Mark: We're always told to 'follow your passion.' But what if that's the worst advice you could get? What if your deepest desires aren't even yours to begin with, but are secretly borrowed from your friends, your rivals, and even your enemies? Michelle: Whoa, hold on. My desires aren't mine? That sounds like something out of a sci-fi movie, like my brain has been hijacked. Where is this coming from? Mark: It comes from a fascinating and, I think, profoundly important book called Wanting: The Power of Mimetic Desire in Everyday Life by Luke Burgis. And what's so compelling is that Burgis isn't some lifelong philosopher in an ivory tower. He's an entrepreneur who stumbled onto this idea in the most dramatic way possible. This whole book was born from the ashes of his own company's multi-million dollar acquisition by Zappos spectacularly falling apart. Michelle: Ouch. That sounds brutal. Mark: It was. But here's the twist that started it all. When the deal died, his overwhelming feeling wasn't devastation. It was relief. Michelle: Relief? After losing a life-changing deal? Okay, you have my attention. That makes absolutely no sense. Mark: Exactly. And that's our starting point. Why would the pinnacle of entrepreneurial success feel like an escape from a trap? The answer uncovers an invisible force that shapes almost every choice we make.

Mark: So let's go back to 2008. Luke Burgis is running his e-commerce company, FitFuel. It's struggling, burning through cash. Then, a miracle: Tony Hsieh, the legendary CEO of Zappos, takes an interest. An acquisition is on the table. This is the dream. Michelle: The classic startup exit. The finish line. Mark: Right. So Burgis goes all in. He starts spending time with Tony Hsieh and the Zappos crew in Las Vegas. And he starts to change. He notices the Zappos culture is anti-luxury, so he ditches his expensive jeans for clothes from the Gap. He starts hiding his more contrarian, intellectual opinions to better fit the mold of what he thinks they want. He's performing the role of the perfect Zappos acquisition. Michelle: He's trying to become the person he thinks they want to buy. I think a lot of us have done a version of that in a job interview. Mark: Totally. Then, after all this, he gets the call. The deal is off. The board changed their minds. And as the reality sinks in, this strange feeling washes over him. He's not crushed. He's relieved. Liberated. Michelle: That's the part that's so wild. It's like he realized he didn't actually want the thing he was fighting so hard for. He was just copying the desire of the 'successful entrepreneur' model. Mark: Precisely. And this personal crisis led him to the work of a French philosopher named René Girard, whose central idea is the engine of this book. Burgis calls the belief that our desires are our own the 'Romantic Lie'—this myth that we are sovereign individuals who originate our own wants. Michelle: The idea that I want a certain career or a certain car because of its objective qualities or my unique personality. Mark: Yes. Girard's theory, and the book's core argument, is that this is mostly false. Desire is mimetic. It's a fancy word, but it just means we imitate what other people want. We don't want things. We want what others want. Michelle: Okay, 'mimetic'—break that down for me. Is it just a more academic way of saying envy, or 'keeping up with the Joneses'? Mark: It's deeper and more fundamental than that. It's not just about competition; it's about how we learn what is valuable in the first place. The book gives this perfect, simple example: the consignment store shirt. Imagine you walk into a store with a hundred shirts on a rack. They're all just noise, a blur of fabric. Michelle: Right, nothing stands out. Mark: But the moment your super-stylish friend, whose taste you admire, gasps and points to one specific shirt, what happens? That shirt is instantly transformed. It's no longer just a shirt. It's now 'the shirt that Molly wants.' It's been elevated. Your friend has become a model of desire, and she's imbued that object with a value it didn't have a second before. Michelle: Oh, I have absolutely been there. Suddenly I'm willing to elbow someone out of the way for a beige sweater I wouldn't have looked at twice. So you're saying we're all basically just toddlers pointing at the toy another toddler just picked up? Mark: In a fundamental way, yes! And Burgis argues this is the hidden engine behind everything, from our career choices to the political candidates we support to the vacations we dream of. We are outsourcing our wanting to other people without even realizing it.

Michelle: That makes a strange kind of sense, but it also feels like some imitation is harmless, right? Like, a kid wanting to be like a basketball star feels different from me wanting my boss's job. Mark: And that brings us to a crucial distinction, because you're right, not all copying is created equal. To explain this, Burgis gives us these two very memorable, if a bit quirky, concepts: Celebristan and Freshmanistan. Michelle: Okay, I have to stop you. Celebristan and Freshmanistan. I read some reviews of the book, and people either love these terms or find them a bit... cheesy, like something you'd find in an airport business book. Are they actually useful, or just catchy branding? Mark: That's a fair critique, and Burgis is definitely aiming for accessibility over academic jargon. But the distinction itself is incredibly powerful. Think of Celebristan as the world of models who are far away from us, in a different dimension of reality. These are historical figures, billionaires, celebrities, saints. Michelle: People I can admire but never actually compete with. My wanting to write like Toni Morrison doesn't threaten her legacy. Mark: Exactly. There's a healthy distance. The imitation is aspirational, not conflict-ridden. But Freshmanistan... that's the danger zone. That's the world of our peers. Our colleagues, our neighbors, our siblings, the people in our social media feeds. They are in the same world as us, close enough to be our rivals. Michelle: It’s the difference between wanting to be a successful podcaster and wanting to be the host of this podcast instead of you, Mark. Mark: (Laughs) Please don't. But yes, that's the perfect analogy. In Freshmanistan, when we want what our models want—the same job, the same social status, the same recognition—it doesn't lead to admiration. It leads to rivalry. And when this rivalry escalates, it gets ugly. Michelle: How ugly are we talking? Mark: The book uses the tragic and powerful example of the East Coast vs. West Coast hip-hop rivalry in the 1990s. Tupac Shakur and The Notorious B.I.G. started out as friends, they admired each other. But as they rose to fame, they became the primary models for each other in a world with limited space at the top. They became locked in a mimetic battle, obsessed with each other, dissing each other on tracks, until the rivalry spiraled into real-world violence that ultimately led to both of their deaths. Michelle: Wow. That's a chilling example. So they weren't fighting because they were so different, but because, in their rivalry, they had become so intensely similar. They were chasing the same crown. Mark: Girard called them 'enemy twins.' They became mirror images of each other, defined by their opposition. That's the destructive power of mimetic desire when your model is also your rival. That is the dark side of Freshmanistan.

Michelle: So if we're all caught in these mimetic traps, especially in this hyper-connected world that feels like one giant Freshmanistan, how do we get out? Is there an escape hatch? Mark: There is. And this is where the book moves from diagnosis to cure. It's about developing an 'anti-mimetic' muscle. It's about cultivating what Burgis calls 'thick' desires over 'thin' ones. Michelle: Thick versus thin desires. Okay, what's the difference? Is a thin desire just wanting a new sports car and a thick desire is wanting world peace? Mark: It's more about the origin and the durability. Thin desires are fleeting, highly mimetic, and often about status. They're the things you want because you see other people wanting them. They're contagious and shallow, like wanting the 'it' bag of the season or going to the trendy restaurant. They don't last. Michelle: And thick desires? Mark: Thick desires are the ones that are deeply rooted in your values, the ones that would still be there if nobody was watching. They are cultivated over a long period of time, they can withstand hardship, and they lead to long-term fulfillment. They're the desires that are uniquely yours, even if they were inspired by a model long ago. Michelle: That sounds great, but how do you find them? Do you just sit and meditate until a 'thick desire' appears in a puff of smoke? Mark: The book suggests a more active process. One of the most powerful ways is to look for models of 'anti-mimesis'—people who have the courage to step outside the dominant systems of desire. And the most powerful story in the book, for me, is about the French chef Sébastien Bras. Michelle: I'm listening. Mark: Sébastien Bras runs a world-famous restaurant in a remote part of France. His father was a legendary chef, and in 1999, the restaurant earned three Michelin stars. That's the absolute pinnacle of the culinary world. It's like winning the Nobel Prize, the Super Bowl, and an Oscar all at once. And for years, Sébastien worked under the immense pressure of maintaining those stars. Michelle: I can't even imagine the stress. Mark: Exactly. Then, in 2017, he did the unthinkable. He wrote a public letter to the Michelin Guide and asked to be removed. He voluntarily gave the three stars back. Michelle: He gave them back? That's like a tech company hitting a billion-dollar valuation and then asking to be delisted from the stock market. That's career suicide in that world. Why on earth would he do that? Mark: Because he had a profound realization. He understood that the desire to maintain the stars—a thin, mimetic desire dictated entirely by the Michelin system—was killing his 'thick' desire. His thick desire was the simple joy of creating beautiful food that reflected his region and his family's history, without the crushing, homogenizing pressure of anonymous inspectors. He wanted to cook for people, not for a system. It was a radical act of freedom.

Michelle: That story about the chef really lands. It feels like the ultimate takeaway here is that we're all living inside some version of the Michelin guide—whether it's corporate performance reviews, social media likes, academic prestige, or even just neighborhood gossip. We're all chasing stars that someone else defined for us. Mark: Exactly. And the book's challenge is to have the courage to stop and ask: 'Whose stars am I chasing? And are they even the ones I truly want?' It's not about stopping wanting—that's impossible. It's about taking responsibility for the quality of our wanting. It's about moving from unconscious imitation to conscious aspiration. Michelle: So the first step, really, is just awareness. Naming the models in your life. Who are the people in your 'Freshmanistan' whose desires you've accidentally adopted as your own? Mark: That's the starting point. And maybe the most hopeful message in the whole book is a phrase Burgis shares at the end. In Italian, there's a way of saying "I love you" that is particularly instructive: 'Ti voglio bene.' Michelle: And what does that mean? Mark: It literally translates to 'I want your good.' Not 'I want you,' but 'I want what is good for you.' It completely reframes desire, not as a selfish taking or a competitive rivalry, but as a generous, creative act. It's about wanting the best for another person. Michelle: I love that. It’s a beautiful, active way to think about it. It turns desire outward. So, for everyone listening, maybe the question to reflect on this week is: what is one desire you hold that might be 'thin,' and what would a 'thicker' version of that desire look like for you? Mark: A perfect question to end on. This is Aibrary, signing off.