What It Means to be Against Everything: A Brief Review of Mark Greif’s Book

“We have no language but health. Those who criticise dieting as unhealthy operate in the same field as those who criticise overweight as unhealthy. Even those who think we overfixate on the health of our food call it an unhealthy fixation. But choosing another reason for living, as things now stand, seems to be choosing death. Is the trouble that there seems to be no other reason for living that isn’t a joke, or that isn’t dangerous for everyone–like the zealot’s will to die for God or the nation? Or is the problem that any other system than this one involves a death-seeking nihilism about knowledge and modernity, a refusal to admit what scientists, or researchers, or nutritionists, or the newest diet faddists, have turned up? As their researches narrow the boundaries of life. 

Health is our model of all things invisible and unfelt. If, in this day and age, we rejected the need to live longer, what would rich Westerners live for instead?”

Greif’s overarching criticism across many of his essays is that we live as if the point of living was to extend life. In Against Exercise he criticises our use of time simply on self-maintenance and self-prolongation, whereby we give up life to supposedly extend it. The same applies to food: we spend our days thinking and worrying about what to eat, restricting what we eat, so that we may be “healthy”, as if health was the point of life rather than its means. As soon as we became secure in our food supply, we began restricting our diets in a kind of confusion of what to do with our newfound freedom.

Individual phenomena are used in Greif’s work as examples of his overarching critique: that we value the wrong things without realising it. “I had to show”, Greif writes in the introduction to his collection of essays, Against Everything, “how every commonplace thing might be a compromise. The standards universally supposed might not be “universal.” Or they simply might not suit a universe in which my mother and I could happily live.” ‘Foodieism’ and exercise are where he deconstructs most destructively the ends towards which we direct our lives.

Health—through food, and exercise—is precisely the area where we feel, as a society, that we are making progress. The prevailing narrative is that we’ve seen through the destructiveness and dangers of large-scale food capitalism, and are now aware enough to ‘do the right thing’—buying local and organic, for a start. To critique that improvement can seem curmudgeonly, perhaps rash. We improve ourselves, and try to improve the planet, and yet here Greif is to criticise, to tell us we’re mistaken. Would there ever be a world in which he wouldn’t find something to criticise, even his own utopia?

And yet he manages to criticise gracefully. Tactfully, even, so as to avoid knee-jerk anger at his own naysaying. I read Greif as a countervailing voice, someone who knows (and maybe even hopes) he won’t be taken fully seriously, and yet hopes that by arguing “against everything”, we will be able to find a middle way through our problems, avoiding the worst of the dangers. It is hard to believe he wants to be taken seriously—he is arguing, essentially, that we are all mistaken in our thinking about food, the logical conclusion to which is that we simply should not think about it, eating whatever we want whenever we want. But by reminding of the dangers of the path we are on, we can improve that path and avoid its pitfalls.

Greif acknowledges the endlessness, and even the destructiveness, of being “against everything”. But for him it is not a negative attitude towards modern society; it seems more a state of being where one always maintains the belief that things can be improved. “I knew a ‘philosopher’ to be a mind that was unafraid to be against everything”, Grief says; “Against everything, if it was corrupt, dubious, enervating, untrue to us, false to happiness… To wish to be against everything is to want the world to be bigger than all of it, disposed to dissolve rules and compromises in a gallon or a drop, while an ocean of possibility rolls around us.”

So when he is against exercise, and against modern food, and against “the concept of experience”, reality television, YouTube and the hipster, Greif at his core merely wants to show that modern life need not be all-encompassing. The ocean of possibility rolls all around, and ultimately, “No matter what you are supposed to do, you can prove the supposition wrong, just by doing something else.”

Grief’s essays shed light on that opposite, cutting through prevailing narratives, and showing that the very things life seems to demand of us are what we should be most sceptical of.

Satisfied Age and Wisdom

When I began university I deleted everything from the blog I had been writing since age 14. Gone were hundreds of articles I’d written, thousands of comments people had made. I was such a different person to who I was when I was fourteen that I was embarrassed to read what I had then thought, and more embarrassed at the thought that others might read it and think that person back then was the same person as I was now.

I had the vague sense that at some point or other I might regret deleting everything. But the concern over the gap between who I had once been and who I was at present meant at that point in time that I simply wanted it all to be gone. I was both worried for myself, reading back over what I’d previously thought, and worried what others might think of me. It wasn’t that anything I’d thought or written was controversial, or anything anyone would find surprising. Rather, it was the mere idea that I now knew more that meant I didn’t like the views I’d previously held.

Of course, I know better now. But back then I also knew better. And I know now that at some point in future I will know I was wrong now, and that I’ll then know better. That sums up intellectual development, it seems to me.

Robert Louis Stevenson wrote in his essay ‘Crabbed Age and Youth’ that

“A man finds he has been wrong at every preceding stage of his career, only to deduce the astonishing conclusion that he is at last entirely right.”

But I don’t quite agree. A young man or woman may deduce the conclusion that he or she is at last entirely right, but someone on the path to any sort of satisfied age and any sort of wisdom must surely have learned the lesson that one’s present views are merely the meeting place of what one was once certain of, and the views that one will come to hold. No knowledge or perspective on life can be final, in this light; and for it to be so, one must have given up on the very intellectual development that led her to that point in her opinions at which she now stands.

For the perspective one holds at any age beyond one’s youth to be considered final, one must have performed some almighty mental contortions. It is, after all, a contradiction: one says one now knows best, while at the same time acknowledging that at every other point one thought one knew best one was, in fact, wrong.

But Louis Stevenson is still here to help. His essay is one I’ve returned to over and over, to the point where after three readings every single page was dog-eared, entirely defeating the purpose of doing so. One passage in particular came as both relief and revelation, showing at once why we need not regret views we once held, and how every view we’ve ever held at any point make an important point.

“You need repent none of your youthful vagaries. They may have been over the score on one side, just as those of age are probably over the score on the other. But they had a point; they not only befitted your age and expressed its attitudes and passions, but they had a relation to what was outside of you, and implied criticisms on the existing state of things, which you need not allow to have been undeserved, because you now see that they were partial. All error, not merely verbal, is a strong way of stating that the current truth is incomplete. The follies of youth have a basis in sound reason, just as much as the embarrassing questions put by babes and sucklings.”

There is, I think, good reason to chuckle at what I’ve written here. For while explaining my views with a sense of certainty and finality, I’ve at the same time acknowledged that a future me is likely to think everything I’ve written right now is wrong.

To that, I have nothing to say; only that I will not repent, and that I’ll continue to write, day after day, to ensure I never think that once and for all I am at last entirely right. If I ever come close to that end, I’ll have all this to look back on. And perhaps I’ll then know enough not to delete it.