A Little Mystery
Goes a long way.
When Pat Tillman decided to leave the NFL after 9/11 to join the Army Rangers, his coach asked how he would handle the media’s interest in his story. Tillman responded, “I’m not.” His decision spoke for itself, he said. No press conference. No interviews. No cereal boxes. I remember reading about this act of self-restraint and finding it almost as impressive as the original act of patriotic duty—more understated, but deeply manly. Silence can elevate deeds.
This is one of the more extreme examples of a sound principle: the courteous man speaks of himself sparingly. Too much autobiography signals weakness, self-importance, indulgence, maybe even a desire to manipulate, and forces others to endure boredom and awkwardness. He who refrains shows the opposite characteristics: a broad mind, curiosity about others, discipline, mastery, good taste.
Jane Austen knew all about this lesson, and she shows the power of a stark contrast. Her Mr Wickham tells Elizabeth Bennet his entire life story shortly after meeting her, a sappy memoir of disappointment which he hopes will rouse her sympathies. Though Wickham is charming and handsome enough to bamboozle Elizabeth for a little while, his true character shows soon enough—and by the end he almost destroys the entire Bennet family. (Beware of those who talk too much about themselves!) He would have succeeded but for the generosity of Mr Darcy, a far more reserved man whose superiority is all the more evident when he proceeds to stay hushed about the great service he performs for the family. He has other great deeds to do in life and no need to trumpet this one. His secret only comes out when Elizabeth’s younger sister, sworn to secrecy, blabs about it.
Most of us have probably experienced these types of characters in our own dealings. Oversharing has a muted-gross effect, leaving us feeling like a barely perceptible layer of slime has been applied at some point. Restraint, meanwhile, tends to inspire the admiration that follows a silent flash of nobility.
The point is not to withhold information when others ask for it, or to try too hard to build an aura with your mysteriousness. It’s mostly about steering the conversation to other topics when possible, asking other people questions about themselves, showing interest in the wider world. Manly frankness is a virtue—but frankness is to be distinguished from habitual verbal incontinence, self-absorption, and poor taste. There are usually better things to discuss than ourselves.
We must be especially careful when it comes to speaking of our own achievements. In his classic manual on chivalry, Geoffroi de Charny advises knights to speak primarily of the achievements of others, talking up one’s friends and fellows. The trouble is that most people cannot trust that their own deeds will be made known if they don’t do the PR-work themselves; the uncertainty is too much to handle. Little do they understand the flatness of self-praise. I once met an otherwise formidable man who was so impatient to have me know his powerlifting accomplishments that he wedged the information into the first few minutes of our first conversation. Not that I had asked. His numbers (630 lbs deadlift, 500 lbs squat, 375 bench) were impressive in the abstract but not nearly as impressive as they would have been if I’d found out more naturally. In his eagerness he robbed me of the opportunity to admire him. I myself have been guilty of anxiousness to have my triumphs known, and every time I give in I feel a sense of moral deflation afterwards, like a basketball with no bounce to it. It just hits the floor with a dead thud. My accomplishment means less after I’ve blurted it out.
A good man’s deeds will come to light—just as Darcy’s did—and they will always sound more powerful from the lips of others. More than that, he gives the gift of delight and surprise as people learn that not only is he accomplished, but understated as well. As a wise teacher once said, he who humbles himself will be exalted, and he who exalts himself will be humbled.