sincerity

Sincerity, in Jean-Baptiste Clamence's world, is not a moral virtue but a performance, a weapon, and a mask. Clamence's entire narrative, his confession, is built on the revelation that he has never been sincere, that his life was a series of calculated gestures designed to elicit admiration and dominate others. The concept of sincerity is thus central to his self-understanding and his critique of modern humanity, as he exposes the impossibility and undesirability of true sincerity in a world where everyone is a judge and every confession is a bid for power.

The Performance of Sincerity

Clamence's former life as a successful Parisian lawyer was a masterclass in the performance of sincerity. He describes his professional demeanor as a "real tornado" of emotion, with a "rightness of tone" and "appropriateness of emotion" that were carefully cultivated for effect. He was buoyed by the satisfaction of being on the right side of the bar and an instinctive scorn for judges, a passion that he later admits had deeper reasons. This performance extended beyond the courtroom. He would rush to help blind people cross the street, snatching them from any other charitable hand, and lead them with a gentle but firm touch, separating with a "mutual emotion." He gave alms, though he knew the old flower peddler stole her flowers from the Montparnasse Cemetery, and he exulted in the act. He even gave up his seat in the subway or theater, forfeited his taxi, and loaded girls' suitcases onto train racks, all deeds he performed more often than others because he paid more attention to the opportunities and relished the pleasure they gave. These acts were not spontaneous kindness but a calculated repertoire designed to produce a specific image of himself. He admits that he was "always bursting with vanity" and that "I, I, I is the refrain of my whole life." His sincerity was a tool for self-aggrandizement, a way to bask in the admiration of others. He even tipped his hat to a blind man he had helped, a gesture that was not for the blind man, who could not see it, but for the watching public. "After playing my part," he says, "I would take the bow."

The Absence of Sincerity in Love and Life

Clamence's relationships with women were a realm where sincerity was conspicuously absent. He admits that he "never loved any of them" and that his emotional impulses always turned toward himself. His love life was dominated by sensuality and a passion for gambling, where women were partners in a game. He perfected a little speech that asserted, with painful resignation, that he was nothing and that his life was elsewhere, a speech he knew was a performance. He lived his part, and his partners began to "tread the boards" enthusiastically. The act of love, he reflects, is a confession where "selfishness screams aloud, vanity shows off," and he was more outspoken in his private life than in his professional flights about innocence and justice. He concludes that "no man is a hypocrite in his pleasures." This absence of sincerity extended to his entire existence. He lived "without any other continuity than that, from day to day, of I, I, I," progressing "on the surface of life, in the realm of words as it were, never in reality." He went through the gestures of life out of boredom or absentmindedness, and when people wanted to cling to him, there was nothing to cling to. He forgot everything, including his own resolutions, and this forgetfulness was a form of insincerity, a refusal to be bound by his own past.

The Discovery of Duplicity and the Rejection of Sincerity

The pivotal event on the Pont des Arts, where he heard a mysterious laugh, shattered Clamence's self-image and forced him to confront his own duplicity. He realized that his modesty helped him to shine, his humility to conquer, and his virtue to oppress. He had waged war by peaceful means. He discovered that he excelled above all in scorn, and that he used to "spit daily in the face of all the blind" he helped. This realization led him to a profound crisis. He began to understand that his friends, who had once seemed to admire him, were now looking at him with a "hidden smile." He felt vulnerable and open to public accusation. In response, he did not seek to become sincere. Instead, he tried to escape judgment by accusing himself. He contemplated jostling the blind on the street and shouting "Lousy proletarian" at laborers. He wrote an "Ode to the Police" and an "Apotheosis of the Guillotine." He began to advise young lawyers to defend a thief by exposing the crimes of the honest man, arguing that the lawyer himself was a "Louis XIV in pride, a billy goat for lust, a Pharaoh for wrath, a king of laziness." He realized that "it is not enough to accuse yourself in order to clear yourself; otherwise, I'd be as innocent as a lamb. One must accuse oneself in a certain way." This was the birth of his profession as a judge-penitent.

The Judge-Penitent: Sincerity as a Method of Domination

As a judge-penitent, Clamence has perfected a form of insincere confession that allows him to dominate others. He accuses himself "up and down," but he does not do so crudely. He navigates skillfully, multiplying distinctions and digressions, adapting his words to his listener and leading them to go him one better. He constructs a portrait that is "the image of all and of no one," a mask that makes people say, "Why, surely I've met him!" He then shows this portrait with great sorrow, saying, "This, alas, is what I am!" But the portrait becomes a mirror. He passes from the "I" to the "we," and when he says, "This is what we are," the trick is played. He has the right to judge because he has confessed. He says, "The more I accuse myself, the more I have a right to judge you. Even better, I provoke you into judging yourself, and this relieves me of that much of the burden." His confession is a performance designed to ensnare his listener, to make them complicit in his guilt, and to elevate himself above them. He has found a "height" to which he is the only one to climb, from which he can judge everybody. He admits that he has "accepted duplicity instead of being upset about it" and has settled into it, finding the comfort he was looking for throughout life. He permits himself everything again, and the confession of his crimes allows him to begin again lighter in heart, tasting a double enjoyment of his nature and of a charming repentance. Sincerity, for Clamence, is not a path to truth but a tool for power, a way to silence the laughter and to sit enthroned as a judge over a guilty world.