We all know him. He features in many of the stories we tell ourselves. We may have even had an occasional glimpse of this person, but he is mostly an invisible presence: he is invoked, discussed, laughed at, mocked, and derided. But for all this vivid audible presence, we can’t really say we are anywhere “close” to him. In fact, we try to stay away from this person as much as we can. For his condition may be contagious and, God forbid, his terrible predicament may rub off on us. We need him only insofar as we need someone against whom we can define ourselves safely: whatever we are, we are not like him. Thanks to this mental exercise, we come to realize that, compared to him, we are better off by default: whatever problems we may have, we don’t have his problem, no matter how bad our afflictions, we don’t suffer from his. And what is his condition exactly? He is the worst thing someone can be in this time and age: a failure.

Failures have always captured the public attention and imagination. In a certain sense, each organized society generates its own type of “failure,” in which, like in a distorting mirror, it unwittingly projects and reveals itself. The way communities construct their “failures” is never innocent: tell me how you define a failure and I will tell you more about yourself. There is, for example, a distinct light-heartedness in the way the Athenians engaged with the figure of Diogenes the Cynic. When someone asked him what kind of wine he liked most, Diogenes allegedly said: “Somebody else’s.” Apparently, the Athenians offered him enough opportunities to enjoy that particular kind of wine. Indeed, Diogenes seemed to have been in demand and he could be fussy as to where to go. Diogenes may have been a failure, but he was one by choice, something that the Athenians seemed to have understood and respected. No matter how scandalous his eccentricities were, they were apparently willing to play along. That was part of the way they constructed their social failures.