The Death of the Mystery
What shrooms and the fall season can teach you about mystery
I’ve been visiting Rob Peetoom for about three months:
The guy who cuts my hair is a Ukrainian, who’s classically schooled for men’s grooming. So that’s why I choose them over a random ‘masculine’ (whiskey, tattoos and beard oil) barbershop.
A few weeks ago, when I was about to pay for my haircut, I noticed I only took my American Express card with me. So I asked if they accepted it (the Netherlands tends to be a hell for Amex holders).
But instead of just answering with yes or no, the clerk straightened his spine and affirmed me: “All the great ones of the earth come here. Of course we accept Amex.”
He had to justify the acceptance of a card by invoking celebrity, grandeur, social standing. And that’s exactly what’s wrong with today ‘luxury’ world.
Everyone needs to explain their mystique. It’s like we’ve lost the ability to let something be mysterious. Everything HAS to be explained and justified.
That’s why I hate the hustler community so much. I just like the idea of being rich, without people knowing my exact income.
These are just surface-level examples of how we destroyed mystique.
The Death of Dignity
With the possibly vulgar prime minister the Netherlands could have soon, we need order and decency more than ever.
Monarchs, Cardinals, and leaders in general used to embody some something greater than themselves.
That’s why I like Princes like Bernhard von Amsberg so much. He had presence. He wore the best suits. Chilled in Hotel des Indes and had an amazing taste in cars and collectibles.
Enzo Ferrari even said: ‘For Prince Bernard Maranello (location of Ferrari factory) is the capital of Italy’.
He was out-of-touch, stylish, and has a presence. Exactly what a royal should be, since familiarity breeds contempt. A royal should be slightly untouchable, elitist and otherworldly. When people feel like they’re the same as them, it loses it’s mystique.
Like what’s currently happening to the Royal House of the Netherlands. They shop at Hema, they play soccer with peasants, everyone calls our King with his nickname (Willy). And the rest of the family looks like nouveau riche plebs.
Royalty isn’t supposed to be approachable. It’s supposed to be aspirational.
In my essay The Commodification of Mysticism, I noted that we take an old, sacred idea, strip it of context, and then repackage it for consumption.
What used to be duty, merit and reverence becomes the “relatable royal.” And kitsch always (badly) imitates an appearance, without understanding the purpose.
The Cult of Exposure
But we don’t just demystify royalty. We demystify everything.
The sacred, elegant, and private are all flattened under a glow of visibility. People no longer are themselves. It’s all performance. Every action is pre-chewed for an imaginary audience.
A château in itself isn’t enough. We need an Instagram accounts with a drone shots of the gravel drive. You can’t just wear your suit. You need to tag the garbage brand you bought it at.
And if your wine is aged, make sure the label tells a made-up story, preferably in five languages, and with a QR code.
True distinction never explains itself. It’s like tradition itself. It’s just there, or it isn’t there. It simply is. You understand it, or you don’t.
Style is Political Theology
In traditional Europe, a monarch’s tailoring and style was not a personal taste. But a set of ways for moral clarity.
The tailcoats, gloves, and ceremonial swords weren’t a style, but symbols of hierarchy and self-sacrifice. People knew that the king wasn’t one of them. He was there for them.
Nowadays it’s smiles, sneakers, and a performance of relatability. While still buying kitsch palaces. The gap between the throne and the crowd disappeared, so the throne will go with it soon.
Be Like Children
Jesus Christ never told us to analyse. He told us to believe.
He didn’t want us to optimise our serotonin. He said, “Be like children.”
Which means you should be curious, but also accept that not all can be known.
Christ didn’t explain, but revealed the Truth, and then veiled it again in parables.
Mystery in that way is a form of reverence. Which requires silence and space.
Which modernity fills both with noise and content.
We aren’t made to endlessly explain ourselves. We’re made to kneel in wonder.
Magic Still Exists!
I find it in mushrooms. The fall season.
But not in some new-age way. I like the raw strangeness of fall: One day, it’s just brown leaves. The next, these tiny weird things erupt from the forest floor. Each one is different. Each one impossibly engineered.
It’s my interpretation of wabi sabi. That’s how beauty works: On its own terms.
Your walks (without a phone) are your safe space from all that modern life throws at you. It’s the only moment you can literally touch grass.
What To Do About It
Demystification is the problem. But the answer is not a “rebranding” of mystique. No new age Hinduist/Buddhist bullshittery.
The only way to find mystique is by restraining yourself. Don’t feel the need to justify your suits. Escape the noise. Read old books. Find mushrooms and animals in the forest. And pray when you stop by a chapel.
Let the world wonder. Because when you explain everything, there’s nothing left to believe in.
Mystique is the last protection we have against a world that wants to turn every soul into content.
Start reclaiming it.
-Robbert