. . .[Coriolanus] having a spirit of this noble make, was ambitious always to surpass himself, and did nothing, how extraordinary soever, but he thought he was bound to outdo it at the next occasion; and ever desiring to give continual fresh instances of his prowess, he added one exploit to another, and heaped up trophies upon trophies, so as to make it matter of contest also among his commanders, the latter still vying with the earlier, which should pay him the greatest honor and speak highest in his commendation. -Plutarch, Life of Coriolanus
The primary difference between the Master and the Dilettante shows in their own perceptions of their work. The Master remains in a constant flux of dissatisfaction with his creation, the Dilettante is easily satisfied with whatever mediocrity he creates. Balzac, for instance, while having spent sixteen or more hours daily laboring over the La Comédie humaine continued unfatigued, even as the printers set the type for each page, making corrections, changes and improvement till the very moment that the ink hit the page. On the other hand for the Dilettante one need only consider the state of modern art, or modern literature, or, God-forbid, that wretched whore that calls itself modern poetry, to observe the smug self-satisfaction of subpar work. We have all seen these hipster smucks before.
The end of all accomplishment is satisfaction. Once the point of satisfaction with one’s accomplishment is reached one need no longer move forward. The greatest fault of our culture is the ease with which one is satisfied; given the lack of motivation a man need only accomplish the very least to be awarded empty accolades by his peers; it is easy to be satisfied. One can even be satisfied with himself while being worthless. He can collect welfare and unemployment without ever having produced anything of note for society, sit on the couch drinking beer and watching Dumb Man, Supplicates To Hot-But-Unbearable Bitch–now on ABCNBCNN, log on for the night to any number of well crafted fantasy worlds in which Man-As-Orc-Monk-Or-Warrior manages the great feat of slaying imaginary beasts while still not getting laid, finish the night blasting knuckle children to the dank rhythm of the underside of the internet. A job well done. Satisfying? As good as not for most.
Internal satisfaction is a parasite that has been forcefully implanted in the souls of the modern man. Its red-headed step-brother External dissatisfaction rounds out the pair. If one cannot be satisfied with his less than enviable existence he need not blame himself, insofar as his life is not as he would please only externals could have caused it–after all, everyone has told him he was a snowflake and has been since birth; the reasons are legion: discrimination, prejudice, patriarchy, a mean mommy, a missing father, a wanked society, poor schools, McDonald’s serving fatty foods, racists, or second hand smoke. Every beta I know remains perfectly content with who they are; he is true to himself; all his problems come from elsewhere.
This is the mindset of the Dilettante, the Amateur, the Beta: the world fucks me.
The Master on the other hand is perpetually dissatisfied with where he is. . . so far. He accepts that he can improve and Stoically relieves himself of the worry of externals. His mindset is fuck’em. Had a shitty life? Fuck’em, do better.
The Beta measures himself against all others; when he cannot compete he blames their station in life for his own failure, their natural abilities for his lack of discipline, their success with women, or the mean women who treat him with disdain, for his social autism.
The Master measures himself against yesterday; if he is not better today he is failing. If his latest work does not improve or grow from the previous, he is failing. The obstacles the world throws his way are no larger than the last he climbed beyond, or if they are, fuck’em, challenge accepted.
Satisfaction is not happiness
Roosh wrote on Monday about chasing the happiness dragon and the perpetual need another hit. He mentioned the ability to adapt as a poison draining happiness from accomplishment, but it is the very ability to adapt, to say fuck’em to the obstacles and surmount them, that produces both the accomplishment and the accompanying happiness. Roosh knows something either intuitively or subconsciously that he is not letting on: goals do not provide happiness; goals are satisfying; satisfaction is poison. Goals are means to growth not the end of growth; goals provide directions not destinations; destinations are for bitches, betas, and vacations.
Challenge breeds happiness.
Veritas numquam perit,