Theodore Dalrymple:

Pessimists are of two types, the catastrophists, that is to say the types who look up in the starry heavens and see (metaphorically) only asteroids in the sky racing towards us to wipe us out as the dinosaurs were wiped out; and existential pessimists, that is to say those who see dissatisfaction as the permanent condition of mankind because of his inherent makeup, his contradictory desires and emotions, dissatisfaction that is perfectly compatible however with a great deal of enjoyment of life. I am a pessimist of the latter kind.

The former kind of pessimist, those who foresee inevitable universal collapse, destruction, death by epidemic, and so forth, have no sense of humor, or at least of irony. For them, the furrowed brow and the shoulder weighed down by care are signs of intellectual and moral seriousness, the sine qua non genuine concern for humanity and (God preserve us) the planet. Like catastrophe itself, they are not much fun.

The existential pessimist is light-hearted, for he knows that human life is not perfectible, and can therefore enjoy what it has to offer without any sense of guilt that he is not spending his every waking hour averting disaster or bringing perfection about. He does not deny that many diseases currently incurable will one day change their status and that this is a good thing, for taken in the round more life is better than less; but neither does he expect that, when formerly incurable diseases have become curable, human complaint and dissatisfaction will become things of the past. Golden ages in the future are just as mythical as golden ages in the past (except, perhaps, in isolated fields, as exemplified in Dutch painting).

As for radical optimists, they are as insufferable as the catastrophist pessimists. America has produced perhaps more of them than anywhere else: which is why, perhaps, its best literature is so overwhelmingly tragic in tone.

I’d say that I’m three-quarters existential pessimist, and one-quarter catastrophist. Catastrophism is a constant temptation of mine; I’m a sucker for decline-and-fall. What saves me for being a real catastrophist is that I’m so half-ass about it. I just don’t have it in me to be so serious. I can think that the world is going to hell while still enjoying what I can in the ride down the slide, because there’s just so much grace everywhere. Honestly, I think it’s a Louisiana thing. The way we’re all raised to greet catastrophic weather by hauling out the gumbo pot and icing down the beer. The high tolerance we have for absurd behavior, even a certain degree of vice, because we don’t expect a lot more from people other than that they’ll always, at some level, be a mess.

I’m not saying this adds up to a philosophy, but it is a worldview.

My wife, who is from a more rational part of the world, cannot abide Ignatius Reilly. He is my literary hero. He is, of course, a complete nut and a repulsive person, but I love his crazy humanity. I’m not sure why, but I do, and I think that disposition, that instinct, saves me from the darker aspects of my vision.

But boy, do I have no patience for the radical optimists, people who think that if we just get the right program in place we will be able to perfect humanity. Few people consciously think like that, but every time you hear some conservative gas on about the glories of “freedom,” and how all we need to do is to bring about more “individual freedom” to reach the Promised Land, you know you are in the presence of a radical optimist. I understand why liberals are this way, but I don’t understand why conservatives are, except that this is the standard American type, and to have any appeal to the American people, conservatism has to express itself in this way.

Meh, says I, chopping the Cajun holy trinity and browning the andouille.