Trilogy on human nature (part 2)

The Nature of Evil in Everyday Life What is evil, that shadow lingering in the human soul, not only in the grand tragedies of history but in the quiet corners of our daily lives? To speak of evil often summons images of monstrous deeds—wars, tyrannies, cruelties etched upon the world’s vast stage, as if scored by a thunderous orchestra. Yet, as we tread the ordinary paths of existence, evil reveals itself not in bold proclamations but in small, subtle cruelties, the kind we inflict and endure without pause, as if we’re all players in a quiet farce scripted by our own frailties. These fleeting impulses, these delicate barbs of malice, are where the monster within us begins to hum its tune, weaving a tapestry of harm that slowly hardens into what I call “evil habits.” And these habits, dear reader, cling like a guest who’s forgotten the way home. I have likened our souls—our minds and hearts entwined—to a forest, wild and untamed. With time, we learn to carve gardens within, coaxing forth blooms of virtue, as Goethe might envision a soul’s blossoming. Yet, this labor is arduous, and even in our triumphs, weeds sprout among the roses. These weeds of evil rarely choke the earth with dramatic flair; they creep in silently, blending with our better intentions. Picture the colleague who, with a smile as false as a politician’s promise, spreads a rumor to undermine a rival, sowing doubt that erodes trust and ambition. Or the friend who, in casual talk, belittles another’s success, masking envy with a jest that drains joy like a thief in the night. Consider the shopper who snaps at a weary clerk, unloading frustration without regard for the human before them, turning a simple exchange into a sting of pain. Or the parent who, under the guise of guidance, compares one child to another, planting insecurities that linger like shadows across years. These are not the sins of epic villains but the everyday missteps of ordinary souls, driven by desires for status, control, or the fleeting thrill of feeling superior. One cannot help but muse, in Montaigne’s spirit of gentle inquiry, what these petty acts reveal about their doers. How fragile must a heart be to find joy in another’s stumble, to whisper poison rather than offer a hand? How base, how almost bestial, to indulge in such cruelties, forsaking grace for instincts that belong in the wild? Such conduct, as Kipling might lament, is unworthy of a soul aspiring to nobility, more akin to creatures scavenging for scraps of dominance, craving love they cannot earn. In these moments, we drift from our higher calling, becoming shadows of what we might be, tripping over our own flaws in a quiet comedy of errors. These evil habits spring not solely from malice but from unexamined routines we adopt to navigate society’s demands. We’re taught to conform, to measure our worth by others’ applause, and too often, we trade our hearts for hollow praise. The sneer of judgment, the cold shrug at a stranger’s plight, the secret relish in another’s misfortune—these are threads in a fabric we barely notice, yet they shape our world. They are dark pearls within our souls, as Dostoyevsky might see them, spreading poison within us and into those we cherish. I offer no jest here, though a touch of Norm Macdonald’s wry truth might slip in: these pearls spread their venom faster than gossip at a family reunion, a truth that reveals how laden we are with flaws, or we’d care less for such chatter. Evil is not an external force but an internal drift, a surrender to pressures that urge us to prioritize self over other, appearance over truth. It’s our capacity for cruelty hardening into habits we either scarcely notice or, worse, pursue with a strange hunger. Picture the neighbor hoarding resources during a shortage, calling it prudence while secretly savoring others’ distress, as if starring in their own petty drama. Or the driver who cuts in line, valuing their time over fairness, stirring discord while feeling cleverer than the rest. These acts, multiplied across countless lives, erode the bonds that make society humane, like cracks in a foundation no one bothers to mend. Yet to name these acts evil is not to despair but to call for a reckoning, as Dostoyevsky would urge. I have no wish to live among cruel monsters—do you? Evil thrives when we deny it, cloaking harsh words as honesty, neglect as necessity, ambition as virtue. Recognizing this, as Montaigne might counsel, is the first step to mastering the monster within. Evil is insidious but not unconquerable; it’s a habit to be unlearned, a weed to be uprooted, if we dare to tend our soul’s garden with Goethe’s poetic care. Consider the executive who falsifies reports for gain, deceiving colleagues like a conjurer pulling a cheap trick—poof, integrity gone! Or the online commenter, hiding behind anonymity to hurl insults, spreading malice as if it’s their trade. Notice the fleeting thrill they take, the fragility of egos resorting to such ploys, as if they’re auditioning for a role in their own sad farce. How primal, how almost childish, to revel in hidden harm, like youths tormenting creatures for sport, a behavior we dismiss with a smile, yet it mirrors our own monstrosity. We are all monsters, perhaps the most formidable this world has known. One ponders, with a sad smile in Macdonald’s style, how barren a soul must be to let evil habits take root, until it’s incapable of dignity. Such beings are less human than beast, casting aside the grace that earns affection. Calling them monsters may sound grand, but we are all thus endowed. Most remain petty—rats and worms, scurrying in the shadows. Some grow into hyenas or serpents, and a few, becoming lions or dragons, inspire awe in their followers, who dream of such grandeur, trapped in a cycle both tenacious and tragic. These evil habits bind them to their idols, who wear their monstrosity openly, while their minions conceal theirs, either too timid or cunningly awaiting their moment. Thus, we are all monsters, some dreaming of beastly splendor. This reckoning, as Kipling might frame it, bids us pause and reflect on our paths. Whom do we admire? Why do we diminish others? Are we tending our soul’s garden, or letting it run wild? Do we fear falling short in a world demanding perfection? Society and nature push us to compete, to climb over others, but yielding risks turning us diabolical, our hearts shrinking as our egos swell. The path forward lies in small, deliberate choices: to speak with kindness, to listen, to see the humanity in those we’d rather dismiss. Picture the teacher favoring certain pupils, turning the classroom into a petty court, or the kin nursing a grudge over trifling slights, keeping resentment alive like a cherished relic. How feral, how uncivilized, to cling to such bitterness, revealing a soul mired in survival rather than lifted by compassion? One might ask, with Montaigne’s courteous concern, what poverty of spirit drives one to such depths, rendering them unworthy of the empathy they withhold. We are bound to one another, and our shared humanity, as Dostoyevsky might see it, is the antidote to evil’s silent spread. Compassion, tempered by a firm rejection of these inner monsters, offers salvation, especially when we show those monsters are unworthy of our time. These dark pearls, these evil habits, are neural networks—demons within us and our communities. The more they prevail, the more our souls and societies suffer, like gardens overrun by thorns. Choosing compassion for our neighbor means believing in their capacity for greater humanity, fostering their goodness and curbing their cruelty. Yet compassion alone is frail, for monsters see it as weakness and pounce. The true path to love, as Christ’s teachings might guide us, is to ensure their malice finds no fertile soil in our gardens. Our souls are interwoven; as we tend our own, we inspire others, and they us. It’s a noble labor, as Kipling would affirm, to resist status and power, to refuse harm for self-interest, to rise above the sordid pleasure of hidden evils. In this, we become truly human—not by denying our capacity for evil, but by choosing to surmount it, to govern the monster within as a guardian over a restless beast. Reflect on the acquaintance who shuns a friend in need, choosing ease over loyalty, or the consumer who, through thoughtless purchases, abets exploitation for convenience. How base, how untamed, to favor fleeting gains over shared dignity? How poignant, as Macdonald might slyly note, to see a soul with the potential for humanity reduced to instinct, like a performer who’s forgotten their lines. Let us not avert our eyes from the mirror of our daily lives. Evil is not solely the domain of history’s tyrants; it lives in the words we wield, the silences we keep, the habits we permit in ourselves and those around us. To live well, as Goethe might urge, is to see these truths clearly, to wrestle with the monster within until we master it, forging a path where virtue becomes a quiet hymn to our shared humanity.