About Nothing

The magic of finding profundity in the mundane

One of my favorite Seinfeld scenes is when George wonders why the doors on public bathrooms’ stalls do not come all the way down to the floor. So you can see whether there’s someone in there, responds Susan. Isn’t that why we have locks on the doors? George’s counter argument goes. Well, as a backup system, in case the lock is broken, you can see if it’s taken, matter-of-factly explains Susan. “A backup system? We’re designing bathroom doors with our legs exposed in anticipation of the locks not working? That’s not a system, that’s a complete breakdown of the system!” And George would have gone on forever with his argument had Susan not asked to change the subject.

Seinfeld is often depicted as the “Show about nothing”, as it lacks a clear central plot or underlying storyline. The show explores the everyday lives and conversations of its characters, with seemingly mundane events and observations about otherwise unnoticeable situations serving as the basis for its humor. The characters often find themselves caught up in apparently unimportant details, such as a discussion about the etiquette of double-dipping chips, or the frustration of trying to find a good parking spot, or a new jacket that completely changed Jerry’s life (“Inside this jacket I am composed, grounded, secure that I can meet any social challenge”). And these trivial topics become the basis for the show's comedic moments, as the characters react in exaggerated or unexpected ways and end up turning trivial into profound. It’s an approach to storytelling that focuses on the small and immaterial to make it large and material, with a generous serving of hilarity on the side. 

How many times have we found ourselves in conversations about the most mundane, microscopic, insignificant, useless, negligible things? How many times have we found ourselves in conversations about nothing? I’ve spent ridiculous amounts of time discussing whether toilet paper should be back-hanging or fore-hanging from the roll. Or whether a carbonara should be made with only yolks or whole eggs. Or where (when, rather) to stop a time machine. And why a horse’s life wouldn’t change a micro-bit if you put it into that time machine and send it back a thousand years. 

How many times have we indulged in conversations about nothing only to see such nothing turn into something meaningful? Maybe it’s just me, but my experience is that if I give myself permission to go on and allow for enough time to pass, this transformation always occurs. And over time I’ve learned to trust the process without judging the triviality and (often) nonsense of what I’m saying or writing. I’ve learned to just let it be and wait for something to happen.  

There’s a mysterious beauty in talking about nothing. It’s like entering a world of infinite possibility, where the mind can wander freely and the imagination runs wild. A place of boundless curiosity that is both empty and full. There, even the most mundane details of existence can be transformed into something profound and meaningful if we remain in this timeless dimension to entertain them long enough. If we remain careless and spontaneous. Inhibited and unconcerned. I've always been fascinated by the strange allure of talking about nothing. It's a subject that's both seductive and elusive, a paradoxical realm of abstraction.

The other day I got into an endless discussion about unnecessary words, those that neither add to nor subtract from the content and quality and context and overall flavor of what we want to convey. Like “and foremost” after “first”, for example. Or some adverbs like “excruciatingly” used to qualify “painful”, or “strictly” to reinforce words like “forbidden”; as if painful were not painful enough, and forbidden were not forbidden enough. Sometimes, something is strictly confidential. But doesn’t it convey the same thing if it’s only confidential, i.e., that you should keep it for yourself? How do you strictly keep something for yourself? Besides keeping your mouth shut, do you lock yourself up in a bunker? It makes me think that if something isn’t strictly confidential, maybe you can tell about it a little. To me, something it’s either confidential or non confidential, there’s really no degree of confidentiality. 

I can understand painful though, said the person I was discussing with. Something might be a lot more painful than something else; painful has degrees, she continued, so a qualifier might make sense. But these qualifiers might evoke different pain levels to different people: something excruciating for me might be just about acceptable for someone else. I don’t know, I guess it depends on who experiences the pain, and their tolerance, I responded. And the moment they’re in, and the period in their life and a million different other things. And so we went on forever and we delved so deep into this theme that the triviality and insignificance and obviousness of its beginning ended up opening our eyes to more profound considerations like the variability of pain and its relative scale and the uniqueness of each human existence.

And this is precisely what talking about nothing is. By giving ourselves permission to just ramble on about the most meaningless and unnecessary subjects, we venture to places where -- mysteriously, almost magically -- the insignificant become significant, the shallow becomes profound, the trivial becomes serious.

But nothingness is not restricted to talking. In writing, it’s an effective yet not easily accessible way of entering a state (or sphere or domain, for lack of a better word) where interesting, writeworthy subjects (almost) miraculously reveal themselves once enough nothing has been processed. 

Philip Roth, one of my all-time favorite authors, was a master at writing about nothing and making it into something meaningful and captivating. He had a way of delving into the most insignificant, ordinary details to create depth and significance. In American Pastoral, arguably Roth’s most prominent novel, he describes the process of glove-making in great detail. And this isn’t only a way of adding color to the narrative, but also a metaphor for the character's struggle to connect with his daughter, who has become a radical activist -- the process of making a glove requires a delicate touch and patience, and in the same way, he must learn to approach his daughter with patience and care if he hopes to understand her and be reciprocated. In Portnoy's Complaint, another masterpiece, Roth describes the protagonist's obsession with a particular brand of underwear, culminating in a scene where he steals a pair from his sister's dresser. This seemingly trivial yet humorous detail is a way of exploring the character's sexual desires and his disturbing relationship with his family.

I drink a lot of water. They say it’s good for you and you should drink two liters a day, at least. I drink three. I swear. Three liters a day, sometimes more. Still, not sparkling. I hate sparkling water. They also say you should drink water when you’re not eating and when you’re not thirsty, which I find a little annoying, cause I get bloated easily. But I do that. I do that in the morning on an empty stomach, and in the middle of the afternoon and whenever I remember. Kind of a water discipline. And I’ve been buying the same brand for ages now. It’s called Levissima. Some say they all taste the same, but I can tell a good water. Or maybe I can’t and it’s all a suggestion. Last night I had dinner with my kids and I told them about the Potato Paradox, which is this mathematical riddle where they say that 100kg of potatoes are made of 99% water. Then they leave them outside overnight and in the morning they are made of 98% water. What is their new weight? And apparently it’s 50kg and it’s not really intuitive and you have to think that water can change overnight but potato matter can’t and we had a great discussion about math and common sense. About how important it is to master some basic math skills like percentages and equations as the world revolves around numbers and quick estimates and knowing your way around figures. We talked about math as a universal language, the language of nature. And how math and music are the only two truly universal languages.        

And as I’m listening to The Source by saxophonist supreme Chris Potter, I can’t help but realize that the ultimate source of this idea of universal languages has been water. Or, once again, nothing.

In the episode titled The Pitch, Jerry Seinfeld, who’s already playing himself (one of the most famous stand-up comedians, for the five who don’t know) in the series, gets approached by NBC executives after his comedy act and asked to pitch them an idea for a TV series. So Jerry discusses this with George, who comes up with the idea of it being "a show about nothing". And at the end of the discussion, after much back and forth between George’s conviction and Jerry’s skepticism, Jerry caves with a “I think you may have something here”. 

One of the highest moments of TV absurdity -- a meta episode on the genesis of the show itself. Like talking about people who talk about nothing. The pinnacle of nothingness leading to somethingness.

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