And now a speech by Folly

Everyone's favorite goddess

Dear M,

One of my favorite books of all time is Erasmus of Rotterdam's In Praise of Folly — a joke book which he wrote out on horseback, over a few days, about why folly is better than wisdom. It caused him so much trouble with the dumber parts of the public that he had to skip town at least once; and it's so verbose and badly translated (by everyone except Roger Clarke) that almost nobody reads it anymore. So I've taken some time to rewrite it for you. It’s a speech in the goddess Folly’s voice, and I hope you find it as fun as I do.

Some liberties were taken here with the original copy. Copious references to ancient gods and poets and celebrities were left out: a slew of pedantic shout-outs that add nothing for the modern reader but lost time. And likewise some artistic flourishes of my own were put in. But J, you might ask, doesn't this obscure the voice of the original Erasmus? You weren't going to read him anyway, so shut up.

Yours,

-J

Folly speaks.

Before I get started here, I know how bad my name sounds; but whatever you like to say of me, it is I — and only I — who has the power to make everybody happy. As proof of this, note how your faces lit up the second I stepped up to speak. What? A speech from Folly? About how she’s the best goddess? I see those smirks and they're just as good as applause.

Just a moment ago you were sitting around looking moody and bored, in fact; but Folly is like the coming of spring. You know, when the sun shows his face to the world again and the mild winds begin to blow and a new look comes over everything — Nature herself blushes, and everything looks young again. That's exactly what it’s like when you see me: your whole appearance changes immediately. In fact, just by showing my face, I can do in a moment what the so-called “great speakers” can barely get with an hour.

I might as well tell you why I showed up here dressed this way, but only if you’ll lend me your ears for a moment. Not those ears you carry to lectures or Sunday school, though — I want the ones you perk up for clowns and snake-oil salesmen and fights in the marketplace.

I love playing the orator, you know; but not like one of those bores who cram useless facts into the heads of schoolboys. Instead I'll take after the ancients who would rather have been called sophists than philosophers. Their job, of course, was to sing the virtues of gods and heroes. And thus I’ll be giving a eulogy here now; but not of Hercules or Plato or Suleiman the Magnificent. If you don’t mind I’ll just give one for myself.

Folly

Of course the wise men all say it’s foolish to praise yourself. Call it as foolish as you want, but grant that here it’s at least appropriate. What's more suitable than that I, Folly herself, should be out trumpeting my own praises? Who do you think could portray me better than I can? Does anybody know me better than myself? On the whole, what I'm doing right now is better than what our scholars and publishers do every day anyway: paying some flatterer or second-rate writer to sing their praises in public — which, if you’ve noticed, is usually just as fictional as the productions they get paid to sing about.

I like to follow the old folk proverb, that a man praises himself if he can't find anyone else to praise him. And by the way, it amazes me the ingratitude (and maybe even the negligence) of men. Even though all of them love me and speak me and freely (by their own actions) admit my appeal, nobody — not a single person — has shown up here or any other age to celebrate Folly in a single good speech. In the meantime there’s been no lack of those who, at great expense of sleep and lamp-oil, have extolled the likes of petty tyrants, mediocre schools, and wasteful programs.

But this is beside the point. Now I’ll get to my speech — on the fly, plain-spoken, and all the much truer for that. But not just to show off my wit, as the common run of orators like to do. As everyone knows, they give us speeches they've been working on for thirty whole years — borrowed from others, most usually — and they'll swear they wrote it in three days for fun. For my part, I prefer to just say whatever pops into my head.

I have no use for face-paint. I don’t fake one thing on my face while hiding something else in my heart. I’m so like myself on all points that even those who claim to be wise can’t hide me — walking around like monkeys dressed in kings’ robes, or asses clothed in lions’ skins. Let them wear whatever they like: the donkey ears will pop out somewhere.

What a class of ingrates, by the way — good grief! Despite obviously being my worshipers, they’re so embarrassed of me that in public they use my name as an insult! A bunch of idiot savants. They think they’re geniuses if they can argue both sides of a issue, and gods if they can cram a few French words into an essay — even if the words have to be jammed in kicking and screaming. Se la vie, I guess. Then if they really want to kick it up a notch, they dig four or five big and clunky words out of a dictionary just to confuse the readers. The idea (of course) is that those who know the words will admire themselves, and those who don’t will admire the speaker: in fact, the less they understand, the more admiration they give. But I’ve digressed — let’s get back to the subject.

A little about my origin story. My dad wasn't Saturn, or Chaos, or anybody else from that old-fashioned (and cranky) set of gods. It was Plutus, the god of wealth — and let’s be frank, the real father of gods and men. At a single nod of my dad’s head, everything sacred and profane is turned topsy-turvy and made a mockery. He governs wars, peace, empires, projects, parliaments, courtrooms, treaties, contracts, laws, arts, sports, marriages, work and leisure (I’m running out of breath!) — in brief, almost every affair, whether public or private. Without his help all the rest of the deities either wouldn't exist at all or would be stuck at home, doing the laundry — a derelict class without prayers or shrines.

If anyone makes Plutus mad, Athena herself (so-called Goddess of Wisdom) can't even help — and on the other hand, whoever makes him happy can tell Jove and his thunderbolts to piss off. Quite frankly I'm proud of him. And he didn’t just birth me out of his head, like he did that ugly hag Athena: my mother is Youth, the prettiest, happiest goddess of all. And did he have me in the irksome duties of marriage? No! He did it out of pure fun. So much for my parents, now on to my henchmen.

The one you see behind me with the haughty eyebrows raised is, of course, Vanity. The one who's smiling approvingly — and there she is, clapping her hands — that would be Flattery. The sleepy-looking one, who appears to be dozing off, is Forgetfulness. The one leaning on her elbow is Laziness. That one wearing all the roses and perfume is Pleasure. The one next to her looking restless with the crazy wandering eyes is Mindlessness. And there with the nice complexion and the chubby curves is Self-indulgence.

That’s it for the girls: I’ve got two male gods in my payroll as well. One of them is Riot, and the other one (who's apparently checked out) is Slumber. These are my loyal servants, with whose help I bring everything under my power — everything, keeping empire over even the emperors.

So much for my ancestry and companions; now on to my title.

I know what you're thinking: Folly? A goddess? And just so you don’t think I’m just claiming divinity, consider how many good things I deliver — to both gods and men — and what that means about the sheer scope of my power.

Somebody once observed (judiciously, I think) that a god is somebody who gives things to men. And if you think they deserve the title for giving you wine, or grain, or any other good thing, how am I not considered the queen of them? I, who single-handedly bestow everything?

First off, what’s more important than life itself? And who do you owe your beginning to? Me. Neither Athena’s spear nor Jove’s clouds ever made a single baby. A man can be as serious as he likes, but if he wants to make a baby he has to put his respectability aside — just like an actor.

The Stoics in their wise-man beards — which they share with the goats, by the way! — claim they're closest to the gods; but give me one of these sour-faced tough-guys for a minute and I’ll make him soften up, lay aside his dignity, renounce the whole cannon of hard sayings and aphorisms, and for a few minutes lose control of himself. I'll have him looking silly and grunting and making pillow talk in no time. In brief, if a wise man wants to become a father, who's he going to call on? That's right: he’s going to call on me.

And why not be more frank about it? I ask you to consider whether the head, the face, the breast, the hands, or the ears — all of the honorable parts — can make a god or a man? Not a chance in hell: the propagator of the human race is that reckless, embarrassing part of the body I can’t even name here without a smirk. That organ is the sacred spring from which all of you get your existence — neither Zeno's rules, nor Pythagoras's theorems, but Mr Happy.

Now that we’ve covered that, tell me what man would put his head into a noose like marriage if — as you wise men say we ought to — he thought seriously about the hardships of marriage first? Or what woman would ever spread her legs for a man if she really thought about the dangers and pains of childbirth? Or the sleeplessness and difficulty of raising a child?

So it looks like you owe your life to Mindlessness — a servant of mine; and that puts you pretty squarely in my debt. And would a woman who's gone through all this toil and carnage really want a second kid if Forgetfulness didn't work her magic? Venus herself is indebted to me here, as she'll admit; and this short and silly game we play is where all the vain philosophers come from — oh, and let’s not forget the uptight kings, venerable priests, and holy popes.

But if life was the only thing I gave, it would be too paltry for me to claim. I can also prove that any good that comes out of life is my doing too. And would you call life life at all if it didn't involve fun? That's good — go ahead and applaud. None of you are so wise (or should we say foolish?) as to argue against that. If a good life wasn’t fun, then tell me, by Jove, what part of it wouldn’t be sad, uncomfortable, graceless, boring, and heavy — unless you add pleasure? Pleasure as in, my favorite spice?

As proof of this, ever heard of ignorance is bliss? Who doesn’t know that infancy is (by far) the happiest part of a man’s life? And also that it’s the time he makes people happiest? What is it in kids that makes us hug and kiss them like we do, and cuddle them, and squeeze them, except my own charm — the charm of Folly?

Mother Nature gives this gift to all newborns, in fact — an adorable innocence and silliness — to keep us enamored, entertained, even laughing: a downpayment to win us over and make us forget all the trouble they cause us. After this stage they’re kids — and who doesn't like kids? Everybody wishes them well. People want to help them out, to make them smile, to pick them up when they fall over and scrape a knee.

But ask yourself this: where do you think this charm and the corollary goodwill come from? Again, from me. I give kids a minimum of sense, and the lack of sense gives them a maximum of joy. Note that as kids start showing signs of manhood, experience and discipline get the best of them — and then what do you think happens? That brightness and cuteness fades away, their spunk drops off, their funny sayings lose edge, and their spontaneity turns into routine. The further they get from me, the less alive they end up — until Burdensome Old Age shows up, hateful to others but even moreso to itself. In fact I don't think anyone could put up with aging if it wasn’t for me. As the proverb goes, once an old man, twice a child.

Anyone want to guess how I do it? I’ll tell you: I lead them to the springs of Forgetfulness, so that then and there they can drown themselves in it. With all their cares washed away, by gradual steps they become children again.

People say they've lost control of themselves, that they’ve lost their minds — okay, so be it. That's the essence of becoming a kid again. And isn’t that what we like about childhood anyway? Who wants to be around one of those weird kids with an old soul? Soon ripe, soon rotten, I say. And who wants to see a dying old man in full possession of his faculties — full of business plans and worries? That's why I turn men into dotards. At that stage the greatest joy is to know nothing. Thus I exempt the old from all the things that harry the wise.

And by the way, ever notice that old people and children get along famously? It proves the old saying, birds of a feather flock together. And why shouldn't they when they're so alike — other than the fact that one is wrinklier and has thrown a lot more birthday parties? In almost every other aspect — say, the whitish hair, the lack of teeth, the shortened stature; the poor enunciation combined with chattiness; the confidence combined with incompetence; the forgetfulness and thoughtlessness — in all the biggest traits they correspond perfectly. The nearer anyone gets to old age, the closer they come back to childhood until — voila! — losing their impatience with life and a fear (or even awareness) of death, they slip quietly and gently out of this world.

This goes to show what we knew all along — that folly isn’t just youth’s only preservative: it’s also the only antidote for old age. But go on looking for your fountain of youth! Even though I’ve got the map right here! I’m the only one who has the power and I’m the only one who’s ever used it.

Another point: ever notice what foresight Nature had — the designer of the human race — when she made sure you never ran out of folly? Let’s say the Stoics are right: let’s say reason means wisdom and passion means folly. Well, our Creator gave you one ounce of reason for every pound of passion. He cramped reason into a corner of your head and left the rest of your body to get overrun by sensations. After that, to keep reason in place, he added two menacing jailers — Anger, barricaded inside the chest (so close to the heart!); and Lust, which reigns further down — a much larger kingdom, you’ll note.

And how effective is reason against these two? A quick look at daily life proves she’s constantly on the ropes: she shouts all her warnings and maxims until her voice goes hoarse. And how do the passions respond? By telling this so-called queen to shove it. They just stay there, right in her face until she gets worn out — until the man, worn out himself, willingly gives up and caves in.

Regarding the sexes, God gave man a little more reason. Since men are supposed to be running things, the hope was he might give and take advice like a sage. But he took me into the council chamber just like he took me everywhere else; and right off I gave him the best advice — stuff worthy of myself. I told him to pair up with Eve — soft, giddy, charming and sweet. Then, in his private life, far away from the business meetings and council halls, his seriousness could get spiced up a bit by folly.

Don’t get mad at me, ladies: I’m not just Folly. I’m a woman too, don’t you forget; and I can admit women get silly. And doesn’t this make you better off anyway? For instance, didn’t we gods give you the gift of beauty? And don’t you admit — with good reason! — that it’s more important than everything else? With its help you can tyrannize even the tyrants.

Look at men with their rough skin and their bristles — all failed attempts to look wise and experienced. Now look at us with our smooth cheeks, our soothing voice, our soft skin: a picture of perpetual youth. And what do women want more than this — to be as attractive to men as humanly possible? Don’t all our lotions and potions aim at this — our baths and creams and scents and paints? All of it for one purpose: to make ourselves pleasurable to men. And when you get it right, what do they let you get away with? Anything! You only have to pay them back in fun. And who do you think sponsors all this?

Alright, so maybe there are some of you who don’t care for things like romance or drinking. Maybe you find happiness in friendship, and you insist (like Plato) that it’s better than everything else.

But what if I told you I’m in charge of that too? Let’s keep things simple here: just admit that if you gloss over a friend’s faults, or pretend to not see them, or you just (oops!) forget about them — or if you even love and admire them, even the big sins, almost as if they were virtues — isn’t that basically being a fool? It’s as obvious as your nose.

It’s like the guy who nuzzles the mole on his mistresses’ neck, or kisses a lover with cheese breath, or a dad who says his crosseyed son’s eyes sparkle — what do you think all this is? Folly, obviously! Yet it’s the only thing that starts friendships; and once they’ve started, it’s the only thing that keeps them going.

No mortal man is born without faults: the best you can do is to have as few of them as possible. That’s why the god-like Stoics don’t have any friends at all: or if they do, they’re languid friendships creaking by on life-support. Fortunately most people are stupid — in fact, I can’t think of one who isn’t silly in a lot of ways; and thank God for that, because how are you going to get along if you don’t have something in common? But if those god-like philosophers do have some kind of a friendship, how do you expect it to be stable, or to last a long time? These people are too sensitive, too peevish. They see our faults with eagle eyes. When it comes to their own they’re a bat. Specks and planks, people! Specks and planks!

Every single one of you is inherently flawed, and that’s before you add the wide variety of characters and jobs and upbringings: there are so many chances to slip, so many mistakes to be made, such radically different strokes of fortune, that the joys of friendship wouldn’t last an hour amongst the “upright.” We're all so radically different.

But you know what? Cupid strikes you blind. Thus instead of living all alone like wolves, every Punch finds his Judy. Every scoundrel finds his skank. These things happen everywhere you look and everybody laughs at it. But stupid as it looks, it’s the thing that glues and ties our entire world together.

What I’ve said here about friendship applies even more to marriage — something we definitely can’t live without. For goodness’ sake, how many divorces (or worse) would happen everywhere if marriage wasn’t propped up with jokes — with flattery — with fakery?

God save us: how few weddings would actually happen if bridegrooms, analyzing things “wisely,” looked into the boyfriends she’d had and the nights that she spent — before he finally said “I do”! The whole cover of innocence and modesty would be blown! And how few people would stay married if they knew their spouse’s longings — their flirtations — their indiscretions? Thank God for indifference and stupidity!

Thanks to these, I, Folly, can ensure wives love their husbands and husbands love their wives — each home at peace, each bond intact. A man kisses away his wife’s tears when she swears she isn’t cheating. We all make fun of him and call him a cuckold, of course. But — hear me out — how much better is it to be lied to and fooled than to be overrun with jealousy! Once your imagination gets deranged your judgment goes with it and the whole house turns into a war zone.

In short, no society could be stable or fun without me: no country could bear a king, no master a slave, no student a teacher, no friend a friend, no wife a husband, no landlord a tenant, no partner a partner and no roommate a roommate — not if they don’t hide from each other, flatter each other, ignore each other’s faults on purpose. Not without any of my doing, that is.

A pretty impressive list of accomplishments, I know — but don’t put your coats on. There’s more.

I want you to ask yourselves: when somebody hates himself, can he love anyone else? If a man is at war with himself, will he be at peace with his neighbors? If he’s a bother to himself and an embarrassment, do you think he’ll make other people happy? You’d have to be more foolish than Folly to say yes. But if you got rid of me, not only could nobody be friends with anybody else: you couldn’t even enjoy being yourself.

Why? Because whatever sphere of life you’re in, you need to put on a performance — and you perform to be admired. Now, there’s nothing so foolish as to admire yourself; but if you don’t admire yourself, there can’t be anything beautiful, anything charming, anything you can do to make yourself or anybody else happy. Get rid of this spice of life — my servant, Vanity — and immediately the speaker will lose his fire, the singer will lose verve, and the dancer will get jeered.

Even if you’re handsome, if you lack Vanity you’ll look like a frog. If you’re eloquent you’ll sound like a bore. If you’re a man of the world — a real cosmopolitan —, lack vanity and you’ll look like a bumpkin. That’s how important it is to admire yourself — to impress yourself — to fall in love with yourself. We must become enamored with ourselves before others will too.

But the chief substance of happiness is this: to enjoy being yourself — whatever you are. And my servant Vanity offers everyone a shortcut: that (editor's note: this was written before the existence of leftism) nobody is ashamed of their personality, their ancestry, their race, their homeland, their upbringing, their profession: no Dutchman wants to trade place with an Italian; no Spartan with an Athenian; no dust-bathed Arabian tribesman with somebody from the Canaries.

How genius is Nature, that in all this variety she made us all equal! And where she was cheap dispensing gifts she adds a little more self-love — another boon, since Vanity is the best of the gifts.

Dear reader, it’s me, J, the editor. Although this has been great fun, I think I’ve taxed your patience and few of you will have read this far. If you've enjoyed Erasmus as much as I do, comment or send me a message and maybe I'll finish the thing — but either way, I hope you enjoy being a fool. I certainly do, and this essay made me more comfortable being one.

Yours,

-J