by Matt Haig
Advice for a human
1. Shame is a shackle. Free yourself.
2. Don’t worry about your abilities. You have the ability to love. That is enough.
3. Be nice to other people. At the universal level, they are you.
4. Technology won’t save humankind. Humans will.
5. Laugh. It suits you.
6. Be curious. Question everything. A present fact is just a future fiction.
7. Irony is fine, but not as fine as feeling.
8. Peanut butter sandwiches go perfectly well with a glass of white wine. Don’t let anyone tell you otherwise.
9. Sometimes, to be yourself you will have to forget yourself and become something else. Your character is not a fixed thing. You will sometimes have to move to keep up with it.
10. History is a branch of mathematics. So is literature. Economics is a branch of religion.
11. Sex can damage love but love can’t damage sex.
12. The news should start with mathematics, then poetry, and move down from there.
13. You shouldn’t have been born. Your existence is as close to impossible as can be. To dismiss the impossible is to dismiss yourself.
14. Your life will have 25,000 days in it. Make sure you remember some of them.
15. The road to snobbery is the road to misery. And vice versa.
16. Tragedy is just comedy that hasn’t come to fruition. One day we will laugh at this. We will laugh at everything.
17. Wear clothes, by all means, but remember they are clothes.
18. One life form’s gold is another life form’s tin can.
19. Read poetry. Especially poetry by Emily Dickinson. It might save you. Anne Sexton knows the mind, Walt Whitman knows grass, but Emily Dickinson knows everything.
20. If you become an architect, remember this: the square is nice. So is the rectangle. But you can overdo it.
21. Don’t bother going into space until you can leave the solar system. Then go to Zabii.
22. Don’t worry about being angry. Worry when being angry becomes impossible. Because then you have been consumed.
23. Happiness is not out here. It is in there.
24. New technology, on Earth, just means something you will laugh at in five years. Value the stuff you won’t laugh at in five years. Like love. Or a good poem. Or a song. Or the sky.
25. There is only one genre in fiction. The genre is called ‘book’.
26. Never be too far away from a radio. A radio can save your life.
27. Dogs are geniuses of loyalty. And that is a good kind of genius to have.
28. Your mother should write a novel. Encourage her.
29. If there is a sunset, stop and look at it. Knowledge is finite. Wonder is infinite.
30. Don’t aim for perfection. Evolution, and life, only happen through mistakes.
31. Failure is a trick of the light.
32. You are human. You will care about money. But realise it can’t make you happy because happiness is not for sale.
33. You are not the most intelligent creature in the universe. You are not even the most intelligent creature on your planet. The tonal language in the song of a humpback whale displays more complexity than the entire works of Shakespeare. It is not a competition. Well, it is. But don’t worry about it.
34. David Bowie’s ‘Space Oddity’ tells you nothing about space, but its musical patterns are very pleasing to the ears.
35. When you look up at the sky, on a clear night, and see thousands of stars and planets, realise that very little is happening on most of them. The important stuff is further away.
36. One day humans will live on Mars. But nothing there will be more exciting than a single overcast morning on Earth.
37. Don’t always try to be cool. The whole universe is cool. It’s the warm bits that matter.
38. Walt Whitman was right about at least one thing. You will contradict yourself. You are large. You contain multitudes.
39. No one is ever completely right about anything. Anywhere.
40. Everyone is a comedy. If people are laughing at you they just don’t quite understand the joke that is themselves.
41. Your brain is open. Never let it be closed.
42. In a thousand years, if humans survive that long, everything you know will have been disproved. And replaced by even bigger myths.
43. Everything matters.
44. You have the power to stop time. You do it by kissing. Or listening to music. Music, by the way, is how you see things you can’t otherwise see. It is the most advanced thing you have. It is a superpower. Keep up with the bass guitar. You are good at it. Join a band.
45. My friend Ari was one of the wisest humans who ever lived. Read him.
46. A paradox. The things you don’t need to live – books, art, cinema, wine and so on – are the things you need to live.
47. A cow is a cow even if you call it beef.
48. No two moralities match. Accept different shapes, so long as they aren’t sharp enough to hurt.
49. Don’t be scared of anyone. You killed an alien assassin sent from the other side of the universe with a bread knife. Also, you have a very hard punch.
50. At some point, bad things are going to happen. Have someone to hold on to.
51. Alcohol in the evening is very enjoyable. Hangovers in the morning are very unpleasant. At some point you have to choose: evenings, or mornings.
52. If you are laughing, check that you don’t really want to cry. And vice versa.
53. Don’t ever be afraid of telling someone you love them. There are things wrong with your world, but an excess of love is not one.
54. That girl you are on the phone to. There will be others. But I hope she is nice.
55. You are not the only species on Earth with technology. Look at ants. Really. Look. What they do with twigs and leaves is quite amazing.
56. Your mother loved your father. Even if she pretends she didn’t.
57. There are a lot of idiots in your species. Lots and lots. You are not one of them. Hold your ground.
58. It is not the length of life that matters. It’s the depth. But while burrowing, keep the sun above you.
59. Numbers are pretty. Prime numbers are beautiful. Understand that.
60. Obey your head. Obey your heart. Obey your gut. In fact, obey everything except commands.
61. One day, if you get into a position of power, tell people this: just because you can, it doesn’t mean you should. There is a power and a beauty in unproved conjectures, unkissed lips and unpicked flowers.
62. Start fires. But only metaphorically. Unless you are cold and it’s a safe setting. In which case: start fires.
63. It’s not the technique, it’s the method. It’s not the words, it’s the melody.
64. Be alive. That is your supreme duty to the world.
65. Don’t think you know. Know you think.
66. As a black hole forms it creates an immense gamma-ray burst, blinding whole galaxies with light and destroying millions of worlds. You could disappear at any second. This one. Or this one. Or this one. Make sure, as often as possible, you are doing something you’d be happy to die doing.
67. War is the answer. To the wrong question.
68. Physical attraction is, primarily, glandular.
69. Ari believed we are all a simulation. Matter is an illusion. Everything is silicon. He could be right. But your emotions? They’re solid.
70. It’s not you. It’s them. (No, really. It is.)
71. Walk Newton whenever you can. He likes to get out of the house. And he is a lovely dog.
72. Most humans don’t think about things very much. They survive by thinking about needs and wants alone. But you are not one of them. Be careful.
73. No one will understand you. It is not, ultimately, that important. What is important is that you understand you.
74. A quark is not the smallest thing. The wish you have on your death-bed – to have worked harder – th
at is the smallest thing. Because it won’t be there.
75. Politeness is often fear. Kindness is always courage. But caring is what makes you human. Care more, become more human.
76. In your mind, change the name of every day to Saturday. And change the name of work to play.
77. When you watch the news and see members of your species in turmoil, do not think there is nothing you can do. But know it is not done by watching news.
78. You get up. You put on your clothes. And then you put on your personality. Choose wisely.
79. Leonardo da Vinci was not one of you. He was one of us.
80. Language is euphemism. Love is truth.
81. You can’t find happiness looking for the meaning of life. Meaning is only the third most important thing. It comes after loving and being.
82. If you think something is ugly, look harder. Ugliness is just a failure of seeing.
83. A watched pot never boils. That is all you need to know about quantum physics.
84. You are more than the sum of your particles. And that is quite a sum.
85. The Dark Ages never ended. (But don’t tell your mother.)
86. To like something is to insult it. Love it or hate it. Be passionate. As civilisation advances, so does indifference. It is a disease. Immunise yourself with art. And love.
87. Dark matter is needed to hold galaxies together. Your mind is a galaxy. More dark than light. But the light makes it worthwhile.
88. Which is to say: don’t kill yourself. Even when the darkness is total. Always know that life is not still. Time is space. You are moving through that galaxy. Wait for the stars.
89. At the sub-atomic level, everything is complex. But you do not live at the sub-atomic level. You have the right to simplify. If you don’t, you will go insane.
90. But know this. Men are not from Mars. Women are not from Venus. Do not fall for categories. Everyone is everything. Every ingredient inside a star is inside you, and every personality that ever existed competes in the theatre of your mind for the main role.
91. You are lucky to be alive. Inhale and take in life’s wonders. Never take so much as a single petal of a single flower for granted.
92. If you have children and love one more than another, work at it. They will know, even if it’s by a single atom less. A single atom is all you need to make a very big explosion.
93. School is a joke. But go along with it, because you are very near to the punchline.
94. You don’t have to be an academic. You don’t have to be anything. Don’t force it. Feel your way, and don’t stop feeling your way until something fits. Maybe nothing will. Maybe you are a road, not a destination. That is fine. Be a road. But make sure it’s one with something to look at out of the window.
95. Be kind to your mother. And try and make her happy.
96. You are a good human, Gulliver Martin.
97. I love you. Remember that.
A very brief hug
I packed a bag full of Andrew Martin’s clothes and then I left.
‘Where are you going to go?’ asked Isobel.
‘I don’t know. I’ll find somewhere. Don’t worry.’
She looked like she was going to worry. We hugged. I longed to hear her hum the theme to Cinema Paradiso. I longed to hear her talk to me about Alfred the Great. I longed for her to make me a sandwich, or pour TCP on a swab of cotton wool. I longed to hear her share her worries about work, or Gulliver. But she wouldn’t. She couldn’t.
The hug ended. Newton, by her side, looked up at me with the most forlorn eyes.
‘Goodbye,’ I said.
And I walked across the gravel, towards the road and somewhere in the universe of my soul a fiery, life-giving star collapsed, and a very black hole began to form.
The melancholy beauty of the setting sun
Sometimes the hardest thing to do is just to stay human.
– Michael Franti
The thing with black holes, of course, is that they are really very neat and tidy. There is no mess inside a black hole. All the disordered stuff that goes through the event horizon, all that in-falling matter and radiation, is compressed to the smallest state it can possibly be. A state that might easily be called nothing at all.
Black holes, in other words, give clarity. You lose the warmth and fire of the star but you gain order and peace. Total focus.
That is to say, I knew what to do.
I would stay as Andrew Martin. This was what Isobel wanted. You see, she wanted the least fuss possible. She didn’t want a scandal, or a missing person’s inquiry, or a funeral. So, doing what I thought was best, I moved out, rented a small flat in Cambridge for a while, and then I applied for jobs elsewhere in the world.
Eventually, I got a teaching job in America, at Stanford University in California. Once there, I did as well as I needed to do while making sure I didn’t do anything to advance any mathematical understanding that would lead to a leap in technological progress. Indeed, I had a poster on my office wall with a photograph of Albert Einstein on it, and one of his famous statements: ‘Technological progress is like an axe in the hands of a pathological animal.’
I never mentioned anything about a proof of the Riemann hypothesis, except to persuade my peers of its inherent impossibility. My main motive for doing so was to make sure no Vonnadorian ever had need to visit Earth. But also, Einstein was right. Humans weren’t good at handling progress and I didn’t want to see more destruction than necessary inflicted on or by this planet.
I lived on my own. I had a nice apartment in Palo Alto that I filled with plants.
I got drunk, got high, got lower than low.
I painted some art, ate peanut butter breakfasts, and once went to an arthouse cinema to watch three films by Fellini in a row.
I caught a cold, got tinnitus and consumed a poisoned prawn.
I bought myself a globe, and I would often sit there, spinning it.
I felt blue with sadness, red with rage and green with envy. I felt the entire human rainbow.
I walked a dog for an elderly lady in the apartment above me, but the dog was never quite Newton. I talked over warm champagne at stifling academic functions. I shouted in forests just to hear the echo. And every night I would go back and re-read Emily Dickinson.
I was lonely, but at the same time I appreciated other humans a bit more than they appreciated themselves. After all, I knew you could journey for light years and not come across a single one. On occasion, I would weep just looking at them, sitting in one of the vast libraries on campus.
Sometimes I would wake up at three in the morning and find myself crying for no specific reason. At other times I would sit on my beanbag and stare into space, watching motes of dust suspended in sunlight.
I tried not to make any friends. I knew that as friendships progressed questions would get more intrusive, and I didn’t want to lie to people. People would ask about my past, where I was from, my childhood. Sometimes a student or a fellow lecturer would look at my hand, at the scarred and purple skin, but they would never pry.
It was a happy place, Stanford University. All the students wore smiles and red sweaters and looked very tanned and healthy for life forms who spent their entire days in front of computer screens. I would walk like a ghost through the bustle of the quad, breathing that warm air, trying not to be terrified by the scale of human ambition surrounding me.
I got drunk a lot on white wine, which made me a rarity. No one seemed to have hangovers at this place. Also, I didn’t like frozen yoghurt – a big problem, as everyone at Stanford lived on frozen yoghurt.
I bought myself music. Debussy, Ennio Morricone, the Beach Boys, Al Greene. I watched Cinema Paradiso. There was a Talking Heads song called ‘This Must Be the Place’ which I played over and over again, even though doing so made me feel melancholy and crave to hear her voice again, or to hear Gulliver’s footsteps on the stairs.
I read a lot of poetry, too, though that often had a similar effect. One
day I was in the campus bookstore and saw a copy of The Dark Ages by Isobel Martin. I stood there for what must have been the best part of half an hour reading her words aloud. ‘Freshly ravaged by the Vikings,’ I’d say, reading the penultimate page, ‘England was in a desperate state, and responded with a brutal massacre of Danish settlers in 1002. Over the next decade, this unrest was shown to breed even greater violence as the Danes embarked on a series of reprisals, culminating in Danish rule of England in 1013 . . .’ I pressed the page to my face, imagining it was her skin.
I travelled with my work. I went to Paris, Boston, Rome, São Paolo, Berlin, Madrid, Tokyo. I wanted to fill my mind with human faces, in order to forget Isobel’s. But it had the opposite effect. By studying the entire human species, I felt more towards her specifically. By thinking of the cloud, I thirsted for the raindrop.
So I stopped my travels and returned to Stanford, and tried a different tactic. I tried to lose myself in nature.
The highlight of my day became the evening, when I would get in my car and drive out of town. Often I would head to the Santa Cruz mountains. There was a place there called the Big Basin Redwoods State Park. I would park my car and walk around, gazing in wonder at the giant trees, spotting jays and woodpeckers, chipmunks and racoons, occasionally a black-tailed deer. Sometimes, if I was early enough, I would walk down the steep path near Berry Creek Falls, listening to the rush of water which would often be joined by the low croak of tree frogs.
At other times I would drive along Highway One and go to the beach to watch the sunset. Sunsets were beautiful here. I became quite hypnotised by them. In the past they had meant nothing to me. After all, a sunset was nothing really but the slowing down of light. At sunset light has more to get through, and is scattered by cloud droplets and air particles. But since becoming human I was just transfixed by the colours. Red, orange, pink. Sometimes there would be haunting traces of violet, too.
I would sit on the beach, as waves crashed and retreated over the sparkling sand like lost dreams. All those oblivious molecules, joining together, creating something of improbable wonder.