People across different social networks, unconnected to one another, described a circumstance with a term they deemed fitting: “Dejected insensitivity.” The Russian culture festival SlovoNovo, which moved from Montenegro to Tel Aviv, found itself at the center of criticism as this timeless celebration of life drew censure from observers who felt distant from the event.
The condemnation left little room for clarity about motive. It was hard to gauge how much envy existed toward the bright, well-known participants at a party to which some did not gain access, and equally hard to measure the degree of discomfort or ambivalence surrounding the holiday. Perhaps it was mixed, a touch of ambivalence wrapped in social judgment.
In any case, jealousy tends to masquerade as criticism, and the phenomenon can be oddly revealing. The term itself is intriguing because it seems to hinge on a sense that higher human capacities—empathy, shared sorrow, the ability to connect with art and others—might momentarily fail a person. It resembles a selective emotional blink, a withdrawal from certain feelings that ordinarily accompany human experience.
Some argued that the condition is best described as depression, yet that label rarely fits. Instead, it is called by poets and scholars something more lyrical. Anesthesia dolorosa, mental anesthesia, and other phrases from old medical discourse surface with a certain mystique, sounding almost like a ritual of ages past. Read aloud, these terms feel like they belong in a script for a film by Sokurov, as the narrator notes: the mood of sorrowful insensitivity has a cultural life of its own.
What stands out is how often the label grievous insensitivity is affixed to many events rather than to a single moment. In contrast, society today seems to have grown more empathetic in public life, a climate shaped by social networks that demand visible mourning or jubilant display. We live in an era of heightened sensibility, where the brain reacts to volume and density of information with a primal emotional response. The rule appears to be: always feel something, and often enormous emotion becomes the norm rather than the exception.
Emotional modes shift across history. Some periods welcomed certain feelings while others frowned upon them. In the 17th century, misunderstanding and melancholy enjoyed a place, while other emotions were kept at a distance. The 18th century demanded public tears, and the Soviet era prioritized restrained civilian feeling. Emotions, it seemed, were themselves a social project.
Today the landscape is murky—whether sentiment is “sad” or “positive” often boils down to the moment, and public reactions can oscillate between sympathy and sharp critique. Selfies can provoke anxiety about whether one looks too proud or not enough. The pressure to perform emotion publicly presses on everyone, blurring lines between genuine feeling and social performance.
A personal note arrived from a gay man who described the difficulty of kissing his partner on a subway escalator, a moment he could not publicly claim. On one side lay the desire for visible affection; on the other, social norms that discouraged it. The result was a painful punishment, a social policing that left him feeling exposed rather than celebrated. Groups and crowds, in this sense, can impose a rigid code of conduct that stifles sincere expression.
The current climate often rewards displays of vulnerability, sometimes at the expense of privacy. The phrase “covering up” has become a fashion in itself, a way to signal alignment with a trend while protecting personal boundaries. People speak of moments of vulnerability with a self-consciousness that borders on ritual, and many wonder if the expectation to share every emotion is a kind of social strain. The late-night documentary style of shows that reveal inner turmoil has proliferated, offering a candid glimpse into neurotic landscapes while provoking mixed reactions from audiences.
Social media has become a stage where what used to be private can now appear as public spectacle. A post about a personal loss might serve as a moment of connection for some, while others interpret it through a lens of performance. The old posture of restraint has given way to a new form of visibility, in which people are asked to publicly acknowledge pain or joy to validate their belonging in a broader community.
There is a memory of a meme about certain stoic attitudes toward loss. When a perceived foe dies, the reaction becomes a test of loyalty to a community, revealing how people navigate public mourning and private sentiment. The idea of not showing grief openly is sometimes seen as arrogance, bravado, or recklessness, a perception that can be judged harshly in a culture that prizes openness yet also quick judgments.
In broad strokes, this era appears to favor a democratized display of emotion, where the line between aristocratic restraint and popular outpouring has blurred. Ordinary people might be more inclined to seek direct, visible engagement with others, while a modern etiquette often expects that near every emotional moment is acknowledged in public, even when it feels invasive. The conversation touches on cultural icons who model restraint, yet the public increasingly questions whether restraint is a sign of elegance or simply a worn-out rule in need of revision.
The author offers a personal viewpoint, acknowledging that it may not align with others. It reads as a conversational invitation to reflect on how emotional life is navigated in the present moment, and how taste, custom, and shared norms influence what is considered acceptable or fashionable in the realm of public sentiment. The piece ends with a candid note about the author’s own temperament and preferences, a reminder that emotion, like taste, remains a deeply individual experience rather than a universal standard.