Cynic: “None but the lonely heart”

His ancestors were cynics and so was he. But being a cynic then was very different: they were capable of articulate speech, he – how shall I put it – he kind of howled.

Today, the cynic says solidarity is conformism, he maintains that sympathy is hypocrisy. ‘Kitsch, tacky’, he keeps saying, and that applies to anything appealing to emotions, every smile is fake. He questions authenticity and thinks there is no such thing as generosity, only personal benefit. Kindness is a vulgar pretence, that's all there is to it. You can tell a cynic from the colour of his soul. Cynics are very human in a way, they do not wish to be alone, they're social animals, but they engage, relentlessly, in nauseous speeches that aim to make the souls of others around them as tar black as theirs. They want to find a corpse to keep them company and they look for the laughter of a peer. Cynics call to each other, standing on hill tops. Why do they forget to fertilise their barren wit with the seed of noble sentiment? I wonder. Why won't they admit they yearn, like you and me, for the transcendence that will make them feel like men among men? Cynicism is to forget that speech is rupture, cure, action, and creation, all at the same time.

There was a time when being a cynic also meant to embrace a cosmopolitan life. He does not remember any of that. And how could he? No one told him that part of the story. They only taught him how to live like a dog, to keep his tail between his legs, to watch.

And we, like him, are all but too afraid to speak the words: love, morality, virtue. “None but the lonely heart”... We hear the song and yet we cannot find the strength to voice it, to tear our lungs open in honest and humble despair to break the mist. Oh, but we deride those who dare!