For most of my 20s, I couldn’t brush my teeth, ride public transit, or take a walk without listening to a podcast or audiobook. Silence, I thought, was a waste of time.

But since reading All the Beauty in the World (2023), I’ve been reconsidering my relationship to dull, seemingly empty moments. In the book, Patrick Bringley recounts his decade among the watchful guards of New York’s Metropolitan Museum of Art. Standing in the Met’s echoic halls for hours on end, day after predictable day, he found that, over time, his relationship to the work slowly changed. Initial enchantment with the art gave way to boredom – and then, enlightenment. He surrendered to the ‘turtleish movement of a watchman’s time’, stopped thinking about how much of his shift was left, and let the hours drift.

I think about Bringley’s experience when I have to engage in any long, monotonous task. It might be waiting in line or on hold, vacuuming, folding laundry, or chopping vegetables for dinner. I resist the urge to fill the time with music or podcasts and strive instead for what Bringley calls a ‘princely detachment’ from time, finding the luxury and nuance in the moment.

Bringley noticed patterns in the different kinds of Met visitors. Hanging up my laundry, I notice patterns in how different articles of clothing tend to wrinkle in the wash. Bringley developed an appreciation for artworks that he initially ignored. I pay finer attention to the unique composition of facial features on the faces of people I stand in line with. I am learning, I think, to appreciate the little things.

Of course, it requires constant practice to find the peace and richness in these stretches of time. But your reward comes, Bringley says, when an hour no longer feels an hour long, and you ‘hardly remember how to be bored’.

In July this year, the Ukrainian boxer Oleksandr Usyk, aged 38, became the undisputed heavyweight champion of the world – for the second time! Combined with his 2018 undisputed cruiserweight title, this collection of accolades across weight classes is unprecedented in boxing history. His latest success led some commentators to compare him with legends such as Mohammed Ali, and prompted one journalist to ask him how on earth he stays motivated given all that he has achieved.

‘I don’t have motivation,’ Usyk said, ‘I have discipline.’ He went on to explain that motivation is temporary – you have it one day, but not the next. In fact, when he wakes up for training, he never has motivation, only discipline. ‘Motivation is good,’ he said, ‘but discipline is better.’

Usyk was stating succinctly something for which psychologists have long been gathering evidence. Whether it’s training for a sport, pursuing excellence at work, or seeking a healthier lifestyle, desire takes you only so far. That’s why we need to use devices grounded in discipline to support us, so that we don’t think about it, we just do it. What is discipline? It’s ‘related to high conscientiousness’, the sports psychologist Noel Brick tells me, ‘including being organised in our daily activities, an ability to control impulses … or completing activities out of a sense of duty.’ Approaches based on habit formation or implementation intentions ensure that we persist, almost as if on autopilot, regardless of our unreliable motivation levels.

Usyk’s comments reminded me of our Psyche Idea on another important distinction – between goals and commitments. Motivation might help you set your goals. But to get there will take discipline-based commitments. As Justin Kompf explained, ‘a goal is something that you want to do. A commitment supports that goal and is something you have to do.’

The past is vividly alive in the Old Town of Würzburg in Germany. Walking the spindly streets, I felt transported to the medieval days: I could practically see the ruddy burghers going about their business in the shadows of aged church facades.

Often when we engage with things of the past, with the material lives of our forebears, we’re in search of a sense of authenticity. Seeing the actual items that people, long dead, dealt with in their day-to-day lives seems in some way to bring them back: what they’ve left behind invigorates our historical imagination of what their lives were like. The things that populated the lives of expired generations gives us a visceral connection to them, and Würzburg amply provides the material for that sense of intimacy with the vanished past.

Or so I thought. The same day I so romantically strolled through the Old Town, I learned that it’s not old at all – younger, in fact, than me. The Allies bombed the place to annihilation, destroying 90 per cent of the city (more than Dresden). After the war, the Würzburgers rebuilt the Old Town exactly as it had been, a project not completed until the 1990s. So while it seems that you’re engaging with the world of yesteryear, in fact it’s a reproduction.

And that shattered the connection to the past. But why? Walter Benjamin called the uniqueness of a work of art its aura. An identical poster of The Scream (1893), even if arranged the same way as the original, will resonate far less if the viewer knows that Edvard Munch’s brush never touched it. Its aura is gone. So, upon learning of its recency, the aura of Würzburg’s Old Town dissolved – and I was left instead with a sense of falsity, nothing but an unsettling replica of authenticity.