubting, a cynic may remain closely attached to the status quo they lament. It is worth asking, then, what a stronger, more deliberate cynicism might look like – a cynicism that is developed and enhanced, rather than dismissed and denied.

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Although anybody can be a cynic today, cynicism was once represented by a tiny group of highly accomplished, well-practised eccentrics. In its early form, it was a radical philosophy with no rules or doctrines. It certainly had nothing you could describe as an easily identifiable teaching.

Its most famous representative was Diogenes of Sinope: a non-propertied, impoverished exile who lived on the streets of Athens in the fourth century BCE. Diogenes did all he could to upset and disgust his host community. He lived like a dog and was known as such.

There is the story of a dinner at which people tossed bones at Diogenes as they would to a dog. Diogenes responded by acting the part, cocking his leg at them in turn. Diogenes embraced his caricature, injuring the dignity of those he pissed on, acting without modesty or shame. His cynicism was intended as an outrage. It set out to question and undermine all social values and cultural attachments. With Diogenes, we encounter cynicism in its strongest, most dangerous and unrelenting form.

As a radical philosophy, cynicism was also highly improvised. The most famous anecdotes we inherit from ancient cynicism, the stories that we take as the defining acts of cynic courage, were initially shaped by the context in which they first appeared. They only became defining acts of cynic transgression in retrospect.

For example, Diogenes is famous for living in a barrel or storage jar on the street. Much has been made of this barrel, in which he would not just sit but roll about. Yet when Diogenes first arrived in Athens, so the story goes, he only adopted the barrel because the house he had hoped for could not be arranged in time.

So, ancient cynicism does not provide a direct model, or set of practices, for any revived modern cynicism to follow. As an improvised philosophy, it developed tactical, carefully targeted attacks that were designed to call into question the culture in which it was expressed, a culture that is not our own, even if it is a distant relative.

What ancient cynicism does provide a model for, however, is a mode of transgression that exceeds all politically acceptable notions of “revolt”. The logic, or, some might say, the illogic of cynic transgression is what we might attend to.

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The transgressive element of ancient cynicism is often explained away. Given the extent to which cynicism was designed to upset those it confronted, it is understandable that this should be the case. Indeed, the history of cynicism is marked by progressive efforts to sanitise and purify the example set by the first cynics.

There is a common interpretation of what Diogenes was up to when he threw away all his possessions and lived a deliberately impoverished “animal” life on the streets of Athens. From this point of view the lesson of cynicism is a simple one:

Look how little I need to be happy. All the material and intellectual culture of civilised life is a distraction. You should all live a simple life like me, a life in accordance with nature.

This is not my interpretation. Diogenes does not say “live like me”; nor does he present the model of a better life. Rather, he makes the point that all conventions are essentially arbitrary. In so doing, Diogenes gestures to the possibility of another life, to a radical reorganisation of the material world and the world of ideas.

When Alexander the Great approached Diogenes, standing over him as he was sunning himself, he said, “Ask me for anything you want.” Diogenes replied, “Stand out of my light.” This is one of the most famous cynic anecdotes. It has been subject to multiple interpretations, most notably the idea that the cynic will criticise power in the very face of it, with courage and without exception.

But cynic critique is directed elsewhere too. It does not only address prominent examples of tyranny. It even targets those who might come for instruction. As Diogenes apparently said: “Other dogs bite their enemies, but I bite my friends, so as to save them.”

There is the story of a student who came up to Diogenes and asked to study with him. Diogenes responded by giving the student a piece of cheese to carry. The would-be follower threw it away in disgust. To follow Diogenes with a hunk of cheese (or a dead fish in a variation of the story) would be to act as his slave. What the student failed to understand is that to follow cynicism is to embrace humiliation and overcome shame, since fear of shame is one of the most effective mechanisms for ensuring social conformity.

There are variations on the theme, where Crates (who was Diogenes’ pupil) famously converted Metrocles to cynicism with a well-timed and kindly fart. Timing is key to another famous anecdote; the case of Diogenes shitting before an audience. Diogenes, so the story goes, gave a public oration that was very well received, and, when his audience was most enraptured, squatted before them and emptied his bowels. One interpretation is that, having disgraced himself so completely, Diogenes has nothing else to lose. He has no cause to flatter or dupe his audience. The point at which to begin listening is after he shits.

Another interpretation is that we are ashamed and repelled by the wrong things. The audience might express disgust at the cynic who shits, but is happy to live with all other sorts of disgusting behaviour, such as greed, vanity, patronage, a slave economy and state-sanctioned violence. Or, at least, the audience has a less visceral response to them. They don’t flinch in the same way. The cynic effectively asks: “Why not?”

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The role and prominence of the cynic body are crucial. Cynic practices focused on the body and its excretory and sexual functions because, from a cynic perspective, the body is the means by which we are governed. Social conventions act through the organisation of bodily habits. They regulate what goes in, what comes out, and where and how that happens.

The habits that regulate speech are just another case in the government of bodies. This is why, from a cynic perspective, the organisation of speech is equivalent to the regulation of intestinal gas. Giving the latter an airing in places it should not be expressed challenges power, just as the disorganisation of speech, the refusal of convention, its eruption when speech is not welcomed, challenges the order of things.

By disrupting these conventions, cynicism demonstrates that the body must be at the centre of any revolt. We are governed by the most banal habits, the cynic teaches, but these habits can be changed.

Then what about cynic timing? Well, Diogenes does his business precisely when his audience is most enraptured. He has just demonstrated his skill at public oration and has shown that even as an impoverished alien, he is fully conversant with cultural and intellectual norms. Diogenes has clearly mastered the art of rhetoric and proved his eloquence. Why reject all that? Why reject your host community once it has finally accepted you? There is no easy answer to this question.

Here, I think, ancient cynicism shows that it was determined in its transgressions to confound, confuse and resist easy explanation. As a non-dogmatic philosophy, it did not explain itself or set out the principles that underlay its practices. It did not even explain what, precisely, it found so objectionable in the culture that surrounded it or why it rejected, point-by-point, all the dominant values of its day. Instead, it provokes those who are insulted to begin asking themselves that very question: why on earth the cynic before them holds the audience in such contempt.

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What does this mean for a revived cynicism? Well, clearly such a cynicism should not be expected to explain what it argues for.

In today’s intellectual culture, the typical response to all harsh criticisms is to ask the critic to justify their position. There is also the expectation that all good critics will have an alternative in mind, some vision of a better state of affairs. The cynic perspective clearly undercuts and disregards the assumption that all good critics are guided by their principles. In response to the demand “explain yourself”, the cynic remains silent.

This demand is the first challenge that would face a returned Diogenes, who, emerging from his barrel, would soon be moved on by the authorities, or convicted and institutionalised. Diogenes would be taken as an object of study. Most probably, he would be pathologised and his actions explained away as the result of some kind of personal or social disorder.

And yet, despite these challenges, is not impossible to imagine a revived, undomesticated cynicism. We do not have to look too hard for examples. There is the case of the Russian performance artist Pyotr Pavlensky, for instance, who sewed his mouth shut in protest against the incarceration of members of Pussy Riot in 2012. The year after, he had himself brought naked and wrapped in barbed wire to the main entrance of the Legislative Assembly of Saint Petersburg and later that year, he nailed his scrotum to Red Square. Pavlensky also cut off his earlobe while sitting naked on the roof of a prominent psychiatric hospital in 2014, and, after receiving asylum in France in 2017, set fire to the entrance of the Bank of France in Paris.

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Although Pavlensky is not an avowed cynic, several parallels with cynic protest might be drawn: his use of his body to manifest the truth of political oppression, his commitment to suck the authorities into his art so that they become participants in the spectacle, and finally, his ingratitude to the community that finally grants him asylum.

Pavlensky is a good example of cynicism (in a way that Banksy, to take another possible example, is not), because he is, for many, so unlikeable. His example helps make the point that cynicism must remain unpalatable. It is cynical to the extent it remains in contempt of the norms it challenges.

A revived cynicism does not have to model itself on the example of the lone, courageous cynic aggressor, however. Cynicism today is, after all, a mass phenomenon, even if it is weakened and shy by contrast. Like ancient cynicism, it holds a mirror to the society in which it appears.

The typical response to contemporary cynicism is to argue that cynical attitudes should be remedied by injecting hope and optimism, by social and institutional reform, and by redoubling arguments for the values it places in doubt. But this, from a cynic perspective, is precisely the problem. It ensures that criticism and cynic doubt remain within accepted boundaries. The commitment to remain positive, to find secure ground, is, the cynic observes, precisely how social norms are transmitted, untroubled, through one upheaval to the next.

Of course, there is no principled way to argue for cynicism, since to argue in that manner would be to operate uncynically. At best, a cynic perspective draws attention to cynicisms where they emerge and does not assume, outright, that they should be diminished.

These cynicisms give expression to important intuitions about the state of the world whilst offering nothing positive back. Many would see this as a flaw. And yet, from a different perspective, it gives cynicism the edge. What the philosophy offers, in effect, is a form of critical perception that remains forever vigilant. It doubts all promises and makes none in return.

This article is from the New Humanist winter 2020 edition. Subscribe today.