Slow Havamal: 55

[kylec]

In the 55th verse, there’s a repetition of the first half from verse 54, then it’s said that the heart of a wise man, if he truly is wise, is rarely ever glad.

This verse doesn’t seem to differ much from the previous one. We have three lines that repeat exactly, then while 54 says that happy people know just enough, 55 mentions the truly wise man who is seldom happy. I might not have many original things to say, but let’s tackle it and see what happens.

My rule has been that repetitions, besides being a poetic and mnemonic technique, emphasize things that are important. We’re advised twice to moderate our wisdom. There’s no use in being a fool, but if the goal is to be happy, the sage will be disappointed. Last week I pointed out that despite this advice, Odin goes to some of the greatest lengths in mythology to acquire wisdom. He sacrifices an eye, then his entire self, to that end. So we can trust that he knows what he’s talking about, but we have to wonder if he means for us to quit while we’re ahead, or just warns away the faint of heart.

It’s possible that whatever he learned in his suffering didn’t improve his life enough to be worth it. He may well be a wise man who says, “Go back, this place isn’t what the brochure promised.” There may be merit in limiting wisdom. But the point at which he crossed that threshold lies in the world of gods. He was already wise beyond our capacity to understand when he sought to go farther. There may be a point of diminishing returns, but could we be anywhere near it?

Maybe at each level of intelligence it’s possible to cross such a boundary. A wise bison may see the hardships that the herd misses and cease to enjoy the things he used to. I can assume that the state of wisdom isn’t as good as most people hope, which means the disappointment lies partly in a difference between expectations and reality. When I seek wisdom, why do I do it? I must think that this knowledge will allow me certain advantages I don’t have. I’ll be able to use my wisdom to achieve greater power, or to show off for others. Maybe I think it will make my life better. Certainly, it will make my decisions better, i.e. my actions end in the results I predict more often. But now I can’t bask in false hopes, and I see the futility of many things that I would have undertaken with excitement. Seeing the whole—every rocky mile, the birth, rise, fall, and death of each process—gives me a keener awareness, but never can I be elated over a new love, or a sum of money. This is a familiar song and dance.

The pleasures of the happy tend to occur at the junction of decent preparation and nurtured illusion. We act somewhat wisely to set up a certain kind of life, which we tell ourselves means the things we want, and nothing in our common sense can question that narrative. To the extent we claim to be wise and happy, we lack true wisdom, Odin says. The question, then, is, “Which is better to seek, wisdom or happiness?” Happiness seems like it can only be based on a faulty estimation of circumstances. Let’s grant the theory that it dies at the foot of wisdom. OK. Why is that a bad thing? We all love to be happy, but if there’s a lie inherent in it, and if a wise person can still make better decisions (albeit never be stoked on the results), why shouldn’t we pursue wisdom at the expense of happiness? What cultural edict set happiness as the ultimate goal, to which all others are subservient?

I don’t have the answer, and I’m not sure that it’s better to be wise than happy. That sounds to me like a question of personal preference. Is “better” measured by duration and intensity of contentment? Avoidance of pain? We can all think of things that are less pleasant but better than the alternatives in many senses of the word. We turn down a momentary joy for a long-term stability. Could wisdom not be the condition of sufficient understanding of a closed system, to the extent that we see it for all its foibles? Having grasped that system, maybe we cross a threshold at which other possibilities—not just points within the system, but entirely new systems of a similar or greater order of magnitude—are possible. Wisdom might be a dark night of the soul that marks the cusp of a birth into a new ignorance, and a new cycle of learning. If so, it’s stage and not a destination.

I’m willing to consider that learning of the world may dampen our glad hearts. What I wonder about is whether there’s something “better” than being glad. A place to pass through on our way to the kind of joys that require not just new eyes, but a new seer.