Disclaimer: This is my opinion, and you need not assent!
'Tis an experiment in a new (yet rather antiquated) prose, in additon to its content.
By a Most Humble Student of the World,
Anno Domini Two Thousand and Twenty-Five
There is a peculiar cruelty abroad in these times, one that I have observed with growing sadness, and it is this: that those who choose to live with care, with intention, with what we might call elegance in the fullest sense, are met with a kind of mockery that is all the more cutting for being wrapped in the language of liberation. “You are so formal,” it is said with a smile that is not quite kind. “You are so fussy.” “Why do you bother?” And beneath these remarks, there runs a current of something deeper: a suggestion that to care overmuch about such things is to be somehow less genuine, less authentic, perhaps even a little foolish.
I wish to speak in defence of those who are thus derided. I wish to speak for the person who ensures the knife blade turns inward, as is proper. For the cook who takes time to arrange a meal upon the plate with deliberation and care. For the student who wears a button-down shirt and a tie to university, not because they must, but because they choose to mark that pursuit of learning as worthy of attention. For those who wear a hat not as costume but as part of their considered presentation to the world, and who treat it with the respect a thing deserves. For those who remember not to turn, when arriving, to close the door gently, keeping their gaze and attention upon their host. For all those, in short, who have chosen what we might call the life of care, and who do not wish to be ashamed of that choice.
And I will tell you plainly: this defence is necessary. For there exists in our age a peculiar and pernicious notion that authenticity and casualness are synonymous, that to care is to pretend, that to attend to detail is to hide behind form. This is a grave error, and one that we shall do well to examine.
Let me begin with something I have observed, for observation is often the surest path to truth. Those who are derided for their elegance are, I have found, often among the most thoughtful people one might encounter. They are not careless. They do not drift through their days in a kind of pleasant haze. Rather, they move through the world with a particular attentiveness. They notice things. They consider consequences. They understand that actions ripple outward, that small gestures carry weight, that the way we do things matters.
Consider the person who takes care with a table setting. Now, a utilitarian mind might say: why does it matter which side the fork sits upon? Does the food taste differently? Is the nourishment altered? And the answer, quite plainly, is no. The food does not care. But—and here is the point that the utilitarian misses—the person eating does care, whether they admit it or not. For there is something in the human heart that responds to order, to intention, to the signal that says: You are worth arranging things for. You are worth ceremony.
I have dined in homes where such care was taken, and I have dined in homes where it was not. And I will tell you what I observed: in the former, there was a certain ease that arose, an unspoken understanding that we had gathered not merely to consume but to be together, in a way that was marked and made meaningful by the small attentions paid. In the latter, there was a pleasant informality, yes, but also a kind of flatness, as if everyone present were merely passing through, rather than truly meeting.
The person who plates a meal with care—who considers not only the taste but the presentation, who perhaps spreads a sauce with the back of a spoon in a careful pattern—is not being pretentious. Rather, they are saying something quite profound. They are saying: The care I have taken in making this food extends to the care I take in presenting it. I do not merely feed you; I offer you something made with attention. This is not pride. This is love. And yes, perhaps it is also artistry, but what is wrong with that? Are we not all artists of our own lives?
Now let us speak of those who choose to dress with intention in settings where such choice is no longer expected. I think of the student who wears a well-made shirt, even a tie, to university. The modern world would suggest to such a person that they are out of step, that they are performing something false, that they might as well be wearing a costume. But I wonder if this is true. I wonder, instead, if that student has not understood something rather important: that the pursuit of knowledge is a worthy thing, and that it is right to mark worthy things with intention. The careful dress is not a performance. It is a statement. It says: I take this seriously. I take myself seriously as a learner. I honour this place and this pursuit.
I have known such students. I have observed them in universities where most others dressed as though they had merely rolled out of bed and decided, as an afterthought, to attend lectures. And yet these careful students—the ones marked as “formal” or “fussy”—were often among the most engaged, most thoughtful, most genuinely present in their studies. Was this coincidence? Or was there something in the very act of dressing with care that contributed to a frame of mind in which care itself became natural?
Consider too the person who wears a hat. Now, this may seem a small thing, but I assure you it is not. For the hat is a particular kind of object. It is not merely practical; it is symbolic. It marks a person. It distinguishes them. And in our age, when so many of us blend into one another, when we dress so similarly that we are nearly indistinguishable, there is something almost brave in choosing to wear a hat. And braver still to wear it with respect, to understand that a fine hat is not merely a thing to be tossed about but an object worthy of care.
I have known people who wore hats in this way, and I have observed something interesting about them: they moved through the world differently. They seemed more present. They seemed to understand that to present oneself is not to hide but to engage. And perhaps more importantly, they seemed to understand that their own choices mattered, that they were not merely swept along by fashion or convention but were active agents in the presentation of themselves to the world.
And what of manners? What of those who remember that a gaze is sacred, who do not turn when arriving, and door quietly behind them, keeping their attention on their host rather than the object? What of those who choose always to be polite, who remember small courtesies, who understand that to be mannerly is not to be cold but to be considerate?
Here I must speak plainly about a great confusion of our age. Manners have been much maligned. We have been told that manners are false, that they are merely a mask worn to hide our true selves, that to be authentic we must be casual, even rude. This is profoundly mistaken. Manners, rightly understood, are not a mask at all. They are, rather, a language. They are a way of saying to others: Your comfort and your dignity matter to me. Your presence matters. I will not treat you carelessly.
The person who remembers not to turn around as they arrive, who keeps their attention on their host, is not being stiff or false. They are saying: Our time together matters. I do not merely arrive; I arrive with respect. This is not affectation. This is the most genuine form of care.
Now, I am aware that in speaking thus, I may seem to be arguing for a return to some imagined past, some golden age of formality and restraint. This is not my intention. The past had its own cruelties, its own falsities. There was much rigidity in old formality, much enforcement of manner that served to suppress rather than to express. I do not mourn the loss of those particular constraints. But in discarding the false rigidity, I fear we have also discarded something true: the understanding that how we do things is as important as what we do.
Let me put it another way. There is a difference between enforced formality and chosen elegance. The former is a prison. The latter is a garden. In the enforced formality of past ages, one was required to behave in certain ways, and to deviate was to risk punishment or shame. This was unjust. But the chosen elegance of which I speak—the decision to live with care, to attend to detail, to mark one’s days with intention—this is freedom. This is the exercise of choice. And yet, in our age, we have become suspicious of such choice. We have been taught to believe that to choose elegance is somehow to conform, to submit, to betray one’s authentic self.
This is backwards. It is precisely the opposite of the truth.
For what is authenticity, if not the expression of one’s genuine values and choices? If a person genuinely values beauty, genuinely desires to arrange things thoughtfully, genuinely wishes to move through the world with care and grace, then to deny these desires in the name of some imagined authenticity is to be false. It is to deny one’s own nature. The truly authentic person is the one who acts in accordance with their genuine values, not the one who pretends to values they do not hold.
And here, I think, is where the cruelty I mentioned at the outset becomes most apparent. For what the modern world often does is this: it takes those who choose elegance, who choose care, and it suggests to them that their choice is somehow wrong. It wraps this suggestion in the language of liberation—“You don’t have to do that,” “Why do you care so much?”—but what it really says is: Your values are not valid. Your choices are not legitimate. You should want what we want.
This is a kind of tyranny, though a gentle one. It is all the more insidious because it wears the mask of freedom.
I have known people who have been hurt by this mockery. I have seen them grow uncertain of their own instincts. I have watched as they began to doubt whether their desire for elegance was genuine or merely a kind of pretension they had unconsciously absorbed. And this saddens me greatly. For in losing confidence in their own choices, they have lost something essential: the sense that their lives are their own, that their values are legitimate, that they have the right to live according to their own understanding of what is beautiful and good.
So let me be clear, and let me be firm in this: the person who cares whether a knife faces inward is not pretentious. The cook who takes time with presentation is not wasting time. The student who dresses carefully is not performing. The person who wears a hat and respects it is not being fussy. The person who remembers manners is not being false. These are people who have made a choice—a choice to live with intention, to seek beauty, to understand that how we do things expresses who we are.
And they should not be ashamed of this choice.
I will go further. I will suggest that there is something needed in the world, something that has been lost, that these people are helping to recover. For in a age that has become increasingly careless, increasingly rushed, increasingly willing to do things in whatever manner requires the least effort, there is a particular value in those who choose the opposite path. They are, in a real sense, the guardians of a truth that we desperately need to remember: that excellence is possible, that beauty is worth pursuing, that care is not a luxury but a form of love.
Consider what happens when no one cares about such things. Consider a world in which every meal is consumed without attention, every interaction treated as mere transaction, every object handled carelessly, every moment rushed through toward the next moment. Is this a world we wish to create? Is this a world in which we might flourish?
I think not. And I think, in our hearts, most of us know this to be true.
The tragedy is that we have been taught to mock those who resist this carelessness, as if their resistance were somehow a form of snobbery or pretence, when in fact it is the opposite. It is a form of rebellion. It is a refusal to accept that the world must be one way. It is a quiet insistence that beauty still matters, that care still counts, that intentionality is still possible.
Let me end with a simple observation. I have lived a long time, and I have seen many things change. I have seen the world become faster, easier, more convenient in many ways. And I have seen something else change as well: the number of people who seem genuinely happy, genuinely at peace, genuinely present in their own lives has not increased with all this convenience. If anything, it has diminished. And I wonder if this is not because we have lost something in our rush to be free of all constraint and effort. I wonder if we have not discarded, along with the false rigidity of the past, some genuine goods that human beings need.
One of those goods, I believe, is the opportunity to create beauty, to exercise care, to move through the world with intention. And those who choose to do so should not be mocked. They should be honoured. For in their quiet insistence on elegance, they are keeping alive something essential: the belief that our lives are not merely things that happen to us, but things that we can shape, attend to, and make meaningful.
To those who choose elegance, I say: do not be ashamed. Your choice is valid. Your values are real. And the world needs what you are preserving. Do not let mockery deter you. Do not let the carelessness of others convince you that your care is folly. For you are not being foolish. You are being human in one of humanity’s highest forms: you are choosing to create beauty, to express care, to live with intention.
And that is never something to be ashamed of. It is, rather, something to be proud of.
Here ends the Defence.
Yours most sincerely,
Stephen Merriam, BSc