Running in Circles

In the midst of an entrancing conversation about Jean Genet’s inverted values or Jean Paul Sartre’s epiphany during his imprisonment in a concentration camp, my French Literature professor frequently identifies the distinction between the motto by which Americans assess and conduct their lives—the ever-familiar Nike adage, “Just do it”—and the slightly revised maxim to which the French pay heed: “Think about it.” Not only does this disparity demonstrate the profound comprehension that my professor possesses in regards to the psychology of American and French cultures; but it also underscores a reality which I—as a student of French and American literature for the past three years—have often detected.

My scholarly observation on the natures of French and American literature is the following: no matter how ominous or cynical a text might be, if it is the work of an American writer, it often (not always) provides at least a glimmer of hope by the ending, while French texts leave the reader feeling like—to put it melodramatically—there is no reason to live.

Although my findings are based primarily on visceral, emotional reactions to the texts I have analyzed throughout my college career, I nevertheless consider them validated by my French professor’s attention to the distinction between French and American mentalities. What some misogynists might dismiss as my “hormonal” reactions to literature, are actually quite in synch with the relationship between “Just do it” and “Think about it;” for isn’t it true that the more we think about a particular issue, the more complicated and impenetrable the issue becomes in our minds? And there is nothing more depressing than feeling impotent.

To provide a very menial example: whenever I want to go running, I wear my workout apparel throughout the entire day—to my classes, to lunch on Newbury Street, to the supermarket—even though I know my run will take place late in the afternoon. Why have I developed this routine? Because, after weeks of promising myself that I will run once the daily tasks are completed—only to reevaluate my decision in favor of the negative outcome as I lace my training shoes—I discovered that the only way I would go for a run was if I didn’t give myself the opportunity to “Think about it;” I had to “Just do it.”

In the context of my personal fitness, the American motto seems to be the more favorable one to follow. However, if we further assess the situation, what if, hypothetically, one day I impulsively go for a run without considering the fact that my stomach has been bothering me throughout the day? What if this abdominal discomfort turns out to be appendicitis? Now, that would not be pretty. If I had tapped into my French mentality, if only I had meditated on the implications of my stomachache, I could probably have avoided the condition to progress into an acute—albeit, hypothetical—peritonitis (consequence of a burst appendix).

But let’s not dwell on tiresome medical terms. Let us examine the symptoms through a purely literary stethoscope: the fact of the matter is that the French are more prone to recognize an infection within their society and dwell on this illness, whereas Americans might identify some sort of ailment; but they are too occupied acting to find a solution to actually contemplate its implications.

So which of the maxims should I choose to follow? Do I want to be pessimistic and cynical a la Albert Camus? Or should I emulate the grim, yet ultimately optimistic outlook of Willa Cather? The fact that I am pondering these questions is evidence that I have chosen the French approach, yet doesn’t the act of writing this post place me on the American, “Just do it” side?

It might be easier to simply adopt an adage of my own, one that I will attribute to my roots in the Latin American mentality: “Just relax.”