The School of Life: On Failure

How to succeed at defeat

The School of Life

• Publisher: The School of Life
• Year: 2022
• ISBN:
  9781915087188
• Topic: Persönliche Entwicklung
• Subtopic: Persönlicher Erfolg

A guide to the art of failing well—with actionable tips and a gentle approach

This is a hopeful, consoling, gentle book about failure. Our societies talk a lot about success, but the reality is that no one gets through life without failing – in small and usually also in large ways. Sometimes our failures are very obvious, at other times, we feel we have to conceal them out of shame. This book encourages us to accept the role that failure plays for all of us and to feel compassion for ourselves for the messes we can't help but make as we go through our lives.

Full of actionable tips on how to approach life's inevitable failures from small to large, this is the perfect volume for anyone who has ever gone through a breakup, suffered a career crisis, made enemies, fumbled a project, or wasted their time. (In other words: everyone.)

There is nothing more human than failing—and nothing wiser and more necessary failing well.

• PRAGMATIC ADVICE ON: How to be resilient and endure regret, so we can recover and move on from despair and catastrophe.
• WE ARE NOT ALONE: Explores various examples of real-world failure and reminds us that we are not alone in making mistakes.
• EMPATHETIC AND REAL: Written from the perspective of those who have failed and survived their failure.
• CHAPTERS INCLUDE: How to Deal with the Meanness of the World, What Love Really Is and Why It Matters, Finding Perspective, Fear and Self-Hatred, and Self-Compassion.

Part I:

Real-world Failure

i.

The Many Types of Failure

One of the many cruel aspects of failure is that when it strikes, it can feel like the most unusual and particular event. ‘Why did it happen to me?’ we wonder, ‘Why have I been singled out?’ Our failure looks to us like a monstrous exception in an area of life dominated by success – a quite spectacularly strange and rare affliction. We’ve not only failed, we are – it appears – almost completely alone in having done so. Everyone else’s marriage is stable, even terrific; all around us, there are lovers going out on dates and wedding anniversaries being celebrated. Most people’s jobs are continuing without trouble; it’s hardly ‘normal’ to be at a loose end at what should be the height of our career. There’s no evidence that the others around us have lost command of their reason. The name of no one else we went to school with produces search results that render ordinary social life impossible. How have other people managed not to mess up as badly as we have? We might be indoors, crying and hitting the walls or biting our hands, but outside, children are going to playgrounds, birds are singing, suited figures are attending purposeful meetings, families are laughing, youngsters are planning fifty years of success, shopkeepers are wishing their customers a good day and there will be parties to attend at the weekend. We feel like freakish, pitiable outcasts in a world of triumph, friendship, ease and contentment.

It is this extremely painful impression that deserves to be corrected at once. Failure may seem like the exception when it is being experienced – when we are in a profound crisis – but let there be no misunderstanding: messing up is what humans do and have been doing since the start of our adventure on the planet. Our own, personal failures stand in a prestigious and quasi-essential lineage. We are not alone; we may even be in the majority.

We don’t live through our failures all at once, which is where some of the misapprehension and loneliness comes from, and we don’t necessarily do it visibly, which is another reason why we’re fooled that everyone else is fine, but taken together, humans are both the masters and forced subjects of failure. There is no family in the land without a serious disaster in their midst. Look at a classroom of twenty sweet 5-year-olds; within half a century, a good third of them will have been scarred by a very sharp knife indeed. It would be possible to tell the story of humanity not – as we usually do – as one of progress and gradual mastery, but as one of repeated distress, unshakeable madness and eternal regret. Almost no life goes to plan and few of us come through unscathed – and it’s certainly questionable whether all our beautiful machines and complicated accomplishments have made us one jot less troubled than our animal-skin-clad foraging ancestors.

It’s this sombre reality that can make us feel such a sense of relief when we see a painting such as Pieter Bruegel’s The Triumph of Death (see overleaf). Here is a skeleton army marching over a forlorn landscape, butchering everyone in sight. No one gets away. Kings are breathing their last, lovers are being murdered and funeral pyres are burning in the distance. Corpses are swinging from scaffolds, a horse is dragging a cartload of bodies and massed ranks of soldiers of the armies of death are waiting to join the scene of butchery. This is not a representation of any one particular war zone or scene of horror, but it feels familiar because it is existentially correct, true to some basic facts of our own lives and of all peoples: life is endemically connected with cruelty, ruin and disaster.

This may be a horrific fact to take on board, but it is even more horrific to mistakenly believe that the agony might be ours alone – or that we have been promised anything else. What we are going through only looks rare. Our pain only seems exceptional and aberrant because we are looking at false, wilfully edited – and hence cruelly sentimental – pictures of reality.

Let us consider some of the leading categories of failure that compulsively visit the human animal.

Pieter Bruegel the Elder, The Triumph of Death, c. 1562–1563

Romantic failure

Astonishingly, we are still inclined to trust that relationships might somehow be the fun, sweet, exciting and endearing bit of life. Let’s be clear: there is no faster route to destroying ourselves than through love and sex. There is no more effective way of turning otherwise sensible and balanced lives into tragedies than through engagement with our romantic and sexual drives.

No wonder people are nervous on first dates – they should be a lot more so (especially if the date goes ‘well’). The chances of getting through our sex lives unscathed are negligible. No one properly informs us of the risks. There are no warning signs, extensive training programmes, hazard lights and alarms. We don’t employ masked figures to wail and intone when adolescence begins. It’s like the mouth of an active volcano left without guard rails. There is nothing like the requisite solemnity or fear. Yet so much predisposes us to fail.

For one, we have a hopelessly fragile understanding of our own minds and needs. We can’t grasp what we’re after and what we should resist. Sex is in permanent conflict with emotional priorities. It’s impossible for us to recognise the ways in which our underlying disturbances affect who we can desire – and what unfortunate and reckless choices we continually make due to the imprint of our childhood psyches. It can take a decade to work out that we have landed on a person exquisitely designed to provoke our worst responses. For a while, we may get away with it. No one gets seriously hurt – there aren’t any children, there’s no money involved, no one else cares. But our luck will only hold out for so long. Gradually, we assemble the ingredients for our own disaster: a slightly compromised marriage, a somewhat damaged psyche, a handful of children, a sprig of boredom, an ounce of jealousy, maybe an affair, some financial wranglings, a divorce, a judgemental society … In the end, we don’t need to do very much wrong in the romantic field to end up involved in horror.

Workplace failure

For the first two highly influential decades of our lives, we are required to work a lot without ever really needing to ask ourselves any of the bigger questions about what this work means: whether the work is right for us or helps us to make a contribution we welcome or can identify with. We just put our heads down and make our way through the educational obstacle course as best we can. But once we graduate, we are thrown off guard. Without warning, the options become more perilous – even as the silence about how to choose from them grows. We want, naturally, to make a comfortable living, but most of us will feel we have failed if our work doesn’t at the same time provide us with a feeling of deep satisfaction and meaning. Too often, we confront a choice: between head and heart, between what we ideally want to do and what it would be sensible to settle for. Immediately, the ingredients for failure start to brew. There are those who overestimate their talents, and end up in middle age, broke and disappointed, envious and angry. There are those who underestimate the pull of authentic ambition, and end up materially comfortable, but dissatisfied, ashamed of their cowardice and longing to make changes they cannot afford. We are strung between the pull of safety on the one hand and of fulfilment on the other, each one with a viable claim on us, neither providing us with enough on its own, and with the world rarely willing to offer us both. We need to be very fortunate not to regret having been either excessively weak-willed or excessively foolhardy.

It doesn’t help that we are called upon to make the most important choices without the relevant experience needed and without properly understanding ourselves or the conditions of the job market. With little awareness of the seriousness of what we are doing, we accept a position ‘for a year or two’, only to find two decades later that this shunted us onto a track that we have never been able to escape. We don’t sense doors closing; we don’t even know where the doors are. There seem to be few people with the relevant experience and patience to talk to. Instead, we wind up sitting at home on Sunday evenings, quietly panicked about the years passing, sensing that something large is not right about our direction but without the courage or resources to know what to do next.

Even if we have had the good fortune to know what our ideal destiny would be, we need to be very lucky indeed for the economy not to trample on our hopes. In almost every field we might consider, there are far more candidates than there are positions. The world is not waiting for yet another author or psychotherapist, furniture designer or anthropologist. Success requires a rare combination of talent and stubborn grit and relentlessness. We may fail not because we lack vision or talent, but because our hearts are too tender.

There is something structural to our misfortune, too: the capitalist marketplace requires that a good portion of its participants fall by the wayside every year. Weaker companies and participants must be eradicated; obstacles to lower prices and efficiency must be removed. Progress demands culls. Customers can only be satisfied if the weaker producers are identified, exposed and winnowed out. The anxiety of our age isn’t simply an unfortunate aberration: it is the leading emotion that should logically accompany us into the office.

Further risks abound in the dynamics between workers. There are bullying managers, uncooperative colleagues, undermining subordinates. There is jealousy, backbiting, gossip and persecution. The very quality that we need in our work – ambition – may be what alienates us from other, more lackadaisical workers who won’t lose an opportunity to bring us down when they can. The workforce pyramid has very steep sides and the tumbles are brutal and terminal. We will need an implausible degree of luck not to be stabbed in the back, or at least roughed up in the corridors of power.

Reputational failure

Until it is under threat, it is easy to overlook what ‘reputation’ is or how desperately it matters. Reputation is made up of all the material that people who hardly know us resort to when judging us. It is the repository of all the random, semiconscious associations, prejudices and scarcely examined ideas that surround our names. The material may be inaccurate and casually compiled, but reputation still ends up determining the gospel truth about who we are for people who never have, and never will, give us an honest minute’s thought – that is, for almost everyone in the world. The other thing to note about reputation: it cannot be cleansed once it has been sullied.

For a long time in our lives, most of us lack a reputation of any kind. Our name is simply a blank. No one knows whether they should be pleased or appalled to meet us; the internet is silent about our identities. This is a momentous freedom – though it is rarely appreciated as such. Then, because of some superhuman moves on our part (unceasing efforts at work, remorseless networking, desperate attempts to generate publicity), we may start to develop a ‘good’ reputation. Positive associations begin to hover around our names; strangers may want to meet us. Our social circle becomes filled with people who like us chiefly because they are under the impression that other people like us.

Until one day we make a mistake – perhaps not a very large one, all things considered. We sleep with the wrong person, we send the wrong email, we lose our temper in the wrong place, we say the wrong thing online – and our reputation, carefully built up over three decades, falls apart in two hours. Like death (which it in many ways resembles), reputational extinction can happen in an instant. There are articles in the newspaper, rumours about us at parties – there may even be jeers in the street. Legions of people we didn’t even realise existed but who turn out to have been deeply offended by our success now gang up to accuse us of crimes way beyond those we actually committed. We are expelled from the group and sent into status exile.

We want – and may even begin – to protest. We try to put people right. Maybe we send letters pointing out that they have not judged us correctly; that they have got a few facts wrong here and there. We patiently try to explain that they haven’t fully grasped the way things look through our eyes. We might launch a court case in a bullish attempt to persuade them of another side to the story – or we might make a grovelling apology, give some money to a good cause, and hope for a second chance.

But we will soon realise that our efforts are entirely in vain. People aren’t getting us wrong for sensible reasons. They are generally doing it on purpose, to appease some historic sense of grievance, to assuage the pain of having themselves been overlooked for too long or to have a bit of fun because their own lives are filled with boredom, suffering and humiliation. Or they may hold on to the prevailing ideas about us because they can’t be bothered to do anything else; it’s just easier. They probably never thought seriously about us until now – and they’re not, in the middle of a scandal or a sacking, about to start to reflect deeply on our true character and the injustices of fate. They believed public opinion when we were supposedly marvellous, and they are happy to continue blithely to believe in it now that we are apparently unspeakable. It saves time.

Reputation is not something that can ever be ‘repaired’ because it is never properly built; it is merely a temporary assembly of wind and twigs. Yet public shaming is about as serious a wound as anyone can suffer. We are social creatures, hard-wired to care immeasurably about what others think of us; our antennae are perfectly attuned to notice how we are being perceived and when we have fallen foul of the community. We can’t help but be pained that – however complex and mitigating our true story is – we are condemned, for the rest of our lives, to be known only as ‘the criminal’, ‘the weirdo’, ‘the loser’ or ‘the pervert’.

If can feel like nothing we could ever do will be able to correct the mark on our names; we will never be able to reach into the minds of those who disparage us and alter the story that is unthinkingly summoned up whenever we are mentioned. A broken reputation forces us to do nothing less than give up on our relationship with most of the human race; it takes some practice, to say the least.

Parental failure

We dream of close and tender bonds with our closest family members, but without envisaging the consequences, there are certain things we do that can – seemingly irreparably – alienate us from those we love most.

The pain of this alienation can be e...