A Quandry of Being

how to be insignificant

It is somewhat unsurprising that J.D. Salinger was such a strange man—after all, the minds of authors are often cynical and mysterious, as well as brilliant. Many of Salinger’s literary characters reflected this, thus culminating in a cast well-stocked with oddity, genius, angst, and enchantment. ​Franny and Zooey,​ Salinger’s only published novel besides T​he Catcher in the Rye, l​eads readers into the peculiar, isolated, yet totally impressive world of the Glass family: a numerous folk from mid-20th century New York City. All six of the memorably-named Glass children possess an incredible spark within their young minds, allowing each of them access to an understanding of art, philosophy, and wisdom—and, equally, a cargo-load of mental and emotional baggage.

Francis—or Franny—is the youngest of the Glass siblings, and thus grows up with a legacy of greatness to pursue. She does this easily, as a result of her natural intellect and curiosity that is so similar to that of her older brothers and sister. But it must be expected that any young person, growing up fully aware of their instinctive brilliance, must eventually fall beneath the weight of the expectations that the world sets up for them. Indeed, instead of finding her brilliant mind a magical catalyst for success, Franny carries it like a deadweight; a constant pressure to be someone ​great.​ And though she certainly wants to leave behind a legacy, Franny, struggling under the pressure of achievement, begins to ask herself why.

After what one must assume has been years of brewing psychological torment, Franny, over a posh lunch with her unpleasantly narcissistic beaux, finally bursts out her regret: ​“I’m so sick of not having the courage to be an absolute nobody!”

Franny provokes quite the existential crisis with this little outburst. As a reader, one is thrust into a whirlwind of thoughts—what does it mean to be a ​somebody​? Why has mankind made this achievement so irrevocably important? Why do we define success with a grand recognition of it? What is so wrong with being wholly, entirely a​verage?​

Being a “somebody” has come to be defined as being important to a system—a system of society, of history, or of virtually anything in which a numerous group of people can recognize an individual’s significance. The way that we colloquially use the term always implies the admiration or acknowledgment of other people,​ indicating the obsession that humanity has with external appreciation.

Apparently, it is infinitely more convenient for human beings to find validation from these external sources. To have one’s work admired or one’s talents praised has become a source of gratification that can incite within a person a sense of importance, a sense of true and essential value. Consequently, human beings might have trouble with internal validation. If we were able to simply consider who we are as people and find satisfaction in that alone, we would have no need for society’s ostentatious blue ribbons or shiny black plaques. If we all had the power to be content with leading the life of a “nobody,” the brutal pressure of competition might evaporate, leaving us with a species concerned only with being, and nothing more.

So when did society decide that to be valuable, humans must accomplish great things? Why can mere existence not constitute a label of importance?

Living to accomplish great things is, in my opinion, entirely contrary to human instinct. Why should we do anything at all, besides basic functions like eating, sleeping, and laying around? In fact, it is actually rather absurd how easily we accept the idea of a society in which we constantly have to adhere to structure, and then observe that structure with tiring activities like going to school, working, and participating in social engagements. As the great comedian John Mulaney once contended, it is so much easier not to do anything than to do something, that voluntarily doing anything at all—besides, of course, maintaining simple self-preservation—seems incredible.

However, it seems silly to question the entire concept of humans doing things, as it is rather apparent that we are a species that will always continue to do things. It is considerably less silly, though, to question the idea of “being someone.” At the moment that a person is born, he or she is inarguably somebody by the very nature of existence. But society has outlined and built and solidified this strange notion that to be of any importance, a person has to break ground with great, novel achievements.

For Franny Glass, these achievements are academic; she knows she is the owner of a magnificent brain, and she thus feels inclined to use it. But she is also a young person struggling with some of life’s cruelest dealings, at the forefront of which is the suicide of her beloved older brother, Seymour. Franny has a myriad of issues she needs to sort through in order to promote her own happiness, but her fear of insignificance throws her priorities out of sync.

Such a phenomenon is reflected in American culture far too often. From ages as young as four or five, children hear the question: “What do you want to be when you grow up?” While of course, this question does not typically throw preschoolers into a frenzy of anxiety, it does in fact teach them to define themselves based on a future occupation. In fact, our entire society seems to be designed in such a way that our jobs are used as reflections of who we are in character. This, frankly, is absurd; whether or not six-year-old Jane becomes an astronaut will not alter the core values that she possesses as a human being. Franny herself deals with this premature pressure: at a young age, she joins her siblings on the Jeopardy​-esque radio show “It’s a Wise Child,” on which her intellectual capabilities are broadcast to the country. Years later, she still feels like she is part of a competition, but one that extends a little further than mere game show questions.

Similarly, our relevance in the grand scheme of life does not depend on our academic, athletic, artistic, or really any quantifiable means of achievement. When we die, some of us will be remembered by fewer people than others—that is an indisputable fact. Some of us will be remembered for longer than others, too—another undeniable truth. As a case in point, when I die, in the (hopefully) latter half of the twenty-first century, my legacy will almost certainly diminish before that of John Lennon, who died in the latter half of the twentieth​ century.

But eventually, to write in the grandest of terms, nobody will be around to remember us. And even if, ten million years from now, people are still twisting and shouting to the sweet sound of The Beatles, and the memory of Sophie Levenson has long since faded from the world, my somebodiness would not be any less than it is now. In My Life, I will do whatever it is I will do, and the essence of my being will never be compromised.¹ I will simply exist, and by doing so will unconditionally retain my personhood.

We perpetuate the need to change the world and die heroically and live a tremendously memorable life.

But if we had the courage to be nobodies, our lives would not fall under the command of these rigid imperatives. If we did only entirely average things and aspired for no further level of being, we would likely have the time to focus on our development as beings instead of our catalogues of achievement.

So then what does Franny mean when she says it takes “courage” to be a nobody? It certainly seems an odd concept—but in actuality, it makes perfect sense. It takes bravery to remove oneself from the gleaming gaze of the rest of the world, from the blanket of praise that so many rely on to define themselves. It takes genuine courage to ignore the easily-accessed validation from the outside world and turn inwards instead. It takes true dedication to self-improvement to be able to gratify one’s own character without the gaudy adornment of gold medals.

No, being a nobody does not require sword-wielding, King Arthur courage—it’s something more than that. Nobodies do not fight vicious beasts at the risk of their limbs, but rather fight their own psyches until they can achieve a validated state of being. And in my opinion—one that is indeed controlled by a mind that has always rejected nobodiness—our hardest battles are the ones we fight against ourselves.

Like Franny, I have never had the courage to be a nobody. Most of us probably haven’t—it’s a difficult thing to grasp. So many of us ask ourselves what grand adventures we will embark on and then wonder which ones will be recorded in our front-page-N​ew York Times​ eulogies. Silly us—one day, even the ​Times​ database won’t be around (as devastating as that is to consider).

Perhaps we should all try to muster up some internal courage and become nobodies. Expel ourselves from our competitive society, throw away our trophies, turn off the spotlights, and consider the probable truth that we are all, in fact, nobodies. Each of us is as significant as the other, and, conversely, as insignificant. Fame and relevance in the period of human life is merely a flirt with significance because that period of life, whether it’s 50 or 100 years, is infinitesimal when compared to the vast expanse of infinity.

Look up at the stars one night and consider their nature of being. Some of them have names, some make up constellations—some live longer than others, and others seem as if they will never die. But nonetheless, when you look up at a sky full of stars, the beauty is not in their singular brightness, but in their abundancy. While a scientist may be able to see the intricacy and individuality present in every star, the average onlooker sees only a bounty of brilliance decorating the night.

Franny Glass lives with a desire for greatness. But at the same time, she wants desperately to have the courage to be one of the stars hanging in the sky—no more or less significant than any other. The fact of the matter is that there is so much more to Franny than her ostentatious achievements; her profound academic papers are meaningless relative to her wholehearted curiosity, and her radio success on “It’s a Wise Child” pales in comparison to the love she tenders for her siblings. All too often, the attributes that carry the most weight in this grand, universal scheme are ignored in favor of those that stick out more prominently in society. To remedy this, we must seek the courage to be nobodies, so that we can focus on the character of the self, which matters a great deal more than our so-called accomplishments. If we are all unavoidably insignificant, there really is no point in building a facade of “success” anyway. We are all nobodies, and we are all somebodies, and—well, frankly, it’s a quandary of being.

¹If you got that Beatles reference, great job!