Slow Havamal: 15

[kylec]

In the fifteenth verse, we hear that a noble man is expected to be silent, thoughtful, and bold in battle, but that every man should also keep in good cheer right up until death.

This verse presents a puzzle for me that may be an artifact of the translation, but since I don’t speak Old Norse, I’ll have to consider whether the phrasing was intentional. The issue arises in the line, “But every man should also be,” as it implies a contrast. In contrast to noble men being silent, thoughtful, and bold, every man (which I read as including common men) should also be happy, cheerful. This seems to imply that Noble men don’t necessarily need to be happy and cheerful, though commoners must have all the aforementioned traits. Why is the standard for them set higher? And why might the noble be excused for not seeming cheerful?

My instinct is that I’m reading too much into a translation. The verse probably means to say all men should be cheerful, but only the noblest are expected to have the other three traits. I’ll explore it both ways, but since all of them sound like fine things, I’ll assume every capable man should embrace all of these virtues.

A noble man might be excused from always seeming happy for reasons mentioned later in this poem: that wisdom can at times bring melancholy. Seeing the truth can be a bummer when the situation is unpleasant, and a man who sees better than others may lack the bliss of ignorance. But he should retain, at least, silence, thought, and courage. Silence, because as we’ve seen in previous verses, running your trap is a great way to avoid learning anything. You can’t receive input if you’re lost in output. Too much talking is a sonic burden. It drowns out other men’s voices—men who might have useful things to say. And it demonstrates a certain amount of pride on the part of the speaker that may not be warranted. Silent men are less likely to be taken as fools, according to Mark Twain, be that as it may.

This includes silence of the mind, I think. A running monologue in my head can easily drown out sensory input, or usher others’ thoughts down well-carved channels of abstraction, that I might interpret them as I’m predispositioned. Alfred Korzybski demands silence as one studies the Structural Differential in order to learn how to disidentify, and to become conscious of their own abstracting. Of course, even what we notice of raw sensory input is an abstraction, but we are as close to the source as possible when our mouths and minds are quiet. It maximizes the amount of things we can potentially take in, which will add complexity to our wisdom.

Once our silence earns us new information, we must be thoughtful. That means foregoing those predispositions—those abstractions we habitually label everything with. We should take in the world on its own terms, and compare it to what we know. Note the similarities and the discrepancies. Any layer we add beyond pure sensing is an abstraction, but we can be conscious of abstracting, and try to see the same thing in many different lights. The same object can be mapped many ways. This careful consideration, which the psychological school of Transactional Analysis calls the Adult voice, allows us to participate as fully and honestly as possible in what we encounter. There is a such thing as too little thought, but there is also a such thing as too much. We can lose ourselves in abstractions that seem concrete, or turn in circles of contradiction and paradox. One thought that should always be at hand like a good sword is, “I don’t know.”

To be bold in battle would have been a great virtue to a 10th century Norseman. Most of us go through our entire lives without entering into combat. What, then, are our battles? Any confrontation that we fear might end in serious injury or death. In this case, the harm need not be physical. We should be brave in the face of criticism, of confrontation, of standing up for what we value. When our reputations and our feelings are at risk, yet we know we fight for what’s true to our nature, we need to go forward, knowing that defeat, even annihilation, are possible. That includes battling beside our brothers and sisters in arms when they need our aid. For example, when others are virtue signaling—expressing membership in some popular opinion that carries little risk and earns them the approval of their peer group—I should speak truthfully even if it means the rejection of the group. Those aspects of myself that can’t endure the fight may die like a soldier on the field, but the strong ones will take up the slack, and my character will improve for the effort. In other words, old attitudes and behaviors fall by the wayside, replaced by more robust ones.

Death is inevitable, though I imagine few of us really, truly understand that right down to the core. Myself, included. The High One advised happiness and good cheer until that trumpet comes to call us away. The coward and the shirker will die the same as the brave man. The trembler will meet his end. The bitter complainer, too. Good cheer is often just an act of selective wisdom. A happy man takes in all the information available to him, and he sees triumph and disappointment, promise and doom, and everything between. Keeping a good attitude means giving more attention to those things for which we can be grateful, or those things that hold promise. It isn’t that we ignore the rest. We just make the most of our time by living the best we can. Happy people make others happy to be around them. Living by these virtues won’t forestall death, and it may even hasten it. To the Norse, the length of life mattered far less than the acts of living within it.