It is through an accident midway into Tom Wolfe's "A Man in Full" that the novel's incarcerated character, Conrad Hensley, discovers stoicism. Disappointed that he has picked up the wrong book by mistake, he wades into a thick, scholarly assemblage of the collected writings of the stoic philosophers only because he has nothing else to read in his cell.
His heart soars, though, when he encounters the life of Epictetus, the slave who was imprisoned, tortured, faced death, and went on to teach the outlook that prizes endurance, acceptance, and personal responsibility. When Conrad reads Epictetus' words - "We must die. But must we die groaning? We must be imprisoned...but must we whine as well?" he comes away invigorated for the action that follows.
Stoicism, which began in Greece and acquired a Roman flavor, is having a moment, as they say. The New York Times last year referred to it as "not so much a philosophy as a collection of life hacks for overcoming anxiety, meditations for curbing anger, exercises for finding stillness and calm." Several popular books over the last few years have repackaged it for modern ears, such as the cognitive psychotherapist Donald Robertson's "How to Think Like a Roman Emperor," an examination of the life of Marcus Aurelius.
But nearly two years of dealing with COVID-19, the lockdowns, the economic stress, the mass feeling of helplessness and escalating anxiety, have done their work inspiing in millions around the world the search for some kind of answer for how to cope with the evils of the day. Wolfe's novel, now 24 years old, perhaps deserves the same kind of reappraisal, for different reasons.
At first glance, it's easy to see why stoicism would have bubbled to the surface once again. It isn't a religion, regardless of its pagan origins, so it has the glamour of antiquity and the novelty of relying on personal responsibility. No priests, no tithing, no exclusivity. What's more, it offers a very limited amount of basic principles, beginning with the idea that there is only so much one can master within the borders of one's life. Consider the words of Epictetus:
"Some things are under our control, while others are not under our control. Under our control are conception, choice, desire, aversion and, in a word, everything that is our own doing; not under our control are our body, our property, reputation, office and, in a word, everything that is not our own doing."
Interestingly enough, Netflix is set to do an adaptation of the novel, with Regina King directing and David E. Kelley producing. But one might wonder, as people did when it debuted in 1998, why a rather rational yet uninspiring set of principles became one of the centerpieces of Wolfe's second novel.
To fully understand, we have to do a little backtracking.
Tom Wolfe began as a journalist during the 1960s, cutting a figure in New York through manic takedowns of the culturati's sacred cows of the moment, with lively profiles of the era's leading figures. He moved on to non-fiction, with works such as "The Electric Kool-Aid Acid Test," "Radical Chic" and "The Right Stuff." Then, in 1987, he published "The Bonfire of the Vanities," a scathing portrait of New York, high and low, with acidic verve that spent 56 weeks on The New York Times Bestseller List, spawned a notorious film, and summed up the go-go Wall Street ethos of the time.
But it took Wolfe 11 years to publish his follow-up, "A Man in Full." This time, he moved his action South to the city of Atlanta, incorporating various strands of big real estate investment, racial politics, sports, art, immigration and...stoicism. As with his previous work, Wolfe spent a lot of that time on the ground, reporting about the various aspects of Atlanta, its business and political communities, its cultural landscape, its sprawling suburbs. He had plenty of chances to see how the city saw itself.
In the novel, the main character is the real estate investor Charlie Croker, who is staring bankruptcy in the face, the loss of not only wealth but status, one of Wolfe's great themes. He's getting older. His city is changing, as is the South. He is a symbol of the past - a white star athlete from the days of one-platoon football. He has indulged his ego in debt and possessions, and now he sees the end. Through a series of twists, Croker finds himself face to face with Conrad, who acts as his evangelist for stoicism. Croker must decide whether or not to go through with a public humiliation, another of Wolfe's great themes, in the form of a press conference on behalf of a Georgia Tech football player in legal trouble. If he says a few kind words, all of his problems can be made to go away.
Instead, Charlie hands over his possessions during the public forum, knowing full-well everything he has worked for, positioned himself to take, borrowed to acquire, will disappear. The fact that Croker does this in Atlanta is telling. Atlanta, the City Too Busy to Hate, which in the 90s was riding high in a fit of world ambition that culminated in hosting the 1996 Olympics; a city known for its touchiness about its image and its aspirations.
"I don't know what you're like," Croker was saying, "but if you're like most uv'us here in Atlanta, you're driving yourself crazy over possessions. Just think about that for a second."
Of course, everything doesn't completely disappear for Charlie. He soon signs up to host an hour long television series on stoicism on FOX, of all places. Because stoicism is about endurance.
The critic Terry Teachout at the time observed that Wolfe performed an interesting sleight of hand in "A Man in Full," creating a story in the Deep South with the character undergoing a kind of religious conversion that has nothing to do with Christianity. In fact, none of the characters in this very Southern city seem to be connected in any way with the dominant faith of the region. Even Roger White II, whose father is a minister, seems too wrapped up in his own ambitions. This was conspicuous enough at the time to draw attention from some critics. When asked once, Wolfe said he avoided Christianity as it had basically "been done."
But remember, Wolfe spent the better part of a decade around Atlanta in his white suit with notebook in hand, recording the details he used to create his work. Not only that, Wolfe was a son of the South himself, a native of Virginia. Granted, he once said he was an atheist, though he clarified that as "lapsed Presbyterian." This seeming indifference to the spiritual realm, when so many other aspects of modern life are rendered so vividly in his work, was also an feature of his next novel, "I Am Charlotte Simmons." The innocent title character goes to a private university after an immaculate, high-achieving high school career, but did not seem to be grounded in faith as much as her own aspirations, though it would be hard to imagine a character that age so sexually oblivious unless she had been sheltered within a church.
And also consider the last two decades since "A Man in Full's" publication. Pew Research shows the religiously unaffiliated in Georgia numbers around 15 percent, and rising, with people under the age of 40 more apt to not belong to any particular church or faith tradition. Georgia has gone from red state to purple politically, while a corresponding critique of Southern evangelicalism as a movement largely focused on political power in the age of Trump. One might ask if it's possible that Wolfe saw something stirring back in the 90s about where Atlanta, and potentially the rest of the South, was headed - "having a form of godliness, but denying its power," in the words of the Apostle Paul.
There was a sense, at the time of its publication, that "A Man In Full" had either been too ambitious or overhyped, a sprawling followup that failed to live up to the razor sharp reputation of its predecessor. Perhaps stoicism was a hard sell to Americans at the end of the 90s, unaware of the calamities the new century would bring. Teachout, in his review of the book, pointed out as well that stoicism, in spite of its remarkable staying power, has never been able to attract the kind of mass appeal of Christianity, largely because it relies on an intellectual code firmly rooted in the here and now. Where the call of Christ is situated outside the individual, and meaning and purpose come from a divine source, modern stoicism appeals to the inward looking and inwardly situated. That makes it perfect for the modern self-situated consciousness, but with a near fatal weakness. The problem for most people looking for answers is that they know themselves well enough to know the answers don't lie within, but without.
Croker's speech, delivered in a rustic Georgia twang, tries to cut through to the essential quandary in a room full of people, living in their own versions of accountability, who listen believing he has lost his mind:
"What is the human body? It's a clever piece of crockery containing a quart of blood. And it's not even yours! One day you're gonna have to give it back!"
It is with these words that the new converted Charlie comes closest to Christ, who took the question a step further: "What shall it profit a man if he gain the whole world and lose his soul? And what shall a man give in exchange for his soul?"
