The dangers of boredom

I recently found myself so bored I considered starting a terrorist groupuscule. I had no demands, no ideology, no manifesto. I just wanted directionless chaos. I even got as far as ChatGPTing “How to start a violent movement” before realizing all movements require meetings. And all meetings are dull.

You may think I’m exaggerating. But the truth is, I have a lifelong fear of boredom. To put it another way, I can handle peril, I can handle regret, I can handle doing lines of California coke so long they risk a heart attack. What I can’t handle is monotony.

In my early thirties I visited a war zone in southern Lebanon to escape the tedium of an otherwise routine travel assignment. My German photographer friend and I were kidnapped by Hezbollah and held in a village that was under fire from the Israelis. We were lucky to survive – so lucky I now see every sunrise as a kind of clerical error. And yet, somewhere in the middle of that terrifying experience, I had a happy thought: this is the least bored I have ever been.

That, I admit, is not normal. And so it has been throughout my life. I have almost drowned in the Antarctic, been thrown off a troop train in Siberia, been in and out of jail, rightly and wrongly, and done so much heroin that I frightened Irvine Welsh into fleeing a Soho supermarket. My attempts to escape boredom have been so extreme they sometimes verge on predictable.

The nihilistic philosopher Emil Cioran suggested all history is the result of our desire to avoid boredom. As an obvious example, revolutions and civil wars are often started by the bored provincial bourgeoisie. In other words, by young men who have enough money to experience ennui, because they don’t have to plow the fields to eat, but not enough power and responsibility to escape the tedium of existence. Plus they are in the sticks, where nothing happens.

Think of Hitler enduring empty afternoons in lethargic Linz or Napoleon pacing away the days in comatose Corsica. Think of Robespierre from apathetic Arras, Stalin in tedious Tbilisi, Castro in yawning Oriente. Right now there is probably a bored kid in Kennebunkport wondering how to overthrow Donald Trump. I wish him the best.

However, if boredom fuels chaos, shouldn’t we be enjoying unprecedented peace? After all, we’ve basically abolished boredom, haven’t we? You can summon the world on a phone, argue with invisible friends, or play mindless games when stuck in line at the store. Yet the world feels angrier and more chaotic than ever. Perhaps in our frantic attempts to cure boredom, we have overdosed on stimulation. Innovations designed to relieve tedium instead feed us outrage, horror and anxiety. Anger banishes boredom, but is anger an improvement?

Perhaps boredom is necessary and we should endure it. But that still leaves the question: why – despite my phone, the internet and the weird fun of AI – was I still so bored I nearly founded a radical splinter group? The answer is booze. Or lack of it. I’m trying out two dry days a week. I’m worried that if I take it to three, I will invade a neighboring country. That would, after all, be in keeping with our unboring times.

This article was originally published in The Spectator’s August 2025 World edition.