Review
Culture
Film & TV
9 min read

Deadpool and Wolverine admit there’s only one story worth telling

Here's why a knowing take on post-modernity's void strikes a chord.

James is Canon Missioner at Blackburn Cathedral. He researches technology and theology at Oxford University.

Two superheroes, deadpool and Wolverine, stand and crouch respectively, in a desert like place.
'A desert of criticism and a wasteland of cynicism.'
Disney.

Can Marvel Jesus save a dying cinematic universe? That's the key question for the latest film from Marvel Studios and, it would seem at least from the box office, that the answer is: yes!  

Deadpool & Wolverine, the snarky buddy comedy odd-ball team-up between Ryan Reynolds and Hugh Jackman, made over $590 million in its first week. That’s the sixth biggest opening of all time. 

What follows is not a traditional review, you can find plenty of those online already. Instead, I want us to consider Deadpool & Wolverine as a cultural artefact that displays some of the key themes of our society. The stories that we tell, including the films that Hollywood produces, can act as a mirror to our culture, giving us an opportunity to see trends that we might have otherwise missed.  

As a mirror to this cultural moment, I want to suggest that Deadpool & Wolverine presents us with a cynical and nihilistic take on the end of an era in which all the protagonists can do is barrage the audience with an endless stream of jokes and quips. 

The third instalment of the Deadpool trilogy is the first to be set in the Marvel Cinematic Universe (MCU) since Disney acquired the rights to 20th Century Fox for $71.3 billion. Until now all the X-men movies, the Wolverine movies, the prequels and the Deadpool movies have been produced by 20th Century Fox. But it’s the start of a new chapter for the X-men franchise.  

The Disney executives hope for a new lease of life for the MCU, which has been struggling to find its way ever since the epic conclusion to Avengers: End Game. Of course, ordinarily, this sort of corporate back and forth would be irrelevant when thinking about the themes of a movie, but, in this case, the business backdrop is effectively a major plot-point of the film. 

A significant portion of the dialogue is spent discussing the acquisition of the X-men franchise by Disney. Deadpool talks about what Kevin Feige (president of Marvel Studios) will and won’t allow in his films. A major action set-piece takes place next to a ruin of the 20th Century Fox logo. Deadpool jokes with Wolverine that he is joined the MCU when they are in a bit of a slump, and, when Deadpool is asked to save the universe, he takes this to mean that he should save the entire MCU franchise describing himself as ‘Marvel Jesus’. The movie knows that this film is the product of a business deal, and it wants its audience to know that too. 

So, this film takes place at the end of an era and to highlight this throughout the film, a series of high-profile cameos are made by actors and characters from the last 24 years (no spoilers here). They are brought into the movie so that they might be given a final send off. A heroic on camera action hero death, one last valiant fight before the curtain falls. In a sense, Deadpool & Wolverine is a eulogy to the comic film industry, an era has passed away, we live only in the ruins of a once great edifice and all we can do is joke around and reminisce about the good old days

Deadpool’s is a dark humour, laughing death in the face, traipsing around the trash heap at the end of time incessantly spouting one-liners. 

The scepticism Deadpool and Wolverine exhibits about the movie industry, correlates neatly with a post-modern disposition to be suspicious about the role of power. Deadpool knows, and points out to his audience, that it is only the vested interests of corporate power that allow this film to take place, and he revels with delight when these corporations seem to be failing. He is under no illusions that the studios are benign entities who merely hope to make worthwhile art - Deadpool is a cynic, the jester, who takes great satisfaction in declaring that the emperor has no clothes.  

Coupled with this is the constant breaking of the fourth wall. This is one of Deadpool’s foundational characteristics, he has been breaking the fourth wall since his earliest appearance in the comics and the previous two films. Deadpool uses this ability to deconstruct and point out some of the quirks of the superhero genre. For example, in the first film when a villain jumps into the scene from a great height, Deadpool says to the audience: “Superhero landing. She's gonna do a superhero landing… You know, that's really hard on your knees.” (This joke is repeated in Deadpool & Wolverine)

The deconstructionist tone contrasts sharply with Marvel’s previous movies, particularly the grand narrative which spanned 22 films and culminated in Avengers: Endgame- an unashamed mythic narrative about the defeat of evil and the triumph of good over bad. Yes, there were jokes and subversive elements in the MCU before Deadpool, but in the main the characters like Captain America are sincere and the movie takes them and their motivations seriously. Deadpool in contrast delights in deconstructing the narrative: Marvel’s grand narrative is over, Fox’s cinematic universe is over, and it is unclear if they will be able to successfully tell another epic mythic story. 

All of this, I imagine, sounds quite dystopian and that is not just how the film feels but also serves as the set piece for the middle section of the story. The misadventure of Deadpool & Wolverine lands both characters in “the void at the end of time” a place described as a Mad Max set, a barren desert where only the strongest survive by dominating the weak. In this hellish environment, Deadpool is completely unphased, he continues to make joke after joke, despite multiple characters in the movie telling him to ‘shut up’, and he displays zero remorse when his joking around results in other characters being killed. The humour of this film is the final element which makes it feel very post-modern and nihilistic. Deadpool and Wolverine are left in a hellscape and all they can do is fight with one another and make non-stop sarcastic quips. Deadpool’s is a dark humour, laughing death in the face, traipsing around the trash heap at the end of time incessantly spouting one-liners. 

Paul Ricoeur, the French Christian and philosopher describes in his work two instincts in modernity: a ‘willingness to listen’ and a ‘willingness to suspect.’ The willingness to suspect is best exemplified by the three ‘masters of suspicion’, Karl Marx, Friedrich Nietzsche and Sigmund Freud. Following these masters of suspicion, modernity has learnt to be critical and to criticise texts, narratives, motives and power. Ricoeur thinks that we need both instincts, we need to be able to listen and we should be able to suspect, but, he cautions post-modern society that it is possible to find yourself in a desert of criticism in which there is nothing symbolic, nothing sacred, nothing but power and will. I have never seen a better depiction of the ‘desert of criticism’ put to film than Deadpool’s void at the end of time. 

Perhaps the film is doing this because this is, in fact, the only story worth telling.

All of this was bubbling around in the back of my head when the film came to its final climax. It is my experience of the finale that made me want to write this review of the film. After almost two hours of post-modern nihilism, in the denouement, our two protagonists are faced with the classic superhero choice to sacrifice themselves so that they can save their universe from imminent destruction. And, of course, like good superheroes, they go willingly into danger and give up their lives for the sake of their friends. 

I had such a strange set of emotions as I watched this part of the story unfold. 

Firstly, I thought “Oh, right, this is the moment when the hero sacrifices himself- that is obviously what comes next.” I have been conditioned by decades of superhero films to expect this sequence of events at the end of the movie. But secondly, I found myself thinking. “This is so out of place with the rest of the film, this is pure sentimental heroics, we’ve just had two hours of cynicism and fourth wall breaking and the climax of the whole thing is a traditional superhero ending?!” And then, lastly, I found myself wonderful, ‘Perhaps the film is doing this because this is, in fact, the only story worth telling- that everything up to this point has only been playing at cynicism because, at a fundamental level, the filmmakers realise that cynicism and scepticism aren’t enough to make a compelling story.” 

Western society feels as if it has lost its narrative. It is as if, just like the MCU, our best story is behind us, and we are flailing to find a new story. 

Deadpool & Wolverine is a strikingly resonant film, it has struck a chord with contemporary culture. The film offers us a mirror to the contemporary society in which we live and I think we must look deeply into the mirror if we are going to accurately diagnose the ills of our current cultural moment.  

Many people today feel like they are living in a desert at the end of time, devoid of meaningful symbolism and sustenance for the soul. The hollowing out of meaning in post-modern Western culture has resulted in a tinderbox which is ready to combust at a moment's notice. “Over the last month we have seen riots breakout across England caused by an incident in Southport that sent sparks flying.”. Relatedly, contemporary Western society feels as if it has lost its narrative. It is as if, just like the MCU, our best story is behind us, and we are flailing to find a new story. Look at the average Netflix viewing figures to discover that many of us only enjoy watching re-runs of our favourite TV shows from 10 years ago. 

The cynicism and scepticism of Deadpool & Wolverine resonates with many people in the contemporary West, and the film offers two ways of reacting to the pain of our cultural moment.  

For most of the film Deadpool saunters through this nihilistic hellscape spouting a barrage of gags, sex-jokes and sarcastic quips- that is the first option, to laugh in the face of meaninglessness. But for the climax of the movie, it’s as if the writers knew that they couldn’t maintain the ruse. When the characters of Deadpool and Wolverine make the choice to sacrifice themselves for the sake of others they choose to live for something bigger than themselves. They admit in their actions that they aren’t the nihilists they were pretending to be, and the film acknowledges that in the final analysis there is nothing ultimately satisfying, nothing ultimately sustaining, in that way of being in the world. 

Or, to put it another way, the only way that Deadpool could become ‘Marvel Jesus’ is by following in the footsteps of actual Jesus: by sacrificing his life for those whom he loved and by discovering that true life, resurrection life, is always and only ever found on the far side of death. 

Paul Ricoeur writes that ‘beyond the desert of criticism, we wish to be called again’, called to a second, or post-critical naïveté. Naivete is a deliberately provocative term to use, no one wants to be considered naïve (even postcritically naïve!), so perhaps you might prefer to think of it as synonymous with restored or as experiencing a recollection of meaning. I think many people in the West today are waking up to the challenge of living in a desert of criticism and a wasteland of cynicism. The capacity to criticise is an important skill, but it has run rampant and left out society with a void of meaning in which nothing is sacred, nothing is enchanted. 

Deadpool & Wolverine speaks of a culture desperately in need of a new story, a narrative within which meaning can be found. The film paints in vivid imagery the result of a society that has lost its narrative. And, in the end, Deadpool and Wolverine seems to admit that there is only one story worth telling: self-sacrificial death and resurrection. 

Interview
Creed
Mental Health
Trauma
17 min read

When the answers run out: Kate Bowler on faith, fragility, and the beauty of uncertainty

Kate Bowler in conversation with Graham Tomlin.

Nick is the senior editor of Seen & Unseen.

A woman sits and smiles in front of her bookcase.

This interview is an edited transcript of the Seen & Unseen Live event.

Graham 

Kate Bowler is a four-time New York Times bestselling author. She's an award-winning podcast host and also an associate professor of American religious history at Duke University. She's the author of a number of books, including Blessed, a history of the American Prosperity Gospel. And they're wonderfully titled - The Preacher's Wife; The Precarious Power of Evangelical Women Celebrities.  

And you may know something of Kate's story, she was unexpectedly diagnosed with stage 4 cancer at the age of 35. And then out of that, wrote the New York Times, bestselling memoir. Everything Happens for a Reason and Other Lies That I've Loved, and her latest book, Have A Beautiful, Terrible Day. Daily Meditations for the Ups, Downs, And in Betweens. Kate hosts, the award-winning podcast Everything Happens.  

We were just talking about students and teaching. What do you teach your students? You say American religious history? Is there a kind of theme? And how do you go about teaching your students? How does that work in your setting? 

Kate 
Sometimes they make me do the Puritans to Trump sort of lectures which I enjoy, but I think the heart of what I love is to talk about American religious myth making. What stories animate their accounts of how to live a good life. Most American stories end up being iterations of that and some pretty classic themes of righteous individualism, of wanting only good things because God is good, a sense that all things can be conquerable. So, it's got this intense agency to it.   

I end up doing a history of American theodicies, explanations of evil. It mostly ends up being storytelling about whether people believe that they deserve the lives they got. It's a privilege to do it, especially at a divinity school. These are going to be people who are in the forefront of helping people interpret and explain their pain. 

And I guess that's something about America, isn't it? Because America was born out of this hopeful sense of people leaving the terrible strictures of Europe, and going off to this free new land, and so on. So, I suppose it had sort of hopefulness and positivity built right into the beginning, didn't it?  

It does. I also really just enjoy civic virtues, in general Canadian civic virtues. The Americans ones are, of course, the pursuit of happiness. Canadians have peace, order, and good governance as their primary civic virtues, which always makes me laugh. It's just so polite and so reasonable. But Americans are hoping fundamentally that they can become. The kinds of people that can conquer a fickle market, who can overcome any sort of structural evil, can be winners in a culture that doesn't ever really try to explain away inequality. It attempts to create the kind of people who can navigate it. 

And you started out by studying the prosperity gospel, didn't you? And particularly within the United States. Is that right? The kind of idea that God wanted good things for you. You've been talking about that already, and when you did that study, what did you expect to find? And what did you find when you did that research? 

Well, the very first time I bumped into the prosperity gospel I was in my hometown of Winnipeg, Manitoba, which is right in the middle of Canada, and we have only one fast road, and they had put up a traffic light. So, I was in a terrible mood. Then I saw all these people pouring out from what I thought was a factory that was running on Sunday morning, and then I thought, oh, no, I believe these are churchgoers. Oh, no, that factory is a church, and it turns out that was Canada's largest megachurch that was run by a man named Leon Fontaine, who had just been given a motorcycle by his congregants, and then rode it around on stage, and I thought, no, that is for Americans. I was so insistent on the idea that a story of health, wealth, and happiness was exclusive to an American cultural narrative.  

I think I was 18, maybe 20 when I first bumped into it, and then I spent my entire twenties wasting my youth interviewing televangelists in Canada and the United States, trying to understand why it was so deeply American, and also why it was so infinitely exportable and ultimately discovered that there was something very deeply humbling about studying a movement of infinite spiritual expectation. It taught me that we all want to be able to comb through our own biography, to know whether we have any evidence of God's love, special appreciation connection to us, but also that even when we think that we don't have a prosperity gospel in our own lives. We probably do. 

You're talking there about the the kind of desire can control outcomes a little bit.  It struck me that I think the very first reflection you got in your book, which is called Have A Beautiful, Terrible Day, which is whenever everything is out of control, is that the sort of big theme that you  found with it - the desire to control? And I guess that's something you've experienced in your own life, that sense of not being able to control things? 
And  one of the books I've been reading recently is this one by Hartmut Rosa, called the The Uncontrollability of the World talks about how a world in which everything has been planned and controlled would be a dead world. It's the uncontrollable things that kind of make life kind of interesting, when snow falls and you can't control it, or a sports game that you can't predict the outcome of. Do you think there's something in that? That we try to resist? 

I am committed to resisting. I mean, if I could arrange some sort of consumer feedback to our Lord and Saviour, I would suggest that I would be given more control over my circumstances. I guess it's been a question that is really at the heart of so much of my both academic and spiritual interest is, what do we do now, when we feel ourselves confronted by all the things we can't control. Typically, the things that we can't control can do two awful things. One, they seem to preach the story of a God who is cruel and and just doesn't care. That can't possibly care enough to want to confront the evil that overwhelms. Because suffering isn't just like cosmetic change. It's just an avalanche that that sweeps everything away. And then in the face of that we don't know how to say what my friend Tom Long, who is a wonderful preaching professor at Princeton, says. He likes to say there's always two preachers at a funeral. There's the body. But what can tell a story that is bigger than death? So, I think that's the first thing - that suffering, of all the things that are uncertain seems to tell us something about God that isn't true. 

I think the other thing, and maybe this is just especially the marketing for women. But when I began to be an unlucky person, I began to feel the sting of a very distinct kind of shame. I felt that it was not just circumstances, that there was something about me, something about my failure, something about my unlovedness. One of the first thoughts I had when I got my diagnosis was, well, of course it's me.  

And that is an awful lie that buries itself somewhere in our hearts. But I think uncertainty can have this effect - we end up holding the blade on the wrong side, and it just it always feels like uncertainty. We sort of plunge it right into our chest. So, I think I think uncertainty in general, it's every wave and we have to learn to navigate, but mostly it feels like an affront on our essential goodness. 

 

And how did you learn to manage that uncontrollability?  There's a tendency in many of us to try to control everything, and we want to have everything sorted and ordered. And then you kind of get to the point where you realize can't do that. Then the temptation is to be just overwhelmed by it, and to feel there's nothing I can do at all. How do you navigate that sense of being out of control?  

One of the American cultural diseases, she can say lovingly, is, they are high on what I like to consider is ‘everything is possibleism’. And so then, in the face of uncertainty, or confusion, or despair, or undoing, then the great fear is that you swing right into ‘nothing is possibleism’ and a kind of despair and nihilism. And I'm very interested in every, especially religious tradition that that helps us cultivate an experience of limited agency like, how do you find that space, spiritually, emotionally, communally, of what is possible today? And I've really, I've really struggled with this over the various intellectual and sort of seasons of illness in my life. In Have a Beautiful, Terrible Day I wrote these little snack size reflections, because I was in a period of so much chronic pain that I really just didn't even have brain space for more than an hour and a half a day. So that became an exercise in trying to still allow myself the joy of creation. Because isn't it so wonderful when your brain goes somewhere, and pain is so boring. And I mean talking about pain is so boring, telling it to your friend for the 200th time, like we are all over it. 

 So, I just was trying to practice the experience of limited agency, even if for the other six hours I would have to lie in the bath and take pain meds. But I've realized over and over again that trying to find that soft space is a place where I can re-experience, humanity, love, and really just the weird, wild gifts that God gives us. Even when life falls apart. 

If anyone's watching this and hasn't found a book yet, I really do recommend it. It's a wonderful thing. It's got lots of different kind of poems and meditations and prayers, and it's got titles for when things are falling apart, when you screwed up, when you're in pain, when life feels incomplete, things like that. 

I'm a huge bummer, Graham. Thank you. I think it's so funny. I think it's because we grew up Mennonite, and we love our version of like Saily Bread, and like the tiny little booklets, and all of them were very sweet and very precious moments. And then in my version, it's like, when you're worried you want to eat your own arm, you hate your life so much. So, I do kind of prefer them for the rawer times. 

Coming on to how Christian faith helps you navigate those, one thing that struck me as I was reading through it is there's a difference between, one of the common approaches to suffering you get in the modern world, which is the stoic idea that you  just sort of grit your teeth, you can't control what's going to happen to you, but you can control your own emotions.  

That's such crap, isn't it?  

It’s pretty common, isn't it? You get that sort of sense of stoicism, these days there are stoic podcasts and books. What do you see is the difference between that and what Christian faith says to on how you navigate these really difficult periods of life? 

I want to say specifically that what I truly believe is crap is the phrase, the argument, ‘you might not be able to control but you can control how you respond.’ I mean, anyone who's been unexpectedly stabbed with a needle knows that that is fundamentally not true. And the reason why I am so sensitive to it is, you know, as somebody who’s had a public cancer diagnosis, I see how quickly the cultural narrative is so intense, I've seen every single person who suffers is lined up to give that response, because what everybody wants to know is, well, just tell me that there's an escape hatch on the other side of it. 

Modern stoicism is - and when I say modern it did not have a Renaissance until the 2010s, which is wild - in part a result of an incomplete theology of masculinity that has been available, and it has become a way to explain specifically to men that there's an almost natural impassivity that is theirs should they claim it, And that in the face of chaos, global and personal, that there's a higher path. Stoicism is always, of course, stripped of its original cosmology, refitted with self-help techniques. But what I really object to, which is at the core, is a story about control.  

Emotional management is, of course, a therapeutic good. But, man, we're 50 years into the therapeutic paradigm. It makes me want to add the word dude at the end of that sentence. We are 50 years into the therapeutic paradigm, and we have not yet found a way to control our emotions, and that is because, as spiritual creatures we are always, we have this ache, we have this soul-cry that Augustine named so beautifully. We have a spiritual restlessness that no kind of emotional management strategy can overcome, and because it it is meant to be satisfied fundamentally by our love, our love of God, our love of others, and frankly, an unsolvability that tells us that we are an incomplete story. If we could be a complete story, I don't know if we really should be religious at all. Frankly, I really would. I would probably do other things with my time. 

It does seem to be something about desire at the heart of this. The Stoic response is to just slightly repress your desires, keep your desires under control. It is offering a sort of sense of control. Or Christian faith is actually about redirecting your desires to something that is bigger than yourself and more powerful and beautiful than you are. And so whereas sort of stoicism seems to say, just control your desires, Christianity in some ways almost says let your desire for God grow as you go through this.  

But I was wondering a little bit about prayer, and how prayer works for you in times of real struggle? I often seems to me that when you go through really difficult times, the time when you kind of feel you need to pray, is often the time it's hardest to do so. Do you find that? What role prayer plays for you in moments of uncontrollability, of the sufferings and struggles of life. What role does prayer play for you in that

This stoicism to prayer thoroughfare is a perfect continuity of the argument. Stoicism, and I mean just living inside of the precarity of this world, reminds us again and again that life requires so much more courage than we thought. Maybe we were convinced along the way that prayer also doesn't require courage just to get to that place of spiritual honesty again, I mean especially if you feel like your prayer was supposed to follow a different template. Whether it was always supposed to very quickly move from brief needs, long descriptions, great thankfulness. That's the classic three-parter, but most often are our honesty requires us to be incomplete before God. I mean utterly, or angry or unknowing. Maybe this gets back to your certainty comments at the start about like, how do we manage such enormous uncertainty? Do we imagine prayer as a strategy for certainty? And if we're hoping it's that, we might be we might be unsatisfied. I just know that when I pray honestly that when I'm in a really terrible season, my prayers sound more like it's 2am. And I'm the sort of self who is buying things on Amazon and wishes I could call people and say things and cannot be trusted. Those prayers sound something like, help me! Help me! Save me, make them come back. Make this stop! Those are necessary, deep, guttural cries. 

My 2pm prayers, I've got Trinitarian round-outs. I've got sophisticated nuanced theology. I'm quoting here and there.  

Both are reflections of how much we're not even entirely known to ourselves, except that we find ourselves unfolded by our circumstances. 

Pressing into how you deal with enduring pain. You talk very movingly about what it's like to go through really quite searing pain that just doesn't go away. And you have to kind of deal with it. Here in the UK we've been having a debate over the last few months about assisted dying. Which is a route out of pain for some people towards the end of life. Did you ever experience the temptation to that? Or has your experience helped you reflect upon that kind of route that our society is offering people at the moment? Can you end this by ending it all. 

Canada's been having similar and terrible debates with terrible consequences. I think one of the great worries, especially with North American theologies of the self, is that the suffering, those who suffer are inherently less valuable because we are not the worker self. We're not the productive self. We're simply the the feeling and the limited and the precarious self. 

What really worries me, especially with some of these exit interview for people who apply for euthanasia in Canada, is is quotes like ‘It's not that I don't want to die it’s that I can't afford to live’, because so many of the things that relieve pain are frankly so expensive and so off insurance. Any discussion about pain and assisted suicide are also just always, at least in North American context, conversations about who is valuable and whose pain is insurable. 

I know that one of the major differences that I've had in my own life between a self that was in so much pain I could barely function to this version, is that I could pay for my own treatment. I feel overwhelming compassion for all those who feel like they will suffer without end because there are no social services to alleviate it.  

I've been in a situation where I'm so desperate to live that I have not fundamentally experienced despair that has a telos to it. I've experienced despair at times in which I feel my own helplessness.  

I had a lovely interview with Dr. Catherine Mannix. She developed a cognitive behavioural therapy therapeutic approach inside of palliative care in the NHS. And it was really it ended up being a way to talk about how do you experience control inside of that much suffering. Her books are about people who thought that they would want to die in that much pain. In these little case studies, I found her description to be so deeply Christian. What she was arguing was that even in the midst of deafening pain, that helping people find a small, soft place of narrow choice and meaning-making could reinfuse their lives with such purpose that otherwise our culture would erase.  I just wish that everybody that inside of our conversation about when pain is too much, had a little bit more of that place of gentle possibility. 

One of the phrases that that really struck me as I was reading your book is that ‘we are united by our fragility.’ The implications seem to be that that's actually what we have in common. The fact that we are fragile or incomplete, in your language from earlier on. It got me thinking about how that might change the way we think about each other and community and relationships, and maybe even church. What that difference would it make if we actually thought that was the centre of what we have in common, our fragility. Do you have any thoughts on that? 

At heart, I'm an anti-culture warrior. In this time of increasing binaries our democratic structures or any kind are fragile, especially in the United States, the big tent umbrellas of denominationally or otherwise. I do think it is important for us to sort of spiritually land on what we think makes us all deeply the same. I know that when I started down this path there was a lot of humiliation because I was treated as disposable by the healthcare industry. I was truly humbled by it. In suffering you are laid low and there's a little key in that that I found that I've never wanted to give up. IT is that the second I knew I suffering, I could see it so much more easily in other people.  And that I could know that a broken heart is an open heart. If you can keep that at the at the centre of of a story about our difference Ihave just found it easier, easier on Facebook, easier at family gatherings, just easier. We have a contingency that we're all grappling with, and we can't always see it on each other's faces. But if we know that we all are so worried that we're wearing a sweater and someone's going to pull a thread and then there we are, naked to the world. I think I know that it inculcates a deep feeling of humanity in me. 

There’s something about approaching another person with that thought of  I'm fragile and kind of so are you. Especially it's not that terrible if you see my fragility, and maybe I begin to look for the fragility and the other person, and that makes that person that much more approachable somehow, and a bit more human. This militates against the idea of going to everybody else and trying to  give to give out this image of being complete, and I've got everything sorted, and I know all the answers. The kind of image we try to present of ourselves.  

I think I think invulnerability is exhausting, and we could just cut ourselves some slack.

Support Seen & Unseen

Since Spring 2023, our readers have enjoyed over 1,500 articles. All for free. 
This is made possible through the generosity of our amazing community of supporters.

If you enjoy Seen & Unseen, would you consider making a gift towards our work?
 
Do so by joining Behind The Seen. Alongside other benefits, you’ll receive an extra fortnightly email from me sharing my reading and reflections on the ideas that are shaping our times.

Graham Tomlin
Editor-in-Chief