‘I have nothing that is mine owne, but my selfe, yet is the possession thereof partly defective and borrowed.’ So spake Michel de Montaigne, French Renaissance philosopher. It’s another pearl from my Shakespeare profs; arcane grandiloquence to your average punter but to swatting English Lit finalists one of those lines that can prise open a 400 year-old play, pointing to fresh interpretations, and a reminder that for all our mod cons, next day deliveries, and bottled water, the old boys can still teach us a thing or two about the human condition. To put this nugget into context, many of the most memorable works of Early Modern drama show characters – typically tragic – caught between two opposing philosophical doctrines. Behind the bloodshed, bawdiness, and betrayal that grip audiences past and present, identity crises are the crux of these plays and fuel academic discussion around the world.

At one end of this metaphysical tug of war is Stoicism, championed by the likes of Cicero or Seneca (appropriately remembered nowadays as chiselled marble busts resistant to time’s assault). This is the side to which tragic protagonists generally gravitate. They define themselves against the world and are acutely aware of their individualism. For them, life is a battle to preserve their uniqueness. They’re tempest-tost, beleaguered by sycophantic servants, and deprived of a good night’s sleep by visions of downfall and disorder. They make no concessions and defend their lonely parapet with monomaniacal fervour. It’s a tough road to tread with danger around every corner. Naturally, this perceived external threat hardens the character so that they become steely and stubborn by temperament, insistent that they are themselves in spite of their surroundings, loathe to contemplate that they might in fact be the product of their environment. 

Tugging at the other end of this figurative rope are the Epicureans. Far more chilled-out than their Stoic counterparts, they’re not fazed by the confluence of personalities and mingling of bodies that confronts modern man. To them, the frontier between the individual and society is fluid and should be accepted as such rather than hopelessly guarded. For all the Stoic’s protestations, they understand that we cannot help but be defined by surrounding society. Our individual identity, they assert, is the result of the human interactions that are the fabric of our lives. Cue Montaigne, who’s opening quote expresses this notion that we are who we are because of the network in which we exist. At a time when our privacy is increasingly encroached upon by seemingly boundless networks, it’s easy to see how the individual is engulfed by the systems that characterise modern life. Like a fly denied its namesake freedom by a spider’s web, we might visualise ourselves at the nexus of a sprawling net of interrelated associations.

But this understanding of our identity mustn’t necessarily be a bitter pill for us to swallow, acknowledging grudgingly that our identity is beyond our control. To take my analogy a step further, rather than picturing ourselves as a sorry fly flailing in that inescapable net of human relationships, we can instead choose to be the spider. I’m not advocating a predatory approach to human relationships – if fulfilling friendships and an enduring love life are important to you, that’s probably not the way to go about it. But a recognition and appreciation of our place within a greater social structure can give us both the confidence and humility to be and accept ourselves.

Unfortunately for me, it took a showdown with a delivery van to teach me this valuable lesson. Despite ingesting lines like Montaigne’s and studying the dramatic consequences of denying that our bodies and identities are permeable and subject to external influence, I had been harbouring a stoic disposition, believing that my individuality was defined against the backdrop of those surrounding me rather than the focal point of exterior forces. That may seem a bit of an overstatement. After all, I wasn’t crusading around London, rampaging against everyone and anything that seemed to threaten my me-ness. But after so long insisting that I would achieve whatever I set my mind to independently, it was certainly a shock to be faced by my acute dependence on a multitude of people who – for love, duty, or sheer goodwill – were there to get me back on my feet when I really couldn’t do it by myself.

Ideally, it wouldn’t take such a physical slap to make me realise just how much we all rely upon our network to allow us to be the people we are. My girlfriend gave me Adam Kay’s This is Going to Hurt whilst I convalesced in Kings College Hospital. It’s not highbrow and it’s not written in iambic pentameter. But its accounts of life on the front line of the NHS are both hilarious and poignant and had me stifling my laughter and dabbing my eyes. To be experiencing first-hand much of what he chronicles made my gratitude all the more immediate. And that gratitude extends beyond the host of healthcare heroes who I might never have met but for a simple twist of fate.  Friends and family, colleagues and past acquaintances not seen for years played a part in the recovery process. I’m lucky to have them.

Rather than emphasising our differences, Epicureanism celebrates kinship. Who knows how many tragedies might have been prevented if the protagonists had heeded its teachings. For my part, I intend to steer on the away from drama, secure in the knowledge that there’s a darn good net(work) there for me should I fall.