In the current digital age, in which people take on multiple personas depending upon whom they are interacting with on-line, there has recently been an attempt to market authenticity as the virtue of the moment (see “Authentic: Get Real”). Celebrities as diverse as Michele Bachman, Hillary Clinton, Katie Couric, Ophra, and even Pope Benedict XVI have been touting the importance of presenting an image of the authentic self—our true inner selves as opposed to the fictitious ones that we often create for ourselves.

While I think that it is charming that an existential concept like authenticity is finding its way into mainstream culture, I wonder whether this recent need to be—or at least appear—authentic is all that desirable or even possible.

I’ve spent the past 25 years searching for my own authentic self in vain. Instead what I’ve discovered is that there are numerous “Mikes” that rise and fall depending upon the specific situations in which I find myself and the specific people with whom I am interacting. The discovery that there is no real me in me was at first a dispiriting proposition, especially for the younger me who was really, really into me and believed that the me I thought was me was truly the authentic me (Whew! That was a tough one to get out!).

In recent years, however, my study of Buddhism has shown me that the quest for a real or authentic self is something of a delusion. The Buddha’s central insight was that there actually is no abiding Self that exists throughout time and space at the core of the human being. Instead, what we have are thoughts, emotions, and sensations that are experienced in the moment but which don’t actually belong to any permanent or enduring Self.

My youthful quest to discover my “authentic self’ has given way, therefore, to a greater appreciation for what I would call “existential fluidity.” I came upon this concept from my six-year study of one of my personal heroes, Mr. Bob Dylan. During his 50-year career as a musician, Dylan has transformed himself so many times that it was often difficult to keep track of all his assorted mutations. There was Dylan the folk singer, Dylan the social activist, Dylan the leader of the Counter-Culture, Dylan the country singer, Dylan the family man, Dylan the evangelical, Dylan the painter, and so on. There was never any one Bob Dylan, which is probably what the recent film about him was so aptly called “I’m Not There.” Instead what you have with Dylan was a man who prided himself on his ability to evolve with time and circumstances, who tried on numerous personas to see how they fit, and to who kept challenging himself to grow as an artist and a human being through his long life. He’s still going strong at 70 and his music now is as intriguing as it was when he was 21, even if it is completely different from any sort of music he created before.

Existential fluidity. It means I don’t have to be concerned at all about “finding my authentic self,” because I recognize that I am a being in flux at all times, always evolving, always growing, and, hopefully, always maturing. I can try to resist this change by obsessing about “the real me” and being miserable as a result, or I can embrace it and allow myself to gracefully flow along with the world around me.

Existential fluidity is a liberating concept because it also means that I can’t ever be pegged by other people as this or that kind of person. When someone says to me, “Mike, you are so _______” (fill in the blank), I can respond: “I don’t know who you’re talking about. That may be the picture of me that you’ve created in your own mind, but it sure as hell ain’t me.” And no one, then, can fit you into his or her petty, constricted little boxes.

Existential fluidity also means that I don’t have to feel guilty for trying new things, taking on new projects, or embracing new experiences (however unconventional they might appear to others), because this is precisely what a being in flux does. If I’m accused of being a dabbler, or lacking serious focus, I can simply say, “Amen!” So I dabble, and in dabbling discover amazing new dimensions to my ever-evolving being. In my dabbling I become reborn, renewed, and reimagined. I can be a philosopher, a poet, a high priest, revolutionary, saint, a manic doer of deeds, or a deliciously lethargic slug. I can be all these things at different times or all these things at once...and ALL of them are the real me without being really me at all.

So let the Oprahs and Katies of the world waste their time trying to be authentic. I’d prefer to spend the little time I have left embracing my utter and complete lack of any sort authenticity…and live a much richer life as a result.

I disgusted a  friend recently when I suggested that human beings might be better off if we  adopted the moral stance of my Italian ancestors—what I call the ethics of quid  pro quo. Now, my grandmother, my aunts and uncles, and my parents probably wouldn’t use that particular expression to describe their unique moral outlook on life, but that is precisely what they always advocated as the only decent  form of moral behavior that a person could adopt.

Quid pro quo. You take  care of me and I take care of you. I come to your assistance when you are in  need and you do the same for me when I’m in trouble. I don’t ask of you anything  more than I’d be willing to give and expect you to provide me with the same  courtesy. There’s an exquisite harmony involved in this sort of exchange. It’s  the way good friends almost automatically operate, and, when the delicate balance between the “quid” and the “quo” is maintained, both parties feel enriched, and neither is diminished morally or spiritually.

When I was  growing up in Queens, my parents instilled the idea in me that we had a duty to  give just as much as we have received from others—whether these others were  family, friends, neighbors or members of the larger community. If a family  member had us over to celebrate Thanksgiving at their house, we’d always have  them to ours for Easter. If an aunt gave my sister or me a gift worth $10 for our birthdays, you can bet your bottom dollar that my cousins would receive a  gift worth at least that much from my parents on their birthdays. If a neighbor  was generous with food or time, you could automatically assume that my parents  would make sure to take care of them in some equally beneficial way. The formula  for reciprocity was never exact, but it always worked out in a way that seemed  to satisfy everyone.

The reason my friend, who is an incredibly spiritual  person, was horrified by this position was because he thought that the proper  moral stance should be one of Christian altruism. In other words, we should give  to those who are in need with no thought at all to being paid back for our  efforts. My friend certainly understands the spirit that animates the  Gospels—unlike those hypocrites who call themselves Christians, but whose true  gospel is that of crass, unfettered Capitalism—and I respect him for his consistency. My problem with this moral position, however, is precisely that it expects little or nothing from those whom we serve. In the end, it treats the recipients of our largesse like moral inferiors who are incapable of authentic human relationships (since true relationships between individuals always involve  at least some degree of reciprocity) and renders them impotent as moral beings  (since they have no incentive to act on their own behalf).

Despite my  reservations with Christian altruism as a moral system, it certainly is  preferable to the kind of egoistic ethics that most Americans seem to practice.  We’ve raised generation after generation of men and women who assume that  everyone—their parents, their teachers, the State—should take care them, but  that they have no obligation to care for anyone else. Americans have no problem  cutting essential programs for the poor or sending Blacks and Latinos off to  fight their wars, but don’t ask them to give up any of their cherished  entitlements, pay a bit more in taxes for the social goods they receive, or send  their own sons or daughters off to fight our absurd wars. America, by and large,  has become a nation of all quo and no quid.

Restoring the proper balance  in our relationships with our fellow human beings, I believe, is the first step  in getting our country back on the right track. A quid pro quo approach to  ethics automatically assumes that we are all equal, all in this together, and  have an obligation to provide reciprocal care for one another. Naturally, there  will be those in our society who, for one reason or another, cannot reciprocate  for the goods that they’ve received (infants, children up to a certain age, the  seriously mentally ill or physically disabled). But we can ask a bit more even  of those who, on the surface of it, might seem to have less to give, and we can  ask a heck-of-a-lot  more from those who have been blessed with  abundance.

You take care of me and I’ll take care of you. It sounds like  a petty approach to life, but just imagine if everyone—you, me, members of  Congress, CEOs of large corporations—tried to live according to this dictum  every day. Is there really any doubt that we’d be in much better shape as a  society than where we are right now?