A vile orgy of self-sacrificing

“The world is perishing from an orgy of self-sacrificing,” says Ayn Rand, who imagines capitalism is the cure. In fact, capitalism, at least as presently practiced, is the most vile orgy of self-sacrificing that has ever existed—all the more vile since it is done in the name of a misguided egoism that imagines material things and material things alone are what the self needs to flourish. The investment banker works twelve hours a day at a job he despises so that he can spend his evening in a fine restaurant, where the waiter works twelve hours a day at a job he despises. We nail ourselves to the cross of commerce, and then use its rewards to erect monuments to our martyrdom.

At work we strive to fulfill what we imagine are the needs of others, which, we imagine, are expressed in the marketplace. In our leisure hours we strive to fulfill what we imagine are our own needs, which, we imagine, can be fulfilled by things that are offered in the marketplace. Needs that are simple to discover and require elaborate means to satisfy can indeed be very efficiently addressed by the marketplace. But needs that are difficult to discover and require simple means to satisfy cannot. When I reflect sincerely, I find that the second sort of needs far outnumber the first.

So long as I rely on the marketplace to satisfy my needs, and to guide me in helping others satisfy theirs, I will omit from consideration every need that cannot be adequately expressed by the marketplace. Very often the best service we can render to our fellow human beings is to advise them to change course. Offering them the means to continue on their present course, the one thing the market can do exquisitely, often doesn’t help them at all.

If I try offering love, I might find, at least occasionally, that I get love in return. But this market is very inefficient. I will often be swindled, and have no means to restore justice.

When all the fox’s wiles fail to fetch the grapes, he insists they must be sour. A critic of commerce who doesn’t have more than his share of booty always leaves himself open to the accusation that he is merely airing sour grapes. But most of us have in fact been able to sample a few grapes now and then, even if we haven’t fetched the entire vine. I find the grapes are indeed sweet, in moderation, but in excess they only produce indigestion. The fox’s self-deception, I would say, isn’t really so unwise. If the grapes prove too difficult to fetch, why shouldn’t he look for a way to put them out of his mind and happily go on his way looking for other fruit? The illusion foisted upon us by commerce, that its fruits are the only ones worth striving for, this, more than anything, we must fortify ourselves against.