Silent achievements

In a book about cycling I read recently, the author tries to convince readers to shun the world of spandex-wearing racing cyclists and instead ride for the sheer joy of it. He advises cyclists who feel themselves pressured into participating in over-serious cycle events to ask themselves this question beforehand: Would I do this if I couldn’t tell anyone about it? If I couldn’t wear the t-shirt afterward—if I couldn’t tell friends, family, and coworkers about my weekend-warrior sweatathon—would I still choose to do it? His point is that most of us would say no—we’d rather join a buddy for a casual ride out to the swimming hole.

It’s a great question that cuts down the pretensions of the athletic “image.” I think you can take it further, though, and apply the question to life as a whole: What would I choose to do with myself if I could never talk about it?

Suppose you lived in a world where no one was ever going to ask, “What do you do?” You could write, sell, or build whatever you wanted, and have your name attached to it, but you could never bring up the topic of your vocation to anyone. People would have to make the connection of your name and your creation on their own. You could say, “I’m Art Fry”—and let them realize who you are—but you couldn’t say, “I’m Art Fry, inventor of Post-it Notes.” 

In that situation, what would you spend your time doing? A handful of people could answer, “Exactly what I’m doing now.” But most couldn’t. Our sense of what we find intrinsically rewarding is usually clouded by what we find—or think we will find—socially rewarding. Prestige and recognition misdirect us into doing things we dislike.

If people could no longer boast of their achievements, we’d probably see thousands if not millions of people in high-status jobs suddenly quit. Law firms and investment banks would empty pretty quickly. Enrollments at Harvard and other prestigious institutions would drop considerably. Politics might disappear entirely. How would a politician sustain his morale when robbed of the opportunity for self-promotion? 

That’s not to say all lawyers and bankers are self-deceiving hypocrites working at things they hate in the hope of being admired, nor that they are the only ones doing so. Surely there are some lawyers who love what they do, and just as surely there are aspiring novelists who don’t really enjoy creating literature, but who just want to “be novelists.”

It might be impossible to fully separate our genuine enjoyments from our desire for    social gratification. For all we talk about doing what makes us—individually—happy, we assert just as often that human beings are “social animals.” We don’t live in solitude, and everyone needs at least some kind of recognition. Even work that seems more purely creative—writing, architecture, fine cooking—is still done for an audience.

It’s probably fatuous, then, to ask “What would you do for no recognition? What would you do just for yourself?” If we had no one but ourselves to live for, we’d probably all commit suicide. So the better question is probably, “What would you do for no recognition other than that which the work itself generated?” That line might be a bit clumsier to include in a motivational speech, but it’s probably the best way to get to the truth.