Marcello Veneziani explores the complexities of sincerity, arguing that it is not always a virtue. While sincerity has become more prevalent with the decline of societal restraints, it can be socially dangerous, damaging relationships and being confused with spontaneity. He highlights the difference between sincerity and truth, noting that sincerity is subjective and can be self-deceptive. True virtue, he contends, lies in a balanced approach that respects others and incorporates various virtues.
* * *
by Marcello Veneziani
There’s a virtue that would triumph today: sincerity. Ever since the barriers obstructing it – reverential fear, respect, authority, decorum, etiquette, fear of punishment – were torn down, sincerity has appeared naked, brazen, and unrestrained in the many channels of the media. Away with taboos, let’s have outing. So, do we live in the age of sincerity?
To begin with, sincerity is a socially dangerous virtue and hardly compatible with friendship, affection, and sympathy, although it’s insincerely claimed otherwise. Sincerity is a respected but unloved lady. Single, she cannot stand husbands and cohabitants. Sometimes she is irritable; more often, she is irritating. In the social imagination, sincerity is as childish a virtue as lying, with the noticeable gauge being Pinocchio’s nose that lengthens. Sincerity, more than lying, has short legs because it doesn’t go far and ends many relationships. For years, Andrea Tagliapietra has dedicated his studies to sincerity as a “cruel virtue” (his latest essay is Sincerity, Cortina ed.). Sincerity is a way of speaking but doesn’t imply a corresponding way of acting. The sincere person may persist in all their errors, vices, and baseness; they merely declare them. Someone sincere may not be honest, and someone honest may not be sincere. If I confess to having stolen, I am sincere but still a thief. Conversely, I may tell a lie for a good cause, thus being honest. But above all, there’s no automatic link between sincerity and truth. The sincere person doesn’t tell the truth but says what they think or, worse, what they feel. The sincere person says everything but doesn’t always think about what they say. Sincerity is subjective, whereas truth involves the effort to leave one’s subjectivity to approach objective reality. Sincerity can be self-deceptive: it builds castles of illusions and goes to live in them. Baudelaire’s My Heart Laid Bare indicates a sincere opening up, exposing passions, torments, and hopes; but truth is another thing. Not to mention the Cretan sophism: if I say “I’m lying,” am I sincere or not? An insoluble question because it contradicts itself in both cases. Sincerity is often confused with spontaneity: no restraints, no veils, I say everything that comes to mind. Spontaneity is immediate; it doesn’t tolerate reflective mediation; it is direct, wild, primitive. Spontaneity is not a virtue; it is merely the release of an impulse, an outburst, almost incontinence. Brutal frankness often produces, in the name of a minor good, sincerity, significant harm to others and human relationships. It hurts others’ sensitivity, doesn’t care about its effects, and damages social bonds. Since 1968, sincerity has been equated with spontaneity. Just as truth is revolutionary on a political level, on an interpersonal level, sincerity has been considered liberating and irreverent. After all, “frank” stands for both sincere and free. Two outcomes have arisen from this pseudo-sincerity: one by affinity, the other by contrast. On one side, there’s coming out, in short, outing. Everything inhibited becomes an exhibition object. The modesty of intimacy gives way to narcissism with brazen sincerity. On the other hand, the paradoxical result of the war on “bourgeois” hypocrisy is the birth of a new code of hypocrisy: politically correct language – the man of color, the Roma, the blind, the differently-abled, the auxiliary staff, the ecological operator; the jargon of hypocrisy. Original sincerity has turned into an insipid rococo of falsehood. The maxim returns in other forms: words are given to humans to hide thoughts (and reality). Niccolò Tommaseo already parodied revolutionary hypocrisies in the Philosophical-Democratic Vocabulary of 1799.
Civilization is the opposite of sincerity understood as spontaneity. This applies to both customs and behaviors and thought and faith. In the first case, ethics align with aesthetics, and sincerity must not wound style and good taste; thus, etiquette and the civilization of good manners are born, veiling sincerity; the lace curtains of modesty. But even in theological and philosophical realms, truth has used lies as much or more than sincerity. The pious fraud in Christianity and holy omissions, Plato’s salutary lies, Averroes’ double truth, Campanella’s beautiful lying, Torquato Accetto’s honest dissimulation, practiced even by strict moralists like Seneca, Nietzsche’s necessary lies (Apollo’s veil dressing the horror of truth and covering the tragedy of becoming). And in literature, falsehood reigns supreme. As Tristan Bernard said, people are always sincere but often change their sincerity. Reality has many faces, and we can be sincere about one and insincere about another. We can tell the truth but not the whole truth. This touches on a crucial issue that goes beyond sincerity and involves truth, which loves to hide, merges with mystery, and can be grasped through hints, glimmers, and fragments. It’s the multifaceted nature of truth, as Gioberti mentioned in the Theory of the Supernatural; truth has many sides, not just one. No one possesses the whole truth; we might be within the truth, catching a glimpse, but that doesn’t prevent other glimpses of truth that we don’t see, don’t want to see, or don’t know how to see. This isn’t relativism, which implies reducing truth to viewpoints and subjective interpretations; rather, truth has multiple sides, meaning truth is greater than us, it transcends us. We can aspire to be within the truth but not to possess it entirely. This saves truth from despotic monopoly and nihilistic denial.
In short, sincerity is an inner virtue but not always a public one. It often wounds, harms, and breaks bonds; it doesn’t imply consistency between words and actions. It doesn’t identify with spontaneity but gains value if it’s conscious and reflective. Sincerity is subjective and thus doesn’t coincide with truth. It’s only one side of the truth. It remains a virtue if it indicates opening up to others without ulterior motives. And if it knows to stop before the threshold of others’ respect, charity, prudence, and patience. Like any virtue, sincerity becomes tyrannical if it’s unique and absolute, free from any restraint and other virtues. Sincerity isn’t the queen of virtues; it has value if it doesn’t overpower other virtues. The multifaceted nature of truth corresponds to the polytheism of virtues: virtues temper each other. Without limits, sincerity is a virtue that borders on malevolence.
August 18, 2014
Sincerity Is Not Always a Virtue
Marcello Veneziani explores the complexities of sincerity, arguing that it is not always a virtue. While sincerity has become more prevalent with the decline of societal restraints, it can be socially dangerous, damaging relationships and being confused with spontaneity. He highlights the difference between sincerity and truth, noting that sincerity is subjective and can be self-deceptive. True virtue, he contends, lies in a balanced approach that respects others and incorporates various virtues.
* * *
by Marcello Veneziani
There’s a virtue that would triumph today: sincerity. Ever since the barriers obstructing it – reverential fear, respect, authority, decorum, etiquette, fear of punishment – were torn down, sincerity has appeared naked, brazen, and unrestrained in the many channels of the media. Away with taboos, let’s have outing. So, do we live in the age of sincerity?
To begin with, sincerity is a socially dangerous virtue and hardly compatible with friendship, affection, and sympathy, although it’s insincerely claimed otherwise. Sincerity is a respected but unloved lady. Single, she cannot stand husbands and cohabitants. Sometimes she is irritable; more often, she is irritating. In the social imagination, sincerity is as childish a virtue as lying, with the noticeable gauge being Pinocchio’s nose that lengthens. Sincerity, more than lying, has short legs because it doesn’t go far and ends many relationships. For years, Andrea Tagliapietra has dedicated his studies to sincerity as a “cruel virtue” (his latest essay is Sincerity, Cortina ed.). Sincerity is a way of speaking but doesn’t imply a corresponding way of acting. The sincere person may persist in all their errors, vices, and baseness; they merely declare them. Someone sincere may not be honest, and someone honest may not be sincere. If I confess to having stolen, I am sincere but still a thief. Conversely, I may tell a lie for a good cause, thus being honest. But above all, there’s no automatic link between sincerity and truth. The sincere person doesn’t tell the truth but says what they think or, worse, what they feel. The sincere person says everything but doesn’t always think about what they say. Sincerity is subjective, whereas truth involves the effort to leave one’s subjectivity to approach objective reality. Sincerity can be self-deceptive: it builds castles of illusions and goes to live in them. Baudelaire’s My Heart Laid Bare indicates a sincere opening up, exposing passions, torments, and hopes; but truth is another thing. Not to mention the Cretan sophism: if I say “I’m lying,” am I sincere or not? An insoluble question because it contradicts itself in both cases. Sincerity is often confused with spontaneity: no restraints, no veils, I say everything that comes to mind. Spontaneity is immediate; it doesn’t tolerate reflective mediation; it is direct, wild, primitive. Spontaneity is not a virtue; it is merely the release of an impulse, an outburst, almost incontinence. Brutal frankness often produces, in the name of a minor good, sincerity, significant harm to others and human relationships. It hurts others’ sensitivity, doesn’t care about its effects, and damages social bonds. Since 1968, sincerity has been equated with spontaneity. Just as truth is revolutionary on a political level, on an interpersonal level, sincerity has been considered liberating and irreverent. After all, “frank” stands for both sincere and free. Two outcomes have arisen from this pseudo-sincerity: one by affinity, the other by contrast. On one side, there’s coming out, in short, outing. Everything inhibited becomes an exhibition object. The modesty of intimacy gives way to narcissism with brazen sincerity. On the other hand, the paradoxical result of the war on “bourgeois” hypocrisy is the birth of a new code of hypocrisy: politically correct language – the man of color, the Roma, the blind, the differently-abled, the auxiliary staff, the ecological operator; the jargon of hypocrisy. Original sincerity has turned into an insipid rococo of falsehood. The maxim returns in other forms: words are given to humans to hide thoughts (and reality). Niccolò Tommaseo already parodied revolutionary hypocrisies in the Philosophical-Democratic Vocabulary of 1799.
Civilization is the opposite of sincerity understood as spontaneity. This applies to both customs and behaviors and thought and faith. In the first case, ethics align with aesthetics, and sincerity must not wound style and good taste; thus, etiquette and the civilization of good manners are born, veiling sincerity; the lace curtains of modesty. But even in theological and philosophical realms, truth has used lies as much or more than sincerity. The pious fraud in Christianity and holy omissions, Plato’s salutary lies, Averroes’ double truth, Campanella’s beautiful lying, Torquato Accetto’s honest dissimulation, practiced even by strict moralists like Seneca, Nietzsche’s necessary lies (Apollo’s veil dressing the horror of truth and covering the tragedy of becoming). And in literature, falsehood reigns supreme. As Tristan Bernard said, people are always sincere but often change their sincerity. Reality has many faces, and we can be sincere about one and insincere about another. We can tell the truth but not the whole truth. This touches on a crucial issue that goes beyond sincerity and involves truth, which loves to hide, merges with mystery, and can be grasped through hints, glimmers, and fragments. It’s the multifaceted nature of truth, as Gioberti mentioned in the Theory of the Supernatural; truth has many sides, not just one. No one possesses the whole truth; we might be within the truth, catching a glimpse, but that doesn’t prevent other glimpses of truth that we don’t see, don’t want to see, or don’t know how to see. This isn’t relativism, which implies reducing truth to viewpoints and subjective interpretations; rather, truth has multiple sides, meaning truth is greater than us, it transcends us. We can aspire to be within the truth but not to possess it entirely. This saves truth from despotic monopoly and nihilistic denial.
In short, sincerity is an inner virtue but not always a public one. It often wounds, harms, and breaks bonds; it doesn’t imply consistency between words and actions. It doesn’t identify with spontaneity but gains value if it’s conscious and reflective. Sincerity is subjective and thus doesn’t coincide with truth. It’s only one side of the truth. It remains a virtue if it indicates opening up to others without ulterior motives. And if it knows to stop before the threshold of others’ respect, charity, prudence, and patience. Like any virtue, sincerity becomes tyrannical if it’s unique and absolute, free from any restraint and other virtues. Sincerity isn’t the queen of virtues; it has value if it doesn’t overpower other virtues. The multifaceted nature of truth corresponds to the polytheism of virtues: virtues temper each other. Without limits, sincerity is a virtue that borders on malevolence.
August 18, 2014
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