Only Surface-Deep: Failing to See and Resisting the Allure of the Superficial

Published on August 14, 2025 at 5:09 PM

B.M. Scott

14 August 2025

Only Surface-Deep: Failed Engagement and Resisting the Allure of the Superficial

There is a peculiar ease with which one passes over the surface of things—glancing, but not gazing; acknowledging, but not attending. This phenomenon, so common as to be almost invisible, is not merely a feature of everyday distraction but, as philosophers have long observed, a structural element of human experience - that is to say, it is easier to apprehend than to comprehend; to greet than to truly encounter.

The complexities of exteriority and depth find eloquent expression in literature, where the apparent simplicity of everyday life harbors profound emotional and existential meaning. Betty Smith’s 1943 semi-autobiographical novel, A Tree Grows in Brooklyn, offers a salient example with its almost quintessential depiction of working-class Brooklyn—ramshackle street corners, broken tenements, small rituals of survival, etc. Yet Smith’s narrative dwells persistently beneath these surfaces, revealing a world imbued with longing, resilience, and quiet intellectual depth. The protagonist's [Francine Nolan] capacity to find beauty and meaning in hardship becomes emblematic of a deeper literary truth - viz., that understanding and compassion require us to linger beyond first impressions. In Smith’s hands, the overlooked and the ordinary accumulate weight and resonance—the “tree” becoming not only a motif of perseveration, but a symbol for those hidden depths within people and places that casual observation overlooks. The greatest literature - from a humanities perspective - resists the allure of the superficial, inviting readers instead into the sustained attention by which the true substance of human life is disclosed.

When the world is conceived as a vast repository of entertaining stories and artifacts without emotional provocation, the temptation is strong to approach them as one might a cabinet of curiosities - to register their outward charm, to collect them as tokens, and to move on with the sense of having “seen” them. Such engagement, however, remains at the level of what Walter Benjamin might call the “aura” of the object—its immediate, arresting presence—without venturing into the deeper strata of meaning from which that presence emerges. In doing so, we risk treating culture as a gallery of inert exhibits rather than as a living conversation and flattening complex histories into decorative narratives. The artifact becomes a souvenir; the story, a digestible anecdote shorn of its contradictions. Overcoming this allure requires a deliberate turning toward context - viz., a willingness to let the object or narrative provoke questions to seek rather than simply provide confirmations; and an openness to the realization that with each layer uncovered, the appearance we first admired may itself be transformed.

Consider, for example, the fascination hypothetically inspired by the ruins of an abandoned tuberculosis hospital. At surface level, such a site readily lends itself to aesthetic consumption - e.g. the play of light through shattered windows, fading murals, the atmosphere haunted by loss and abandonment—all combine to create a scene ripe for photography, anecdote, or a fleeting shudder of curiosity. Yet this engagement often halts at the threshold of spectacle - privileging visual intrigue and mythic associations over the deeper histories that persist within the crumbling walls. What is left unexplored are the lived realities of patients and staff; the medical practices and social anxieties that shaped the institution; the echoes of public health crises; and evolving attitudes toward suffering and care. To linger only on the striking facade is to appropriate the site as little more than a backdrop of personal adventure - neglecting the richer, more challenging work of historic context and understanding. This example of the abandoned hospital simply demonstrates how the allure of the superficial can transform artifacts of trauma and resilience into little more than a momentary curiosity— divorced from its human depth.

In Book VII of The Republic, Plato allegorically distinguished between the shadows on the wall and the deeper Forms that cast them. The Allegory of the Cave is, at heart, an admonition against contentment with appearances—a reminder that what is most real, most formative, often lies beyond immediate perception. His construction is not solely metaphysical but methodological - viz., it is a call to resist the complacency of perception and to submit one’s understanding to dialectic. In this framing, the distinction between shadows and Forms serves as a permanent caution against conflating the visible with the real. Applied to modern contexts, it urges us to doubt the sufficiency of initial impressions - whether in politics, culture, or personal relations. Yet, in the headlong rush of modern life, the temptation is strong to accept appearance as substance - i.e. a scan of the headline for knowledge, a brief exchange as substitute for genuine acquaintance, etc.

Camus, reflecting on the Sisyphean nature of existence, cautions against “the error which consists in believing that we can ever cease feeling like strangers.” There is, he writes, “a wall that separates us from the world, a curtain which each person must lift in his own way.” The sense of estrangement, of never quite piercing the veil, is an existential predicament—but also, perhaps, an invitation. Camus’s existentialism here underlines the inevitability of partial vision; the “wall” is a condition of human perception, not merely an obstacle to be overcome. Yet by naming it, Camus also opens the possibility of a more lucid engagement with reality — one that accepts estrangement while seeking moments of authentic contact. This acceptance reframes the exterior facade not as a final barrier; but as a provisional layer awaiting deeper inquiry. Jean-Paul Sartre, for his part, warns that “existence precedes essence”—that we are condemned to construct meaning, not simply discover it lying exposed before us. To apprehend a person or situation with depth, rather than through the ready-made labels of habit, is not only a philosophical challenge but an ethical one: “The other’s gaze,” writes Sartre, “makes me exist as I am, but only on the surface.” We must not mistake recognition for understanding. Sartre’s insight exposes the asymmetry of perception - we see others through the prism of our own frameworks, but we are also reduced, in their gaze, to the version of ourselves they recognize. This dynamic warns against treating recognition as comprehension — seeing as knowing — and reminds us of the provisional nature of all human judgements. In everyday life, applying Sartre’s caution can mean actively resisting the temptation to define people solely by their most visible traits or momentary actions.

The philosopher Iris Murdoch remarks that “the great enemy of morality is attention”—that is, the failure to look properly, to be fully present to the persons and phenomena before us. To dwell solely in a state of exterior observation is thus a moral barrier; to turn a blind eye - a poverty of imagination as much as of empathy. The opacity of others - and of the world itself - serves as both a defense and a lament. We protect ourselves by not seeing, but in so doing, we diminish both our understanding and our capacity for compassion. The imperative, then, is not simply to look harder but to cultivate a disposition of receptivity—a willingness to be unsettled by the complexity beneath what first appears. Murdoch’s priority on attention relocates moral effort from abstract principle to the discipline of sustained regard. Her framing suggests that much moral failure arises not from active malice but from the passive negligence of failing to see fully. This transmutes attention from a passive act of looking into an active moral practice - demanding patience, openness, and humility. Only by questioning, doubting, and above all by lingering beyond the obvious, do we begin to apprehend the inexhaustible layers in the world and in one another. In resisting the allure of the superficial, we reclaim what Simone Weil called “the rare and pure form of generosity” - e.g. attention.

If deep engagement [with people, the world, or with spatial artifacts] is elusive, it is because too often we are content to only gaze at the surface of things as they appear - too readily seduced by what the surface appears to offer. Attention is not merely a tool for learning but a disposition of the human soul — an act of higher, moral receptivity to existence. By placing generosity [attention] in the realm of perception, our ethical obligations begin not with action, but with the quality of our contemplations. Such a view reframes deep engagement as both an epistemic virtue and a moral commitment. To settle for illusory impressions is to accept a diminished world—one in which people are reduced to impressions, artifacts to curiosities, and events deconstructed to mere information. To resist that reduction demands a conscious discipline of attention; a readiness to dwell with (and within) the opaque; and the moral courage to allow complexity to unsettle prior certainties. Only in such willingness can we begin to see and live truthfully; recognizing that perception - when sharpened and sustained - is itself an act of moral engagement. This - at its very foundation - is the purpose and mission of the humanities and what it has to offer the world.

The foregoing analysis is intended not as a closed argument, but as an opening—an encouragement to interrogate the habits of experiential engagement that governs our daily lives. It invites the reader to consider where - in their own encounters with people, places, ideas, literature, and art - they may have mistaken surface for substance, impression for understanding. In doing so, it asks for a deliberate, even courageous, commitment to dwell beyond the obvious: to enter into the slow work of attention that the humanities, at their best, have always championed. It is only by cultivating these disciplined virtues—both of mind and heart—that we can hope to meet the world in the fullness of its complexity and respond to it with empathy and understanding:

Invitation for Reflection

- How does the temptation to remain at the level of surface appearances manifest in your own encounters with people, literature, or cultural artifacts? Can you recall instances when a deeper engagement revealed unexpected depth or altered your initial understanding?

- In what ways does Betty Smith’s A Tree Grows in Brooklyn exemplify the movement from surface observation to profound insight? How do literary works invite us to see beyond the ordinary? H

- Consider Walter Benjamin’s notion of the “aura” in objects. What is gained and what is lost when we treat stories, images, or artifacts as mere curiosities rather than as gateways to complex histories and human experience?

- What does the hypothetical abandoned hospital or - or other spatial artifacts you may have encountered - reveal about your own limitations?

- Plato, Camus, and Sartre each offer a philosophical perspective on the gulf between appearance and reality. How do their ideas shed light on the challenges and responsibilities of seeking depth—in perception, in society, or in our own self-awareness?

- Iris Murdoch and Simone Weil argue that attention is a moral and even spiritual act. In practical terms, how might one cultivate the discipline of attention in a world saturated with distraction and spectacle?

- How does the discipline of the humanities uniquely equip us to resist the allure of the superficial? In what ways can the methods of close reading, contextual understanding, and empathetic engagement be extended into everyday life?

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