This article is part of our series entitled “Portraits of the imperious self”:
► you may read the general presentation of the series here: Portraits of the imperious self (1): an ethics of transformation
► to view all the articles of the series see: Portraits of the imperious self

If the plural “portraits” is used here, it is to best illustrate the multifaceted and elusive figure of our inner life for the imperious self is a shape-shifting model that makes for a difficult subject for a painter. We never really know where to find it when we look for it, and we often find it where we have not been looking for it—at times in our outward behaviour, more often in our thoughts and emotions, in our most daily activities as well as in our actions that appear most spiritual and most noble. The imperious self is like a creeping rootstalk that runs underground and spreads itself out in the Self. Only via the shoots that now and then become visible in our consciousness do we have access to it, though we can never unearth it completely and it is always there. This presentation will therefore be limited to a few manifestations that I have observed in myself and through the experiences that I have been able to gather. These portraits are sometimes similar and often match up. For more clarity, I will distinguish them from one another, but most of the time the imperious self presents itself under several guises and at several levels at the same time, enabling it to confuse and disorient us.

The goal, then, is not to present an exhaustive portrait of the imperious self, but rather, with the help of examples, to identify this adversary with many faces whose most powerful weapon is precisely its ability to go unnoticed. The experiences related here are not necessarily the most subtle ones that I have been experiencing, but they are the ones which can be more readily conveyed. Beyond a certain level of subtlety, the interactions with the imperious self are difficult to put into words—it is up to everyone to make their own experiences and to measure the wealth of their observations.

The imperious self commonly manifests itself in the form of a raw or imperious impulse. An impulse that pushes us to act or think in a way that satisfies our illegitimate desires with no concern for reason, good and evil, or the rights of others. It produces desires, attractions and emotions that are sometimes ordinary and sometimes so appealing they become irresistible unless we can counter them with solid arguments.

• The desire to stand out: someone is telling a story and I brutally interrupt to tell my own story, which is similar, but so much more interesting.
• The desire for someone: I am in a committed relationship and I am overwhelmed by the desire for another women/man.
• Envy and jealousy: a colleague of mine got a promotion I would have liked to get, and now I can only see his flaws which I go around telling everyone about.

In its most exacerbated form, an imperious impulse is comparable to a tidal wave that breaks through the dykes of reason and moral conscience, knocking down in its path all social rules, ethical principles, or the good resolutions we might have made—it is blind anger, vengeful hatred, or, in a deficient mode, suicidal behaviour. It can also correspond to some addictive behaviour: gambling, alcohol, smoking, etc. At a less spectacular level, addiction to television, to the internet or to video games also may fall within the scope of the imperious self. We most often know we should stop, yet the best reasons in the world cannot give us the strength to do so. Whether we are aware of it or not, at this stage an imperious impulse has taken control of our willpower.

I am addicted to the news. This manifests itself by having a compulsive need whenever I get an opportunity to watch the news—on TV, on the internet, or in magazines. At the onset it is probably due to intellectual curiosity, which is a good thing. The problem is that it can get completely out of proportion: I can stay up late at night or spend hours on a day off from work reading online news, although I have a million things I promised myself or my family I would take care of.

Even though I know how negative this behaviour is, how sterile and harmful it is, despite the remorse I know I will feel later for having wasted my time and missed opportunities succumbing to this impulse, I do it anyway. So, I set up a plan with a very clear set of “penalties” such as: if I spend too much time watching or reading news, the next day I do not allow myself any TV or internet time. But I rarely hold myself to it. I invariably come up with excuses such as “What are 5 minutes of watching the News while I have lunch?” or “Just 5 minutes, it won’t make any difference,” and then those 5 minutes always turn into 1 hour or a lot more, and I end up doing a botched job of the things I was supposed to take care of.

The raw and imperious impulse of the imperious self is clearly identifiable here: it pushes us to act in a way that has damaging effects and even though we are perfectly aware that the action is illegitimate, and even though we can hear the voice of our blaming conscience, the power and intensity of the impulse shuts out reason and willpower: the imperious self rules over us completely.

One of the surest signs that the imperious self is at work is the feeling of urgency, the imperious, nearly irrepressible impulse that drives us to act or behave in a particular way. We are always highly motivated by anything that satisfies the imperious self, whereas we are rarely motivated at the onset, to spend our time and energy for ethical or spiritual purposes.

I am a teacher. A pupil once confided to me that one of my colleagues had directed racist comments against her. I felt outraged and headed straight to the staff room with the firm intention of denouncing the fact to my colleagues, maybe even to the principal. I felt vested with a double mission: that of a citizen and of a teacher whose responsibility includes protecting pupils from abuse. I was ready to make a scandal and could hear in my head the words that were about to be uttered when I noticed that my steps were hurried, and I was oddly eager to tell everyone about this incident. I even perceived a feeling of pleasure when logically the case should have been rather awkward: I was about to denounce a colleague for a serious offence based on the single account of a student. Had I taken the time to verify the claims? Could the words have been taken out of proportion? I had not made any inquiries. Then why was I in such a rush to tell everyone my story? There was of course that incident that I hadn’t gotten over when that same colleague pointed out in front of the principal and the parent council, in the middle of a class council, that several students had complained about my being late to class repeatedly. Obviously, I had a grudge against that colleague. I stopped right in the middle of the hallway. I sensed the involvement of the imperious self and decided to find another way of going about it than launching a public outcry.

Rather than a sense of civic duty, what manifests here is more akin to a desire for revenge and maybe also the need to forge an image as a passionate woman invested in grand causes that will shed the poor image of the teacher who is always late. The red flag that allowed that teacher to stop just in time was when she realized how imperious the impulse was that pushed her to “accomplish her duty” no matter what. We know very well that in general doing our duty is one of those things that require a certain amount of effort. If there is no sense of effort and we feel almost compulsively drawn to action, it is highly likely that this so-called duty is actually a manifestation of the imperious self in disguise.

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