Language is not what we lack. What we lack is effort.

We have an exceptionally rich language. I say this not as a consoling formula, nor out of some residue of schoolroom pride. I work with Bulgarian every day and speak from experience: it is flexible, vivid, saturated with nuance, capable of carrying in a single breath irony, anger, tenderness, sarcasm, philosophical abstraction, and crude corporeality—without falling apart. Our language can be precise and brutal, but also delicate; it can cut, but it can also build. Few languages allow such easy movement from high to low, from the tragic to the comic, from the vernacular to conceptual thought. That is not our problem.

Our problem is that we rarely use this language for beautiful and noble purposes. Not because we cannot, but because we do not wish to make the effort.

In Bulgarian public speech, a convenient substitution has long taken place: instead of thinking through language, we use it as a weapon of confirmation. Not to clarify, but to close. Not to risk investing meaning, but to spare ourselves the effort. The usual excuse: “This is how we have been made,” I do not accept for a moment. History comes into play here only as a universal alibi. We tell ourselves that we are rough because we have suffered; that we are cynical because we have been lied to; that we are distrustful because we have been betrayed so many times. All of this may be true—but it explains nothing anymore. Explanations that do not lead to change are simply excuses.

We often pride ourselves on the „strength“ of Bulgarian speech—its directness, its lack of circumlocution, its readiness to call things „by their real names.“ But behind this pose of honesty there stands, more and more often, not courage but laziness. It is easier to be crude than to be precise; easier to be cynical than attentive; easier to humiliate than to formulate an argument. The Bulgarian language allows both—the only question is which we choose.

In the public sphere this is most visible. There, language rarely serves for shared thinking. Instead, it most often functions as a marker for quick recognition: who is „ours,“ who is „theirs,“ who speaks „as one should.“ And here comes the paradox: we do in fact have strict rules of permissible speech, but they are unspoken. They are not official, not codified, not acknowledged. They operate as instinct. We know when a remark „passes,“ when it is „in place,“ when it will provoke approving silence or laughter. This invisible norm does not punish crudity—it rewards it. It does not punish simplification—it encourages it.

It is often said that we „have no political correctness.“ This is not true. We do—but turned inside out. Instead of requiring attentiveness to the vulnerable, it demands demonstrative disregard. Instead of disciplining language, it disciplines doubt. People do not punish you for offending; they punish you if you do not offend convincingly enough. If you try to speak in a complex way, you risk being declared hypocritical. If you try to speak nobly, you are immediately perceived as naïve. Thus language gradually shrinks to a set of signals of belonging.

In this sense, our problem is not that we speak „badly,“ but that we speak cheaply. Cheaply in terms of effort, not necessarily register. Cheaply as a refusal to use the full potential of our words. Historical traumas do not oblige us to be this way. They merely provide a convenient justification for not changing.

And when a society grows accustomed to using its language primarily for complacent confirmation rather than for thinking, the cost is not moral. It is cultural. And that cost is paid every day—in conversations, in the media, in politics, in the way we speak about others and about ourselves.

How Complacency Became a Register

Of course, complacency is never declared openly. It hides behind words and becomes visible only under closer scrutiny. No one says: „I am complacent.“ It is not a position, but a disposition; not an opinion, but a manner of speaking. In the Bulgarian public sphere it functions as a register—a pre-set tone in which certain statements sound „normal,“ while others sound suspicious. That is precisely why it is so difficult to recognize: complacency is not experienced as a problem, but as a natural background.

When I speak here of complacency, I do not mean self-confidence or pride. Self-confidence implies risk—the possibility of being refuted. Pride implies measure—a sense of value that must be defended. Complacency implies neither. It is completeness without effort. Certainty that has not passed through testing. That is why it is perfectly suited to public speech in an environment where no one expects the conversation to lead anywhere.

In this register, language does not serve to refine, but to close. Statements are not made in order to be continued, but in order to be recognized. They function as passwords. Whoever utters them correctly is accepted; whoever deviates from them is suspected. Thus public speech gradually turns into a system of signals rather than arguments. Meaning becomes secondary to tone. Content yields to the confidence with which something is said.

One of the most important properties of this register is that it does not tolerate effort. Effort sounds like affectation. Attentiveness—like hypocrisy. Precision—like evasion. The Bulgarian language allows complexity, but the complacent register penalizes it. It rewards the quick, the categorical, the simplified—not because they are more accurate, but because they are more convenient. In this way, a cultural environment is created in which thought must constantly apologize for its own existence.

It is important to understand: this is not the absence of rules, but the presence of different rules. The complacent register has its own strict economy. It rewards crudity because it creates the illusion of authenticity. It rewards cynicism because it resembles worldly wisdom. It rewards contempt because it requires no arguments. All of this saves effort—and that is precisely why it is so stable.

Here we encounter one of the key substitutions in contemporary Bulgarian public language. The complacent register often presents itself as „popular,“ „healthy,“ „unpretentious.“ In reality, it is deeply conservative—not in a political, but in a cultural sense. It does not allow development, because development requires a change of tone, and a change of tone is experienced as a threat. Whoever speaks differently seems to question the very normality of speaking. This provokes an aggressive reaction not because something offensive has been said, but because the register itself has been violated.

Complacency as a public register has one more important property: it is collective. Its stability does not come from the support of particular figures, but from the silent agreement of those who listen. People rarely defend it with arguments; they simply reproduce it. This gives it a resilience that does not depend on political cycles or media platforms. The register passes from conversation to conversation, from generation to generation, without ever being named.

This is precisely why historical explanations are so convenient. They allow us to accept this register as an inevitable result of the past, rather than as a present choice. But the moment we recognize it as a choice—as a way of sparing ourselves the effort to speak better, more precisely, more responsibly—it ceases to be fate. It becomes visible that the problem lies not in the language, but in the decision not to use it fully.

Cheap Anti-Europeanism as an Exercise in Complacency

One of the easiest applications of the complacent register in Bulgarian public speech is cheap anti-Europeanism. By „cheap“ I do not mean criticism of real European policies, institutional deficits, or ideological contradictions. Such criticism would require knowledge, comparison, and argument—that is, effort. What I mean is something else: a reflexive, complacent way of speaking „about Europe“ that aims not at understanding, but at self-confirmation.

In this register, „Europe“ is not a concrete political space, but a convenient abstract object. It is at once distant and annoyingly close, prestigious enough to be worth rejecting, and impersonal enough that it cannot respond. This is what makes it an ideal target. To speak dismissively about Europe is to take a position without risk. No one will demand precision from you. No one will insist on distinctions. In the complacent register, generalization is not merely allowed—it is required.

This kind of speech rarely begins from a concrete problem. It begins from a ready-made mood. Europe is „hypocritical,“ „decadent,“ „overly sensitive,“ „detached from reality.“ The formulas are familiar and easily reproducible. They do not require knowledge of European societies, nor of their internal conflicts. It is enough to feel that „something is wrong there.“ This feeling becomes an argument, and the argument becomes a source of complacency: at least we are „real“ and „normal“; at least we „do not pretend.“

At that point, anti-Europeanism ceases to be a position and becomes a gesture. A gesture of liberation from comparison. Europe is uncomfortable not because it is morally higher or lower, but because it is a measure. To compare ourselves with it requires us to think about results, institutions, and standards of public conduct. The complacent register avoids precisely that. That is why it prefers mockery to analysis and caricature to understanding.

Here the workings of cultural laziness become especially clear. Instead of using our language to formulate complex, nuanced criticism—for example of real European double standards, bureaucratic absurdities, or social tensions—we choose ready-made clichés. They spare us the trouble of thinking and give us a fleeting sense of superiority. Complacency here is not the consequence of an argument; the argument is its consequence.

It is especially telling that this register often goes hand in hand with a refusal of responsibility for ourselves. When we speak dismissively about Europe, we are not simply criticizing „the others.“ We are freeing ourselves from the question of what exactly we expect from ourselves. If Europe is „decayed,“ then there is no point comparing ourselves with it. If Europe is „artificial,“ then our awkwardness begins to look authentic. In this way, complacent anti-Europeanism becomes a defense mechanism against our own cultural complexes.

It is important to stress that this is not about choosing between „pro-European“ and „anti-European.“ It is about choosing between speech that takes a risk and such that avoids it. In the first case, Europe is a real partner in dispute—with its strengths and weaknesses. In the second, it is merely a backdrop for complacent speech that admits no questions.

That is precisely why cheap anti-Europeanism is so resilient. It cannot be refuted, because it asserts nothing concrete. It cannot be refined, because it does not aim at truth. It is part of a register in which language serves not for orientation in the world, but for the quick affirmation of a position without effort.

„It’s not as if I hit him with a brick“: the hierarchy of the real

One of the most durable formulas of the complacent public register is contempt for the feelings of the other person. It usually appears in the form of a supposedly common-sense remark: „What’s the big deal, they’re only words,“ „it’s not as if I hit him in the face,“ „people have become too sensitive.“ In these phrases there is no aggression in the narrow sense of the word. There is something deeper: a clearly ordered hierarchy of the real, in which only the physical is recognized as „real,“ while everything else is regarded as secondary, almost imaginary.

Within this hierarchy, words carry no weight. They are air, noise, vapor. Feelings are a „luxury,“ permitted only to people who have no „real problems.“ Vulnerability is perceived not as a human condition, but as a strategy of manipulation. Thus every reaction against crudity is automatically interpreted as an attempt at moral pressure. The complacent register works flawlessly here: it does not defend the insult, it nullifies the very concept of insult.

This is not simply a lack of empathy. It is an active refusal to recognize that language has consequences. That refusal is convenient, because it relieves the speaker of responsibility. If words „are nothing,“ then there is not much to think about. There is no need for precision, for context, for attentiveness to effect. Speech becomes a zone without consequences. It is here that complacency finds its purest form: the certainty that we may use our language without any duty toward the other.

The paradox is that this attitude is not a sign of strength, but of a deficit in cultural imagination. Societies that take language seriously do not do so out of sentimentality, but out of practicality. They know that words structure relationships, that they define the limits of the permissible, that they shape what we regard as normal. When we refuse to acknowledge this, we do not become more realistic. We become harsher toward ourselves, because we deprive communication of its instruments of self-regulation.

The complacent register turns this harshness into a virtue. It presents it as „healthy,“ „popular,“ „without unnecessary flourishes.“ In reality it is a form of intellectual impoverishment. When feelings are disqualified a priori, the possibility of complex conversation disappears. What remains are strong remarks and weak arguments. What remains is noise mistaken for frankness.

Here again we see how language is used not fully, but only halfway. Bulgarian allows one to express anger without humiliation; to criticize without dehumanizing; to speak sharply without surrendering meaning. The complacent register, however, chooses the shorter path. It reduces complexity to gesture, and gesture to pressure. Everything that requires additional effort is declared superfluous.

This attitude has another effect as well, one often overlooked. It creates a culture of constant escalation. When words mean nothing, then in order to be heard one must shout ever louder. In order to attract attention, one must become ever more extreme. Public speech thus moves not toward clarity, but toward the limit. Not toward argument, but toward impact. Complacency here is not calmness, but constant tension disguised as „normality.“

In this sense, the phrase „it’s not as if I hit him with a brick“ is not an innocent joke. It is a principle. A principle that says: everything that leaves no physical trace does not exist. A society that accepts this principle gradually loses the ability to think about the consequences of its own words. And when language ceases to be a place of responsibility, it inevitably becomes a place of arbitrariness.

Minorities as ritual: speech that proves belonging

There is one field in which the complacent public register operates with particular ease and almost no resistance: speech about minorities. What is at issue here is not isolated outbursts of hatred or extreme political positions. It is something more structural and more normalized: a language that functions as a ritual of belonging. To speak „as one should“ about certain groups is not a matter of opinion, but of signal—a proof that you are part of the majority, that you share its instincts, that you are „not one of those.“

In this register, minorities are rarely thought of as real people with biographies, interests, and internal differences. They are turned into symbolic figures—convenient precisely because they are far enough from the center of public legitimacy. It is this distance that makes them a safe target. Speaking about them carries no risk. On the contrary—it brings approval. Complacency here is not an individual feeling, but a collective gesture.

It is important to understand that this kind of speech is not experienced as cruelty. What supports and sustains it is the feeling of normality. Often even of honesty. The usual formula is: „We are simply saying things as they are.“ But this „as they are“ is never subjected to examination. It arises not from analysis, but from repetition. The complacent register operates here through the authority of habit: we repeat the same formulas until they begin to sound like self-evident truths.

This mechanism has a clear function. It frees the majority from the need to think about its own role in social tensions. If the problem is always „them,“ then there is no need for self-reflection. There is no need to ask how institutions function, how exclusion is produced, how deficits accumulate. Language carries the entire burden by shifting it outward. Complacency here manifests itself as a refusal of complexity.

Speech about minorities is not simply an expression of prejudice. It is a form of social discipline. Through it, boundaries are drawn: who has a right to sympathy and who does not; whose pain is legitimate and whose is suspicious; whose problems deserve attention and whose are „always the same.“ The complacent register admits no nuance, because nuance would unsettle the very function of the ritual.

Here again we see how little we use the potential of our language. Bulgarian is fully capable of describing social conflicts with precision, of distinguishing individual behavior from structural problems, of speaking about responsibility without resorting to collective labels. But the complacent register chooses otherwise. It prefers the general, because the general requires no thought. It prefers mockery, because mockery closes the conversation. It prefers contempt, because contempt asks no questions.

It is especially telling that every effort to change this language is met with suspicion. The attempt to speak more carefully is interpreted as „political correctness“ imported from abroad. The attempt at distinction is declared hypocrisy. In this way the complacent register defends itself: it not only dominates, it actively repels alternatives. Not because they are unconvincing, but because they threaten convenience.

By this point, it ought to have become clear that what is at stake here is not a „lack of values.“ On the contrary, what is at stake is the presence of a very specific value: social comfort. The comfort of not thinking about the consequences of our words. The comfort of speaking forcefully without taking responsibility. The comfort of using language as a sign of belonging rather than as a means of understanding.

It is precisely here that complacency reveals its full scope. It is not merely an attitude toward others. It is an attitude toward language itself—toward the refusal to use it as an instrument of complex, risky, sometimes painful thought. Minorities in this sense are not the cause, but the symptom. A symptom of a cultural choice in which we prefer the easy to the meaningful.

Reverse Political Correctness: The Rules That Go Unspoken

So far we have spoken about different fields in which the complacent public register manifests itself—Europe, feelings, minorities. But these manifestations are not accidental. They obey a common logic, a set of informal rules that we all recognize, even if we rarely formulate them. This is precisely our specific form of political correctness—not its absence, but its inversion.

In this inverted correctness there is no list of words that must not be uttered. There is a list of positions that must be taken. To speak „correctly“ means to adopt the expected attitude—loudly, demonstratively, without hesitation. What is sanctioned here is not crudity, but hesitation. What is punished is not simplification, but the attempt at distinction. To be „politically correct“ in this register means to leave no doubt where you stand.

These rules are unwritten, but stable. They operate through social pressure, not through institutions. No one needs to censor you; it is enough for you to sense the disapproval, the ironic smile, the suspicion. The complacent register rewards those who speak confidently and without qualification, even when they say nothing concrete. Conversely, it punishes those who allow themselves complexity, because complexity looks like hesitation, and hesitation looks like weakness.

In this system of speech, nobility is suspicious. Attention to words is perceived as affectation. The attempt to avoid humiliation is interpreted as softness. Thus a strange paradox arises: our language is rich, but the cultural norm teaches us to use only its coarsest registers. Everything else is experienced as needless complication.

It is especially important that this inverted political correctness is not experienced as pressure. It is experienced as freedom. The freedom to „just say it.“ The freedom „not to care.“ But this is freedom without risk. A freedom that does not require you to take responsibility for the effect of your words. Real freedom of speech includes the risk of being misunderstood, criticized, or shown to be imprecise. The complacent register avoids this risk by moving along worn-out formulas.

Here it becomes clear why this register is so resilient. It needs neither ideology nor arguments. It reproduces itself automatically, because it offers social security. Whoever speaks „correctly“ knows that he will not be isolated. Whoever speaks differently risks being left alone. Thus language gradually turns from a space for thought into a space for agreement.

Historical explanations once again come „to the rescue“ in order to legitimize this register. We tell ourselves that we are this way because we have lived through much; that crudity is a form of survival; that attention to language is a luxury of „well-ordered societies.“ But that is only part of the truth. In reality, this register saves us effort here and now. It allows us not to think about the consequences of our words, not to bear the weight of complex positions, not to confront our own contradictions.

Reverse political correctness is not a sign of authenticity. It is a sign of refusal. A refusal to use our language as an instrument of cultural development. A refusal to demand more of ourselves. A refusal to admit that we are capable of more than we actually do. That is precisely what complacency consists in: not in the confidence that we are sufficient, but in the unwillingness to test whether we might become better.

The Price of Complacency

The complacent public register has a price that we rarely notice, because it is not paid all at once. It is not scandalous, not dramatic, not measurable by a single event. It accumulates slowly—in the erosion of conversation, in the disappearance of trust, in the feeling that whatever we say, nothing matters. This is a price we pay not as individuals, but as a society.

The first and most obvious loss is the loss of meaningful dispute. When public language moves within the register of complacency, argument ceases to be a means of clarification and becomes a contest in confidence. Victory goes not to the one who formulates more precisely, but to the one who speaks more categorically. In such an environment, arguments sound like weakness, and doubt like defeat. Society gradually loses the habit of thinking together, because thinking requires patience, and patience brings no immediate reward.

The second loss is the loss of linguistic dignity. Not in a moral, but in a cultural sense. When we use our rich language mainly for mockery, discrediting, and noise, we impoverish it ourselves. Not because the words disappear, but because they shrink into functions. Language ceases to be a space for discovering meaning and becomes an instrument of social positioning. This is especially destructive because it deprives us of one of the few things we genuinely possess in abundance.

The third loss is the loss of trust—not only between different groups, but among ourselves. When we know that every more complex position will be met with suspicion, we begin either to fall silent or to simplify. When we know that attention to language will be interpreted as hypocrisy, we choose cynicism. In this way, the public sphere fills with noise but grows poor in content. People speak a great deal, but rarely say anything worth continuing by others.

The deepest price, however, is the blockage of change. Not because language by itself changes reality, but because without a language capable of thinking complexity, change cannot even be formulated. The complacent register closes the horizon. It suggests that everything is already clear, that there is nothing left to clarify, that the world is simple and understandable. In such a world there is no place for new questions, and without questions there is no movement.

Here we arrive at the most uncomfortable point. Complacency is not imposed from outside. It is not the result of censorship, pressure, or a lack of freedom. It is our choice. A choice to use our language at minimum power. A choice to prefer convenience to effort. A choice to hide behind history instead of taking responsibility for the present. This does not make us bad people. It makes us lazy in the most dangerous sense of the word—culturally.

None of this means that we must become „more polite,“ „softer,“ or „more Western.“ The point is not to replace one register with another ready-made one. The point is to refuse automatism. To be willing to use our language not only for defense and attack, but for thought. To allow ourselves to be precise where we are accustomed to being crude. To be complex where we have grown used to simplification. To risk being misunderstood instead of hiding behind the safety of approval.

If there is one thing we can allow ourselves without excuses, it is this effort. Our language makes it possible. History no longer stands in our way. The only thing that stands in our way is complacency—that comfortable, quiet, seemingly harmless register in which we speak a great deal, but rarely say anything that might change us.