As a devoted reader of literature, philosophy, and religious studies, Luke Burgis channels his unique background into a work on one of human nature’s most elusive tendencies. With the insights of the French historian, philosopher, and thinker extraordinaire René Girard, Burgis tackles the puzzle of desire and develops a response that’s encouraging, illuminating, and altogether startling.

In the 1950s, along with thinkers like Sigmund Freud, Jean-Paul Sartre, and Jacques Derrida, René Girard was seized by the concept of “désir” or “desire,” and sought to evaluate it more deeply. During his time as a young professor, Girard scoured various works of literature and saw that fictional characters like Miguel de Cervantes’s Don Quixote and Marcel Proust’s Albertine were surprisingly similar. Put simply, these characters weren’t the sole creators of their desires, but much smaller contributors to that inner quandary. From here, Girard crafted what would eventually be known as his “mimetic theory,” a framework in which one’s wants aren’t always the result of personal whims, but a much less individual process that often escapes one’s awareness—“mimesis.”

The word mimesis can be traced back to the Greek concept “mimesthai,” which is “to imitate” in English, a notion that comprises the bedrock of Girard’s mimetic theory. According to Girard, though it seems like you simply woke up one day with an inexplicable urge to hike the Appalachian Trail, that desire isn’t entirely a product of your own inclinations. Instead, that seemingly unique (and to some, even bizarre) drive was compelled by another person’s efforts to take on that 2,000-mile-long feat. For Girard, this is how the act of what Burgis calls “wanting” begins—with someone else, an idyllic “model” who helps direct the course of another person’s actions.

Look at Eve in the Garden of Eden, for instance. Jean-Michel Oughourlian, a psychologist and close colleague of Girard, examines the events in the Garden in his work The Genesis of Desire, in which he interprets Eve’s actions through the lens of mimesis. Surrounded by such abundance, there’s little chance that Eve wanted yet another piece of fruit. But, with a snake’s prodding, Eve quickly grew to desire something that she previously had no framework to even dream of wanting. From this perspective, a serpent in a tree functions much like a social media post or a friend’s most recent accomplishment. Just like Eve in the Garden, we’re often moved to seek after particular things simply because they’re deemed appealing by someone else, believing that we’re the ones initiating the desire in the first place. 

Whether they’re politicians or parents, actresses or neighbors, models are inevitable, and the “mimetic desire” they compel is an ever-present feature of society. In the words of Burgis, “history is the story of human desire.” With that in mind, we might not be able to elude the influence of others. But we don’t have to leap from one want to another, either. As we learn how to spot the people, companies, or ideals we prop up in our imaginations and emulate in our inclinations, we can better recognize the realities they’ll eventually produce in our lives.

St. Francis of Assisi, Michael Jordan, Jane Austen—renowned icons like these make up what Girard calls “external mediators of desire.” They’re the kind of people no one would mind placing up on a poster or following wholeheartedly. “Internal mediators of desire,” on the other hand, people like family members, friends, and even social media stars, are more immediately present, and so, their influence is often concealed by familiarity. For instance, a young basketball player may dream of one day playing on the teams he watches on TV with no harm done. In fact, this pursuit might actually benefit the young athlete’s performance. But, as he encounters other players on his court back at home, those who are much closer to him in skill and age than the revered Jordan is, his drive begins to mutate. In the presence of his basketball peers, many of whom might even be better than that dreamer, insecurity, restlessness, and rage arise. At this scale, mimetic desire is detrimental.

When people try to emulate another person, whether a decorated basketball icon or that not-too-bad kid playing down the street, they entertain what Girard terms a “metaphysical desire.” In other words, even though that player might buy the particular socks a better player wears or tweak his form to look similar to that of his “model,” he doesn’t truly want either of those things. Rather, his behavior is the manifestation of a desire that goes even deeper than the merchandise and his drive to become a world-renowned athlete. For Girard, when people want anything, what they really seek is “to be initiated into a radically foreign existence.” That’s why, when it comes to the people one encounters on a daily basis, unknowingly yearning for something they have (which is really what they represent), is lethal. It triggers a marathon of “metaphysical” inclinations that persist despite yet another trip, new job, or impulse buy.

On the social media site Facebook, for instance, metaphysical wants run amok. In the midst of what philosopher Zygmunt Bauman calls a “liquid modernity,” a period lacking in common authorities, ideals, and meaning, people are increasingly susceptible to latch onto their peers for guidance. And, Facebook, for one, gives its users plenty to work with. As a student of Girard’s, the insightful investor Peter Thiel recognized his teacher’s theory working through the coded makeup of the social media site. When he recounted his decision to invest in Facebook, Thiel noted that he “bet on mimesis.” As Thiel intuited, the site flourishes off its followers doing what humans naturally are inclined to do—just at a disastrous scale.

Contemporary culture gives people endless fodder for passing impulses and lifelong ambitions. Unfortunately, this exposure often conceals a true metaphysical lack, leading people into relentless wild-goose chases. To regain direction, people should simply put a hold on their impulsive pursuits and examine them more thoughtfully. With this, they may be able to uncover what those yearnings are really trying to fill.

Most people have heard of, seen, or perhaps even read Shakespeare’s famous tale of Romeo and Juliet. As the Bard notes early on in his work, there are few differences between the anger-driven Capulets and Montagues. On the surface, it seems that they should be good friends rather than feuding clans. According to Girard, though, their harsh treatment of one another makes complete sense and exemplifies a key principle of his mimetic theory. Just as portrayals of envious brothers and sisters prove throughout various religious traditions (including Christianity, in which five such tales are found in the book of Genesis), likeness isn’t always a good thing. Rather, as people exhibit characteristics or aims that coincide, their interactions are plagued by contempt—a trend that increases with time and is often remedied by what Girard uncovered as “the scapegoat mechanism.”

Girard’s 1979 work Violence and the Sacred argues that when large groups of people clamor after their unwieldy, parallel desires, they often contribute to the creation of destabilizing circumstances. In the face of this dissension, people seek a remedy to soothe their dissatisfaction. Fortunately for them, they find one in the unknowing “scapegoat,” an object that Girard witnessed in nearly every culture and religious tradition. Burgis puts the process simply, stating that with a scapegoat, people initiate “violence to drive out violence,” collectively choosing a person or group of people through which they may satisfy their fury. Though examples of this notion fill history books, a notable one includes the events that followed the rise of the Nazi Party in struggling Germany. In this case, the Nazi Party upheld the Jewish people as a scapegoat for the country’s decline, giving birth to a period of time unparalleled in its barbarity.

On a much smaller level, the odd-one-out in a classroom or the person who’s torn to shreds on a social media platform often function as carriers of cultural calamity, too. Take the outcast Carrie in Stephen King’s eponymous novel, for instance, or the similarly unfortunate Piggy in William Golding’s survivalist work Lord of the Flies. In both cases, high school students or a group of stranded young boys collectively pin their rage onto a selected outcast character to temper their problems. They do this subconsciously, trusting that their target really is the one who must pay for their plight.

For Girard, an especially unusual and unprecedented account of scapegoating takes place in the crucifixion of Jesus Christ. As related in the biblical New Testament, this moment distinguishes itself from sacrifices made throughout other religious traditions for its recognition of the scapegoat’s true nature. Usually, everyone’s on board with the verdict they give to their object. In the case of Jesus Christ, though, the crowd was split. According to Girard, this is pivotal. In this moment, people witnessed their scheme for what it truly was—a disturbing, undue atrocity compelled by a mentality that exists even today.

Given the fact that mimesis and the harmful outcomes it often brings are inevitable, it seems that cultural decay is always impending. Thankfully, though, this isn’t the case. According to a practice Burgis calls “disruptive empathy,” a phrase drawn in part from Gil Bailie’s 2004 work Violence Unveiled: Humanity at the Crossroads, connection is crucial. Engaging with another person shifts the trajectory of society. Cultivating this kind of “empathy” for another person isn’t the same as showing them its close relative “sympathy,” though. While the latter term’s “sym-” typically connotes the word “together,” the former's “em-” indicates the phrase “to go into.” This linguistic difference captures the distinct natures of both practices. According to Burgis, as opposed to sympathy, “empathy is anti-mimetic.” It moves people to encounter the uniqueness of neighbors, strangers, and family members as something separate from their equally distinct lives, granting them the capacity to comprehend both more completely.

When interviewing candidates for a role, Burgis initiates this practice by asking for each person to relate a moving “Fulfillment Story” to him. Contrary to what one might think, these aren’t always long-winded narratives of a person’s most heroic and prestigious endeavors from the past. In fact, that word “prestige” has a linguistic Latin ancestor, “praestigium,” which can be translated to the more-than-fitting term “illusion.” As such, the notion of “prestige” depends upon another person’s pursuits and inevitably compels people to partake in a fruitless race for something that only appears worthwhile. On the other hand, the few impactful pursuits people pull from their lives may seem strangely ordinary. A few of Burgis’s own include things as simple as keeping his writing streak alive for a month and cooking a family specialty for dinner. Though many of these instances seem haphazard, like random and unexpected glimmers of joy, they’re actually incredibly revealing.

According to Burgis, as one recounts their most beloved personal moments, they find that beyond the reach of a copycat want is another kind of yearning. This is the drive for what Burgis calls “thick desires.” Contrary to Girard’s mimetic desires, these are far more significant to people in the long run. Thick desires aren’t simply a response to the whims of the day or a product of the unconscious tendency to seek after trending objects, activities, or ideals—they’re much more gripping than that. And, when people witness these wants at work in themselves, they may be moved to redirect their entire lives. For instance, Sébastien Bras, the chef behind the formerly three-starred Michelin darling, Le Suquet, found this to be the case when his not-so-healthy drive to remain noteworthy consumed his craft. To protect his authentic desires of cooking artfully and enjoying his family, he tapped out of the Michelin race altogether, something no chef had done in the institution’s 120 years. And for that, Bras was jubilant.

Whether it’s in the presence of another person or simply oneself, moving past empty, derivative desires calls for thoughtful self-evaluation and awareness.

As a snapshot of your innermost aspirations begins to crystallize, you can begin to do as the brilliant Pulitzer-prize winning author Annie Dillard says and “grasp your one necessity.” Even when you’re faced by billions of avenues for desire that all seem necessary, when you bring yourself back to that particular important thing, whether it’s the pursuit of family life, an artistic endeavor, or anything that stirs you beyond anything else, you are emboldened to persist in it. Doing this initiates what Burgis calls a “transformation of desire,” in which the oftentimes fleeting inclinations of your past gradually grow and evolve until they look more akin to your true aspirations. 

Ironically, this process begins in a similar way to that of mimesis. The example of others is endlessly influential, even when it comes to individual self-searching. This more fruitful form of mimesis creates a symbiotic relationship between oneself and the person one hopes to emulate. For instance, if one wants to become a better parent, perhaps using their relationship with their own mother and father as a model, they must actively work to incorporate the traits that make their parents successful into their own lives. When models are used in this way, they become signposts for one’s aspirations and carry people into that eventual reality. 

This task, which the Greeks would call a “metamorphosis,” goes far beyond the individual, too. As people rewrite the things they pine after, others are driven to do the same. Even the most insignificant of a person’s pursuits indelibly impacts those of the people around him or her. This holds true for everyone, no matter the goal they seek to bring to fruition. Whether you’re a mother, a writer, a mechanic, or a firefighter, the way you attempt to live through your particular purpose does much more than simply enliven your own experience, it compels culture to live up to your example.