I begin this text with the relatively clear awareness that in writing it, I am committing a sort of ultimate version of that original philosophical sin – contradictio in adjecto, a contradiction in terms. Eliteness, as I feel it – and as I will try to present it below – consists precisely in the complete negation of any speaking, even thinking, about… yes, eliteness. To speak of it, therefore, is nothing other than an act of conscious, declared, and directly maintained anti-eliteness, non-eliteness. That, at least, is my intention. In speaking of eliteness, I inevitably distance myself from it. And that is exactly how it should be, precisely so.

But why, then, do I do it? The reasons are complex, but I will try to keep the answer simple. First – because over the past few years, too many people have asked me whether I consider myself part of some kind of elite. And second – because I feel an urgent need to settle accounts with that little creature inside me that would like to see itself dressed in… the king’s clothes, I suppose.

So, let us clear the conceptual ground before we begin: the eliteness I want to speak about here has nothing to do with any of the commonly accepted meanings of the term in everyday speech: “political elite,” “economic elite,” “intellectual elite” (read: “people with power,” “people with money,” “people with social standing”). The eliteness I will speak of is that act of (likely unattainable) identity between being and truth which, for lack of better words, we are accustomed to call “authenticity.” Eliteness is the complete impossibility of being anything other than oneself. A life without choice. A life traversed not necessarily by one’s own will. A life defined by the unutterable.

Eliteness, like most other important things in this world (truth? fate? predestination?), is best captured in the famous phrase by that most-elite-of-men, Ludwig Wittgenstein: “Whereof one cannot speak, thereof one must be silent.” In that sense, the only possible answer to the question I cited above – “do you consider yourself part of some kind of elite?” – can be only this: “this is not something that concerns me.” The emphasis, as I tried to show through underlining, should fall on the words “not possible,” and that in an entirely literal sense – as in the phrase “one cannot walk on the ceiling, upside down.” The impossibility of this mental act arises from the very nature of eliteness as presented here – namely, as something that is inevitably destroyed by any attempt at self-definition, verbal or mental. Eliteness is the ultimate act of being, of existence, of actuality. It can only be, in the simplest, most elemental sense of the word – as something that is – but which is in such a way that it simply cannot be anything else, nothing different from itself. Eliteness, as I said, is a complete lack of choice. And the ability to live with that.

The first and most direct consequence of everything said so far must be that eliteness is not necessarily something desirable. Prometheus, one of its prototypes, illustrates this point clearly: he possesses that which humankind has always dreamed of – eternity – but who would wish for such an eternity? In this sense – as a form of privilege whose reality quickly proves unbearable from any normal human perspective – eliteness reveals itself as a fate that has nothing to do with wanting, with any comprehensible form of free choice. One cannot wish to belong to this elite. Still less can one declare that one does – in that case, as I’ve been trying to show all along, the declaration is automatically equal to a falsehood, to self-exclusion from the phenomenon. The only justification, the only necessity, for such a type of eliteness can be sought in metaphysical-mystical notions such as “God,” “universal mind,” “pan-theos.” It is obvious that it exists. It also seems obvious that something in the world has need of it. But it is equally obvious that it is not defined by any act of human will, individual or collective. We cannot “proclaim” elite individuals as such – it simply lies outside the bounds of our capacities as a species. Just as little can they do it themselves. Eliteness, as a kind of unrecognizable aberration, a deviation from the “normal,” can only ever be “registered” at some point, usually long after the physical disappearance of its bearer (often significantly assisted by those around him, who, due to some species-wide need, cannot tolerate its real manifestations for long).

But what then is the point of this entire reflection, if everything that follows from it is the postulation of the fundamental unrecognizability of eliteness? If it loses its only useful function for the human race – that of orientation, of standard, of measure for all others – then what’s the point of it? Wouldn’t it be better, in that case, to stick with the simpler, colloquial version (“people with money,” and so on)? The answer here, I believe, is “both yes and no.” The thing is, eliteness, while resistant to precise definition, nonetheless possesses characteristics, specific traits, that can aid in its pursuit. They cannot guarantee any positive result, but they’re still better than nothing.

The first and most important characteristic of eliteness is its unawareness. The elite individual does not know they are elite. This statement needs a bit of refining before it reaches its final form, since, of course, I am not suggesting that such a person is entirely oblivious to who they might be. So here is the first important clarification to the phrase above: the elite individual refuses to know that they are elite. To understand exactly what is meant here, I’ll use a metaphor. The ultimate act of eliteness can be portrayed in different ways; here I offer you two.

First – the sleepwalker walking along the edge of a twenty-storey building, with not the slightest hesitation, with absolute grace and infallibility – but only as long as he doesn’t know he’s doing it. The moment he wakes up, the moment he realises where he is, he stands almost no chance of survival. (The second metaphor is just a sharpened version of the first – the well-known cartoon character who can run into thin air, but only as long as they remain unaware of it.)

It is precisely in this sense that the earlier statement must be understood: the elite individual forbids themselves nothing, they have no need to put blinders on their eyes. The question of their own (or someone else’s) eliteness is not “taboo” – it is simply meaningless. A person who thinks about eliteness is not elite. Just that clear, just that simple. The elite individual simply is – and if this being turns out to be of that very specific, very rare kind… well, then so be it. But, of course, there is not the slightest bit of sense in any of this.

The second key trait of eliteness is that by its very nature – elusive, hard to register – it can be most easily marked through contrast and comparison with what it is not, which most often means: in acts of refusal, in non-doing of things that are non-elite. That is why one of the most important characteristics of eliteness is silence. And in a broader sense: non-participation. The elite individual usually does not become part of what excites, drives, and motivates the people around them (or far away from them). And this is not because they lack desire. The absence here is of a much deeper, fateful kind: they are simply not granted that kind of empathetic capacity which most of their fellow humans seem to possess. Modern science tries to capture this in understandable and measurable terms like “excessively high IQ” or “Asperger’s syndrome,” but the reality of this kind of life is probably better grasped by the threatening-sounding word autism – that is, a certain inability for normal human communication. Yes, eliteness seems oddly connected to autism (my daughter, for example, is one of the most elite, most authentic beings I know – precisely because her autism never allows her, not for a single moment of her life, to perform any act of pretense or untruth).

From here stems the ease with which one can offer examples of visible, intuitively recognizable eliteness, crystallized in one or another sensory form: Einstein sticking out his tongue (one cannot speak while sticking out one’s tongue – and tongue-sticking is a final form of refusal to speak); Gandhi bent over the spinning wheel, who also took a vow of silence; the mother of each of us, in the sense in which the mother is one of the most elite things in this world – as the one who will stand between you and any threat, before ever opening her mouth; the Mona Lisa; the bust of Voltaire; the cosmic baby from 2001: A Space Odyssey… But perhaps I’m beginning to drift off?

The third important trait of eliteness lies in the fact that, due to its close connection with the sense of no choice – with the predestined nature of what the elite individual is – it becomes especially visible in extreme, choice-less situations. Whether because they are accustomed to the feeling of inevitability at every moment of their life, or simply because fear is meaningless in a world where everything seems unbearably predetermined, the elite individual is particularly well suited to situations where lightning-fast, intuitive decisions are required, the consequences of which are completely unpredictable. (Incidentally, slow situations are no exception – in all fateful moments of their life, this person acts without being able to explain, without understanding, the reasons behind their decisions.) They do not know – they simply are, as always. What drives them in such moments is neither knowledge nor intellect. One might call it “a highly sensitive antenna for cosmic vibrations,” “a tool in the hands of God,” or simply “idiot savant,” but deep down we probably all suspect that in such moments, something touches us through them – something we cannot understand, cannot know… Lady Eliteness herself – in case we still feel the need for a word.

The fourth and final trait of eliteness accessible to me is its close bond with death. This doesn’t mean that the elite individual dies earlier than normal or that their life is filled with constant thoughts of death. No – the presence of the inevitable guest (how lovely that in Bulgarian she is feminine, don’t you think?)… that presence is something they are accustomed to in a way that is easy to describe but difficult to understand. Put as simply as possible: for the elite individual, death is not a threat (in that sense, old age is a condition that inevitably brings us closer to eliteness, because most older people eventually lose their fear of death, even if it has followed them all their life). It may sound banal, but for the elite individual, death is a kind of friend.

Fear of pain remains, of course – but even that is somewhat dulled, because the elite individual (ah yes, I should have mentioned this too) is an incurable optimist. They know – or rather sense – that the world is a kind of unfathomably complex function of their own being, existence, thought, signal – and for that reason they rarely fear the possible collapse of their own aspirations, simply because the absence of fear is a good prerequisite for the absence of collapse.

In short – the elite individual is aware of the limits of their perception, but instead of turning this basic fact of human existence into a reason for complaint, they make it the foundation of their defiance. Not all that kills me makes me weaker. That is their motto, and the fact that it is a direct opposition to Nietzsche’s famous aphorism does not make them any less confident in its truth.

They simply are, as always.

Berlin, 16 November 2011