What Secret?

One thing life should teach everyone, sooner rather than later, is never to say, “Now I’ve seen everything.” I was reminded of this when I made the mistake of answering a question posed to me during an everyday conversation. I was asked if I’d ever read Rhonda Byrne’s insipid and insidious The Secret (the insipid and insidious part wasn’t part of my interrogator’s question, merely my own editorializing).

I answered that I hadn’t, but that I’d once been subjected to the movie, because someone at my last place of employment apparently thought it was so deep and insightful, we should all be subjected to it. Normally, I would never take the movie over the book; this is one time I gladly made an exception. Hell, it’s bad enough I’ll never get those 90 minutes of my life back.

You would think that I’d just told Billy Graham that I thought the Bible was crap.

My answer earned me a ten-minute harangue on this “miracle” of a book, which, I was assured, would “change my life.” It’s not that I don’t think that books (among other forms of art) can change your life. I can point to a handful off the top of my head that have done just that, like the writings of Rumi, or of Eduardo Galeano (I’d name more, but knowing me, that’d end up taking me waaaaaaay off topic). I just think that this particular work, and the worldview it promotes, borders on dangerous.

Byrne’s not the only one grinding out this industrial-strength pablum, granted. She’s just one of its more visible practitioners at the moment. Her thesis, in a nutshell, is that the universe is conspiring to help you. As long, one assumes, as you ask nicely, and provided you’ve purchased the book first. You can manifest all manner of wonders, from promotions to new cars to a new significant other. If you think about it long enough, the universe will deposit all manner of wonders into your lap and/or bank account.

Leaving aside the crass materialism for a bit, let’s examine two other, more disturbing, parts of the author’s thesis. The way she argues it, you manifest things by thinking of them. What that means, of course, is that if you hit the lottery, good on you; but the down side is that if you get cancer, a loved one dies, you lose your job, or a chunk of “blue ice” from a plane flying overhead takes out your skylight, you’ve brought it on yourself. Ain’t life grand?

But wait, there’s more. Let’s take this out of the realm of pop mysticism for a minute and look at it in purely practical terms, since I’m a party pooper like that. Common sense dictates that anything–everything–comes with a price. Let’s suppose, just to play Devil’s advocate for a minute, that Byrne’s thesis (but only for a minute; my brain will start to hurt after that) is valid. What do you suppose will happen to the economy, the planet, and to human life in general if all the lazy bastards out there who bought the book got their millions, and their cars, and their enormous homes and plastic wives? Luckily the world doesn’t work like that, but the shame of it is that enough of us act as though it does that… well, take a look around. The results speak for themselves.

Part of the problem I have with this book in specific, and with the genre in general is that if—whether because you worked overtime, used your connections, et cetera—you actually get what you wished for, then the book’s message is somehow validated. If, on the other hand, you wish for hours on end, use amulets and talismans, or maybe even a shrunken head for good measure, and it doesn’t work, it’s not because the book’s message is crap, it’s because you’re doing it wrong, which is the one great secret to self-help and faux-“spiritual” movements since time immemorial. There’s no standards, and no quality control. All you have to do is blame the poor bastard that believed you in the first place (cue Darth Vader: “I find your lack of faith disturbing.”).

That’s not all, though. I’m not such a cynic as to think that there’s no place in life for the religious, spiritual, or even mystical. They can be a beacon in the darkness for many people, and for others a gateway to a more meaningful life. It’s not a lazy person’s game, and I think that’s the largest part of the problem I have with books like this: they presume that there’s an easy way to nearly everything. Granted, sometimes there is; but often as not, it’s hard work, even drudgery, getting there. And there’s nothing wrong with that, since at the end of the day—whether in employment, or in matters of the soul, there is dignity in work.