There have been times in the history of America, and other civilizations for that matter, where we’ve been a little too optimistic for our own good. Ambrose Bierce lived in such a time, when a satirist’s voice was useful to temper pie-in-the-sky hopes.
HOPE, n. Desire and expectation rolled into one.
Too much optimism is not our problem now. Now, all too often, our so-called “satire” is depressed apathy dressed up as humor. Far from encouraging us to take more realistic action, it seems to want us to give up and take no action at all. What these times call for is a kind of militant optimism, tempered and realistic but brave and firm.
So no, I’m no cynic, and I don’t have a lot of patience for those who mistake empty cynicism for intelligence. But I’ll still give Bierce a pass, because there’s something reassuring about his brand of cynicism: the way it's stayed relevant. Things can be bad and often are, but ’twas ever thus.
CYNIC, n. A blackguard whose faulty vision sees things as they are, not as they ought to be. Hence the custom among the Scythians of plucking out a cynic's eyes to improve his vision.
Bierce’s work could be brutal, as life was brutal to him. He got a brain injury as a Civil War soldier, lost sons to suicide and pneumonia, suffered asthma, had a chaotic marriage and divorce, and disappeared forever on an alleged trip to Mexico. He was also a crusading journalist, sometime editor, poet, and short story writer. I got to read his best-known story, “An Occurrence at Owl Creek Bridge,” as a kid, and the jolt of its twist ending still hits me today. (Accompanying image by François Vigneault.)
But I think time’s been kind to some of his observations. It’s reassuring, in a way, that a lot of the disappointments and absurdities of being human are the same as they were when he vanished—around 1913, the same year the crossword puzzle was born.
LOCK-AND-KEY, n. The distinguishing device of civilization and enlightenment.