There is a billboard I pass each day while going to work. It currently displays, gigantically, a reference to the date May 21. It notes, correctly I think, that this date is coming, but also claims it will be the long awaited (by some) last day. There is some group whose elderly pastor claims that this is the case based--not surprisingly I suppose--on his reading of the Bible and through the magic of numbers which appear in or may be inferred from the Bible and which when added together somehow establish that May 21, 2011 will be the happy day when some few will be saved and the rest of us will suffer.
The pastor previously thought this glad event would take place in 1994. He modestly acknowledges that this was a miscalculation. He didn't thoroughly understand the Bible in his youth. He is now 89 years old. He may therefore reasonably anticipate that his last day is coming relatively soon, in any case.
The Day of Wrath is yet again upon us, then. It comes up now and then, and passes, until those of us inclined to do so select another, and another. I suspect a selection will be made by someone sometime after this coming May 21st.
The "end times" so many love to anticipate--and hope to witness--have come and gone rather often, also. We're told they are to be marked by disasters and all kinds of horrible signs, and wars, and generally by all kinds of evil. It's easy to see, then, why we've thought they have come so many times before. The history of humanity is a kind of unending "end times." The real "end times" will have to be very remarkable indeed for anyone to notice.
What have we (or some of us, in any event) to gain from participating in these delusions? I'm inclined to think there must be some reason groups of us will now and then gather together and go to some place, some hill perhaps, or some church, in anticipation of the last day, only to eventually wander back to our dull lives when it fails once again to come. Christians in particular seem inclined to do this once in awhile. It may be that this is due to the honor in which prophets have been held in the Abrahamic tradition and, of course, to the so-called Book of Revelations which given our track record doesn't seem to reveal much on which we may rely. But other peoples seem to have relished the thought that some cataclysm will end civilization as we know it as well, though not in the same way, and that they will be around to see it.
We all end in time. We each have our own last day. Perhaps the fact that it is peculiarly our own in the sense that others and all the rest of the universe carry on regardless is something we find most annoying. So annoying, in fact, that we hope for the day when everything else will accompany us into oblivion instead of succeeding us, possibly becoming better, happier, in a future we will not experience. Is this macabre expectation simply an example of the fact that misery loves company? It may be the ultimate in selfishness to wish that all will die when we do. Sadly, some of are not content to wait for the last day to come, and so exit this life after taking the lives of others, an especially selfish act carried out by the miserable among us.
Saturday, April 23, 2011
Saturday, April 16, 2011
Pondering the Imp of the Perverse
Lest anyone get too excited, I refer to what Poe described in his charming story, The Imp of the Perverse (I think most of Poe's work is charming, even those stories and poems that seem macabre, because they fascinate and so charm the reader as a snake may be charmed).
The imp is that urge or tendency which seems to compel us to do something self-destructive though we know it to be self-destructive and even, perhaps, because we know it will destroy us. It is one of those things about us which seem to dispute if not disprove the claim that we are all motivated solely by our own self-interest. It is probably one of those things about us which delight those who maintain that we are fundamentally irrational. I suppose certain of the religious-minded may believe this to be a part of the original sin they assert, sometimes with too much satisfaction, taints us all immediately as we come into existence--our unworthiness is a sort of a priori part of our nature (perhaps I should say "our being").
In his story, Poe makes use of some fairly extreme examples of the work of the imp, as may be expected. But there are more mundane examples. Among them I think is the tendency to acknowledge an error and then perpetuate it, rather than admitting the error and acting to rectify it, despite the fact that we know it will eventually come to light. This may not be quite the work of the imp of the perverse; there may be a different, maybe a lesser, imp at work in those cases. Another instance of imps at work or play may be that which induces some of us to make much of an error we make, to flaunt it in a sense.
Perhaps we all have such an imp, a kind of reverse (perverse?) guardian angel. It's interesting to consider that some of the great, even spectacular, figures of history who destroyed themselves or are considered monsters may have given their imps full reign. For example, Alexander after the death of Hephaestion, Gaius Caligula, Nero in ancient history; Napoleon perhaps more recently. Such figures have a certain fascination, or charm.
Does the imp feed on our desire to control our lives? We are certainly in control and are perhaps never more in control than when we destroy ourselves. But when we destroy ourselves we seem to do it in response to things we can't control.
Things in our control, things out of our control; the distinction made by the Stoics has value, and may help save us from the imps of our nature, who/which may be the opposite of the "better angels" Lincoln conjured up.
The imp is that urge or tendency which seems to compel us to do something self-destructive though we know it to be self-destructive and even, perhaps, because we know it will destroy us. It is one of those things about us which seem to dispute if not disprove the claim that we are all motivated solely by our own self-interest. It is probably one of those things about us which delight those who maintain that we are fundamentally irrational. I suppose certain of the religious-minded may believe this to be a part of the original sin they assert, sometimes with too much satisfaction, taints us all immediately as we come into existence--our unworthiness is a sort of a priori part of our nature (perhaps I should say "our being").
In his story, Poe makes use of some fairly extreme examples of the work of the imp, as may be expected. But there are more mundane examples. Among them I think is the tendency to acknowledge an error and then perpetuate it, rather than admitting the error and acting to rectify it, despite the fact that we know it will eventually come to light. This may not be quite the work of the imp of the perverse; there may be a different, maybe a lesser, imp at work in those cases. Another instance of imps at work or play may be that which induces some of us to make much of an error we make, to flaunt it in a sense.
Perhaps we all have such an imp, a kind of reverse (perverse?) guardian angel. It's interesting to consider that some of the great, even spectacular, figures of history who destroyed themselves or are considered monsters may have given their imps full reign. For example, Alexander after the death of Hephaestion, Gaius Caligula, Nero in ancient history; Napoleon perhaps more recently. Such figures have a certain fascination, or charm.
Does the imp feed on our desire to control our lives? We are certainly in control and are perhaps never more in control than when we destroy ourselves. But when we destroy ourselves we seem to do it in response to things we can't control.
Things in our control, things out of our control; the distinction made by the Stoics has value, and may help save us from the imps of our nature, who/which may be the opposite of the "better angels" Lincoln conjured up.
Sunday, April 10, 2011
Why I am not a Philosopher
I think I could have been a philosopher; that is to say, a professor of philosophy at some college. I can't be certain of this of course, but what need is there of certainty? It's an option a student of philosophy likely considers as graduation approaches, and I once was such a student, and a good one if academic record means anything. I chose the law instead, and am probably the better for it, not because the law is "better" than philosophy but because I'm probably better at being a lawyer than I would be at being a philosopher.
I enjoy reading some of what is described as philosophy, much as I enjoy reading some of what is described as history. I'll continue to do so. But I find it difficult to consider doing anything more than that, and presumably there is something more involved in being a philosopher.
I think I lack the patience to be a philosopher. Or, perhaps, the imagination. There is only so much time I find I can devote to what have been described as traditional philosophical problems, because I think them insignificant. They seem to recur, however, in the sense that we keep thinking about them, but I cannot understand why we do so. I don't mean by philosophical a question such as "What is the meaning of life?" although there have been philosophers who have dealt with such questions. That is a question which naturally occurs to us, but one we must resolve for ourselves; no philosopher, living or dead, will do it for us. I mean questions such as "What is reality?" or "What do we know?" or "Do I exist?" or "Do others exist?" or "What is consciousness" etc. I wonder whether it may be the case that the only reason we continue to consider such questions is because we are told they are significant or believe them to be because some who are dead and considered great thought them to be, and devoted so much time and effort--unsuccessfully--to their resolution.
There is something fantastic about such questions, I think. They seem to be fanciful, in other words. There is no reason to ask them in the sense that they don't arise from problems or issues we must face, consider or resolve in our lives. To the extent that a question such as "What is reality?" may be said to be more than fanciful, it seems that science is more likely to address such a question usefully than thinking about it, long and hard.
There is ethics, of course, and that may be said to address actual problems requiring answers. However, for the most part (and with some outstanding exceptions) philosophers have not focused on the practical side of ethics, instead considering, in abstract, questions such as "What is good?" or perhaps "What do we mean by 'good'?"
I think that the Greeks, and Plato in particular, led us all too persuasively astray. Their fear of and contempt for the world and its annoying tendency to change led them to look elsewhere for truth and wisdom, just as their fear of and contempt for the common people led them to look for some way to control them rather than be controlled by them. The Greek philosophy was found to be conducive to Christianity in those respects, and so we've been under its otherworldly spell ever since.
There are indications that philosophers are becoming less enamored of the questions they've failed to answer for centuries, and more interested in questions that may actually be answered. There are also indications that there is an increasing tolerance for democracy among the wise. It's unfortunate for all of us this has been so long in coming. I've been a lawyer far too long to even think of being a philosopher again, though, and no doubt that's for the better as well.
I enjoy reading some of what is described as philosophy, much as I enjoy reading some of what is described as history. I'll continue to do so. But I find it difficult to consider doing anything more than that, and presumably there is something more involved in being a philosopher.
I think I lack the patience to be a philosopher. Or, perhaps, the imagination. There is only so much time I find I can devote to what have been described as traditional philosophical problems, because I think them insignificant. They seem to recur, however, in the sense that we keep thinking about them, but I cannot understand why we do so. I don't mean by philosophical a question such as "What is the meaning of life?" although there have been philosophers who have dealt with such questions. That is a question which naturally occurs to us, but one we must resolve for ourselves; no philosopher, living or dead, will do it for us. I mean questions such as "What is reality?" or "What do we know?" or "Do I exist?" or "Do others exist?" or "What is consciousness" etc. I wonder whether it may be the case that the only reason we continue to consider such questions is because we are told they are significant or believe them to be because some who are dead and considered great thought them to be, and devoted so much time and effort--unsuccessfully--to their resolution.
There is something fantastic about such questions, I think. They seem to be fanciful, in other words. There is no reason to ask them in the sense that they don't arise from problems or issues we must face, consider or resolve in our lives. To the extent that a question such as "What is reality?" may be said to be more than fanciful, it seems that science is more likely to address such a question usefully than thinking about it, long and hard.
There is ethics, of course, and that may be said to address actual problems requiring answers. However, for the most part (and with some outstanding exceptions) philosophers have not focused on the practical side of ethics, instead considering, in abstract, questions such as "What is good?" or perhaps "What do we mean by 'good'?"
I think that the Greeks, and Plato in particular, led us all too persuasively astray. Their fear of and contempt for the world and its annoying tendency to change led them to look elsewhere for truth and wisdom, just as their fear of and contempt for the common people led them to look for some way to control them rather than be controlled by them. The Greek philosophy was found to be conducive to Christianity in those respects, and so we've been under its otherworldly spell ever since.
There are indications that philosophers are becoming less enamored of the questions they've failed to answer for centuries, and more interested in questions that may actually be answered. There are also indications that there is an increasing tolerance for democracy among the wise. It's unfortunate for all of us this has been so long in coming. I've been a lawyer far too long to even think of being a philosopher again, though, and no doubt that's for the better as well.
Saturday, April 2, 2011
Of a Fire and a Book, and Weariness
Are we condemned to be self-righteous and stupid in saecula saeculorum? How often are we to die due to these characteristics?
"Condemned" should not be the word, of course. That would imply we've been made to be insufferable--made to make others suffer. "Like flies to wanton boys are we to the gods", perhaps, but they don't kill us, even for their sport. We kill each other, for reasons which have nothing to do with reason, and have only ourselves to blame.
I wonder when we first had the idea that burning certain books was appropriate. We know the Nazis did it of course; they were good at such things. But I doubt they were the first to contemplate and enjoy this method of destruction. Burning books, burning words appearing on paper, because the words are bad has a kind of medieval smell to it, perhaps even an imperial smell. Nero supposedly burned the Christians like torches after the fire (a catchy phrase) which even if he may not have caused it did level enough of Rome to allow him to build his Golden House. Christians burned other Christians, and others; we all know of the auto da fe and its sometimes fiery aftermath. Perhaps books would serve when flesh wasn't readily available.
Let us assume that those who engage in this practice have the wit to understand that burning a book containing words which express thoughts or feelings accomplishes nothing as it concerns those thoughts or feelings (this is admittedly not easy to do in the case immediately at hand). They will still be there, and flourish, for the normally easily comprehended reason that they are not "in" the book or limited to the book. So, burning a book cannot be intended to impact on those thoughts and feelings, and therefore must be done to express condemnation of those thoughts or feelings. Burning in order to do so may be an easier way to express condemnation for those who lack the intelligence to express it reasonably.
Burning a book is stupid, then. It is also pretentious when done publicly, as openly and ostentatiously expressing condemnation in such a manner is the act of someone who thinks his/her condemnation is significant in some sense, and normally such an act is one done by those who should have little or no significance. But it can be harmful as well, and when done by those who should know that it is likely to result in harm it should itself be condemned. Those who do it should be condemned as well, even when they are pathetic.
If burning a book is to be condemned, and those burning it even more so, those who kill because a book has been burned, and worse yet kill people who had nothing to do with burning the book, are certainly to be condemned, even reviled. If it is irrational to burn a book, it is spectacularly irrational to kill people who did not burn the book because the book was burned by others.
There are times when those who claim religion is evil have my sympathy. Religion in particular seems to excite us to burn and kill books and people. Does God delight in fire and blood? Likely not, but we seem to believe God does. We've been sacrificing animals and ourselves for God's sake for thousands of years. How have we managed to convince ourselves that religion requires such ferocity?
There are times when those who despair of humanity and despair of life have my sympathy as well. The history of our species is one grand parade of foolishness incarnate, and we have no good reason to think this will end. Despair is mere weakness, but it makes one weary, fatigued.
Perhaps we as a species will not get any better. However, we as individuals can, and here I think Stoicism provides us with a response that is at once rational and in a sense comforting. We can't control those who burn books or those who kill because books are burned, but we can control ourselves, and act and think as best we can. And even if that is all we can do, we should do it.
"Condemned" should not be the word, of course. That would imply we've been made to be insufferable--made to make others suffer. "Like flies to wanton boys are we to the gods", perhaps, but they don't kill us, even for their sport. We kill each other, for reasons which have nothing to do with reason, and have only ourselves to blame.
I wonder when we first had the idea that burning certain books was appropriate. We know the Nazis did it of course; they were good at such things. But I doubt they were the first to contemplate and enjoy this method of destruction. Burning books, burning words appearing on paper, because the words are bad has a kind of medieval smell to it, perhaps even an imperial smell. Nero supposedly burned the Christians like torches after the fire (a catchy phrase) which even if he may not have caused it did level enough of Rome to allow him to build his Golden House. Christians burned other Christians, and others; we all know of the auto da fe and its sometimes fiery aftermath. Perhaps books would serve when flesh wasn't readily available.
Let us assume that those who engage in this practice have the wit to understand that burning a book containing words which express thoughts or feelings accomplishes nothing as it concerns those thoughts or feelings (this is admittedly not easy to do in the case immediately at hand). They will still be there, and flourish, for the normally easily comprehended reason that they are not "in" the book or limited to the book. So, burning a book cannot be intended to impact on those thoughts and feelings, and therefore must be done to express condemnation of those thoughts or feelings. Burning in order to do so may be an easier way to express condemnation for those who lack the intelligence to express it reasonably.
Burning a book is stupid, then. It is also pretentious when done publicly, as openly and ostentatiously expressing condemnation in such a manner is the act of someone who thinks his/her condemnation is significant in some sense, and normally such an act is one done by those who should have little or no significance. But it can be harmful as well, and when done by those who should know that it is likely to result in harm it should itself be condemned. Those who do it should be condemned as well, even when they are pathetic.
If burning a book is to be condemned, and those burning it even more so, those who kill because a book has been burned, and worse yet kill people who had nothing to do with burning the book, are certainly to be condemned, even reviled. If it is irrational to burn a book, it is spectacularly irrational to kill people who did not burn the book because the book was burned by others.
There are times when those who claim religion is evil have my sympathy. Religion in particular seems to excite us to burn and kill books and people. Does God delight in fire and blood? Likely not, but we seem to believe God does. We've been sacrificing animals and ourselves for God's sake for thousands of years. How have we managed to convince ourselves that religion requires such ferocity?
There are times when those who despair of humanity and despair of life have my sympathy as well. The history of our species is one grand parade of foolishness incarnate, and we have no good reason to think this will end. Despair is mere weakness, but it makes one weary, fatigued.
Perhaps we as a species will not get any better. However, we as individuals can, and here I think Stoicism provides us with a response that is at once rational and in a sense comforting. We can't control those who burn books or those who kill because books are burned, but we can control ourselves, and act and think as best we can. And even if that is all we can do, we should do it.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)