Hemingway is at his best, I think, in his short stories. The same may be said of Stephen Crane. In novels, they tend to wander; in their short stories, they make a single point, and that point is sometimes profound.
Someone once said to me that Hemingway is a Stoic author. This was said in connection with his Old Man and the Sea, but I have some problems making that connection. I doubt a Stoic would become all that involved in landing a fish, however great the fish might be, and while a Stoic might love nature I think a Stoic would find no pleasure, and surely no grandeur, in killing one of its creatures. Papa took pleasure in killing many, apparently. One wonders if he took pleasure in killing himself.
Someone once said to me that Hemingway was bipolar (a guide at his former Key West home). That may be. It seems to have run in the family, like alcoholism. If he was, it would make sense that this would inform his work.
I've always liked A Clean Well-Lighted Place. Age and a few near-death experiences have given me a different perspective of it, though, which I noted while reading it again the other day. I was pleased, first, that I didn't feel the same disappointment in rereading him that I felt in rereading Mark Twain. Perhaps I would have if I read something less precise, though; something like For Whom the Bell Tolls.
Though I flatter myself that I don't yet qualify as an old man, I feel a kind of sympathy with the old man in the story. I believe I have a better understanding of why he found it hard to sleep. I suspect he found it hard to sleep because it is hard to sleep, as one grows older; or rather, it is hard to stay asleep. There are physical reasons for this, of course. But I think the older one gets the more one has to be distracted, even tricked, into sleeping. Thus it becomes necessary to read or watch TV for a time, once one is awake, to fall asleep again. And, it can be useful sometimes to drink, as the old man does. When one grows old one has more time to drink as well as to think. So the old man annoys one of the waiters at the cafe.
The older of the waiters admires the old man as he drinks well--neatly and with dignity. This is important. When you drink, you shouldn't drink sloppily, noisily, stupidly. You should do it well, as you struggle to do other things well, like walk away from your drink when it comes time to do so, as does the old man.
The older waiter understands the old man and respects his effort to do what he does well, even if it is merely drinking brandy. He also understands the fact that it is necessary that where one drinks is important, when you're old. The place should certainly be clean, I believe. A mess is self-indulgent. It is the result of being sloppy and unthinking in your ways. It indicates you have no respect for yourself, or for others in the case of a bar or tavern.
I don't think it must be well-lighted, though, but it may be that the light is needed to establish the place is clean, and it's more important that it be clean. I suppose the place may be dimly lit but still well-lighted, though, in some respects.
"Our Nada who art in Nada...." The story is the story of two men who have no illusions, who perhaps have no hopes, but this does not overwhelm them. There are things that they can do, that they can enjoy, and they can do them well, regardless of the fact that there may well be Nada. In doing them well they show respect for themselves and the universe. Perhaps there was something of the Stoic in Hemingway after all. It is more the Stoicism of Marcus Aurelius than that of Epictetus, however.
Saturday, December 24, 2011
Monday, December 19, 2011
The Idiocy of Selfishness
It will be recalled that Ayn Rand, who was apparently so insecure as to be unsatisfied with the name with which she was born but was otherwise exceedingly self-involved, wrote a book of essays which she decided to call The Virtue of Selfishness after the assasination of President Kennedy (she had another title in mind before he was murdered--she was planning to castigate him as a fascist). Having first redefined "selfishness" in the most self-serving manner to fit with her thesis (quite appropriately, of course) she proclaimed it the source of all good.
Obfuscation can sometimes be pleasing, but there are limits to it which even a lawyer like myself must acknowledge, and this bit of sophistry on the part of Rand has always struck me as particularly sad. But I think it even sadder that selfishness seems to be the source of much we think and do.
Now I must struggle to be clear, here. To a certain extent, we must always be self-regarding. That is our nature. We are for example very concerned to continue to live, and thus much of what we think and do is devoted to doing so. This is unremarkable.
But our self-absorbtion can be mystifying when it is considered that the place we hold in the universe is incredibly small. Consider the vastness of the universe, and then consider that we indulge in such fantasies as a creator of that universe who is vitally concerned with our well-being and success; indeed, who even has much the same goals and desires as we do (if not the same form)--who even became one of us for our salvation. And astonishingly, when we are compelled to conclude based on the evidence that we are not the reason for all things, and have no purpose on which the rest of the universe depends, we despair or are miserable, and believe our lives are worthless. Apparently, our self-love is such that we believe either the universe is all about us or it serves no purpose whatsoever.
There is something comic about our pretensions, and you would think that would cause us to reconsider our wants and needs in the context of the rest of the world, and the others who inhabit it, before we die and are forgotten. But we seem incapable of doing such a thing.
Much is said today about our sense of entitlement, but it strikes me that none of us understand that this sense is the basis not only for the demand for jobs or benefits but also for claims that we have certain rights and liberties that cannot be violated, and that others should act in a manner or think in a fashion we deem appropriate. The self-righteous are full of self-regard. We have more to fear from the Pharisee than the beggar.
A realistic appraisal of our limitations and acceptance of our unimportance in the grand scheme of things can be sobering, and we have need for the sober in these times. Neither the giddy nor the weepy are of much use to anyone but, possibly, themselves.
Obfuscation can sometimes be pleasing, but there are limits to it which even a lawyer like myself must acknowledge, and this bit of sophistry on the part of Rand has always struck me as particularly sad. But I think it even sadder that selfishness seems to be the source of much we think and do.
Now I must struggle to be clear, here. To a certain extent, we must always be self-regarding. That is our nature. We are for example very concerned to continue to live, and thus much of what we think and do is devoted to doing so. This is unremarkable.
But our self-absorbtion can be mystifying when it is considered that the place we hold in the universe is incredibly small. Consider the vastness of the universe, and then consider that we indulge in such fantasies as a creator of that universe who is vitally concerned with our well-being and success; indeed, who even has much the same goals and desires as we do (if not the same form)--who even became one of us for our salvation. And astonishingly, when we are compelled to conclude based on the evidence that we are not the reason for all things, and have no purpose on which the rest of the universe depends, we despair or are miserable, and believe our lives are worthless. Apparently, our self-love is such that we believe either the universe is all about us or it serves no purpose whatsoever.
There is something comic about our pretensions, and you would think that would cause us to reconsider our wants and needs in the context of the rest of the world, and the others who inhabit it, before we die and are forgotten. But we seem incapable of doing such a thing.
Much is said today about our sense of entitlement, but it strikes me that none of us understand that this sense is the basis not only for the demand for jobs or benefits but also for claims that we have certain rights and liberties that cannot be violated, and that others should act in a manner or think in a fashion we deem appropriate. The self-righteous are full of self-regard. We have more to fear from the Pharisee than the beggar.
A realistic appraisal of our limitations and acceptance of our unimportance in the grand scheme of things can be sobering, and we have need for the sober in these times. Neither the giddy nor the weepy are of much use to anyone but, possibly, themselves.
Sunday, December 11, 2011
Our Peculiar Politics
I congratulate myself on having, once more, managed to avoid watching the "debate" of the Republican contenders for the presidency of this nation. Though I acknowledge that the number of the debates has been extraordinary, and that it is normally the case that the more knowledge of candidates we have the better we are able to choose among them, I don't have the fortitude to observe these characters much longer, particularly when they are engaged in the hard work of thinking, or appearing to think, on their feet.
The preposterous Gingrich, the (latest) incoherent Governor of Texas. the shrill Bachmann, the plastic Romney--none of them impress me; quite the contrary. Ron Paul seems genuine enough in his narrow beliefs, but his cruelty and apparent fanaticism in naming his son after a cult-leader gives one pause. Our government has been so incompetent that the idea its power should be limited makes a good deal of sense, but the fact we are afflicted with an increasing number of gluttons and hoarders in a time when resources are limited and growing fewer seems to make regulation of the greedy a necessity, at least where they are so incapable of being sensible and exercising control over their own conduct.
But observing the grotesque ritual of running for president, or any political office, must lead any reasonable person to wonder why anyone does so, and to conclude that no admirable person would. This is particularly the case with respect to the office of the presidency. How could any person of intelligence, honor and principle submit to such an experience while harboring a desire and more than irrational expectation of achieving the goal? The extent to which one's personal life and foibles are exposed, the deals one would have to make, the hypocrisy one would have to so willingly embrace, the money one would have to so assiduously make and what one would have to do to make it, would make any person worthy or respect, let alone of any intellect, decline the increasingly dubious honor.
It can be argued--quite legitimately, I think--that no rational person would want to be President of the United States. A certain kind and degree of insanity has become a prerequisite. Megalomania, at the least, should be acknowledged to be a condition of election. One must have messianic delusions of grandeur to submit to the trauma of the electoral process in these times and to expect that one will emerge from it with any self-respect and with the ability to achieve what one had at one time planned to achieve but has no doubt promised not to achieve if given the opportunity. Of course, those who have no plans, no principles, no ideas, but run merely to enjoy the experience of defrauding the citizens of the United States for their own benefit or the benefit of their paymasters would be equally suited to run for office and even be elected.
Because we have arranged our affairs in such a fashion as to assure that only lunatics or the fraudulent will have the opportunity to govern us, it would seem to make the most sense to direct our efforts towards the election of the less dangerous of the lunatics or frauds running for election. My best guess at this time is that either Romney or the incumbent is the least insane of those from which we will have to choose the next commander-on-chief, though both clearly can and will say one thing and do another. Both of these gentlemen seem willing to do and say most anything that will assure their election and continuance in office and at the same time will make it as certain as possible that the status quo will be maintained. These are hardly desirable goals, but may be the best we can do right now. Perhaps this will at least give us the chance of reforming ourselves to the point where we can reform the political system we have allowed to exist.
The preposterous Gingrich, the (latest) incoherent Governor of Texas. the shrill Bachmann, the plastic Romney--none of them impress me; quite the contrary. Ron Paul seems genuine enough in his narrow beliefs, but his cruelty and apparent fanaticism in naming his son after a cult-leader gives one pause. Our government has been so incompetent that the idea its power should be limited makes a good deal of sense, but the fact we are afflicted with an increasing number of gluttons and hoarders in a time when resources are limited and growing fewer seems to make regulation of the greedy a necessity, at least where they are so incapable of being sensible and exercising control over their own conduct.
But observing the grotesque ritual of running for president, or any political office, must lead any reasonable person to wonder why anyone does so, and to conclude that no admirable person would. This is particularly the case with respect to the office of the presidency. How could any person of intelligence, honor and principle submit to such an experience while harboring a desire and more than irrational expectation of achieving the goal? The extent to which one's personal life and foibles are exposed, the deals one would have to make, the hypocrisy one would have to so willingly embrace, the money one would have to so assiduously make and what one would have to do to make it, would make any person worthy or respect, let alone of any intellect, decline the increasingly dubious honor.
It can be argued--quite legitimately, I think--that no rational person would want to be President of the United States. A certain kind and degree of insanity has become a prerequisite. Megalomania, at the least, should be acknowledged to be a condition of election. One must have messianic delusions of grandeur to submit to the trauma of the electoral process in these times and to expect that one will emerge from it with any self-respect and with the ability to achieve what one had at one time planned to achieve but has no doubt promised not to achieve if given the opportunity. Of course, those who have no plans, no principles, no ideas, but run merely to enjoy the experience of defrauding the citizens of the United States for their own benefit or the benefit of their paymasters would be equally suited to run for office and even be elected.
Because we have arranged our affairs in such a fashion as to assure that only lunatics or the fraudulent will have the opportunity to govern us, it would seem to make the most sense to direct our efforts towards the election of the less dangerous of the lunatics or frauds running for election. My best guess at this time is that either Romney or the incumbent is the least insane of those from which we will have to choose the next commander-on-chief, though both clearly can and will say one thing and do another. Both of these gentlemen seem willing to do and say most anything that will assure their election and continuance in office and at the same time will make it as certain as possible that the status quo will be maintained. These are hardly desirable goals, but may be the best we can do right now. Perhaps this will at least give us the chance of reforming ourselves to the point where we can reform the political system we have allowed to exist.
Thursday, December 1, 2011
Schubert and Mindfulness
I was listening again to Schubert's Quintet in C, which has always had a profound effect on me, and which may especially have one now given recent events. His Death and the Maiden does so as well. I respond in the same fashion to Beethoven's later string quartets. There is something about them that supersedes our lives, perhaps even transcends them. They take us out of the mundane, ever so briefly. It is an effect which for me usually accompanies great chamber music of a sober, somber character. Symphonies are too cluttered; they lack the simplicity required to evoke reflection. Such works give one an appreciation of existence on something of a cosmic scale, albeit it is an appreciation one obtains not through reason but through something else which seems more significant than a mere feeling.
The works of Schubert I've mentioned were composed shortly before his very early death, which may have been due to syphilis, that bane of many artists of the 19th century (or perhaps it was the mercury with which it was treated). That's what you get for being human though you have a divine talent; there is a kind of irony attached to such a death of such a person. It must be admitted there is something about human nature which encourages dualism.
What I find impressive about Schubert, who I think represents the last gasp, as it were, of classical music before it succumbed like so much else to Romanticism, is that he managed to excel at "lighter" music, particularly lieder, and can even sometimes be said to be sentimental, but at the same time was capable to composing music of real majesty. This could not have been easy. And yet it would seem to be natural enough for one who feels things with immediacy. Someone who has the focus or mindfulness to accept and understand what is transpiring now may be best able to portray that moment. Some moments we are happy, some we are not.
That focus is something I lack, except perhaps when called on to criticize or create an argument. My mind is too chaotic until it is required not to be. Perhaps this is what Dewey meant when he wrote that we only truly think when confronted with problems. Otherwise there is no need to think, and necessity is of course the mother of invention.
Regrettably, we are at our best when we think. This is sad as we do not think often enough. Thinking is hard. It is far easier not to think, but instead to drift along.
Is there some inconsistency here, though? If we should be mindful of the present moment, does that not require that we give up thinking? When we are mindful, focused on what is transpiring now, do we cease thinking? There would seem to be no problem being addressed.
Perhaps it would be more accurate to say no "problem" as typically defined. Because there is a problem of a kind that presents itself, and that we seek to solve, and that is the problem of living in a tranquil, rational manner.
Living in such a manner would appear to require a certain detachment from considerations which distract us from what is being experienced, i.e. from what we call "worries." I wonder if this is a kind of detachment which can be obtained by artists more easily than others. It wouldn't seem to necessitate a complete detachment; nirvana is not necessarily desirable for an artist, I would think, as for an artist there is something to be created and it would seem creation is an act which requires a certain involvement and even desire.
Complete detachment may be an attribute of the wholly self-sufficient, of a god or God. This makes me wonder whether the wholly self-sufficient can be a God we would be inclined to worship. Regardless, though, we are social animals, and there is necessarily a limit to which we can be detached.
Intelligent appreciation of the moment would seem to be a reasonable goal; it may even be achievable, with practice. Now I only have to determine what it consists of, and hope I can do so shortly.
The works of Schubert I've mentioned were composed shortly before his very early death, which may have been due to syphilis, that bane of many artists of the 19th century (or perhaps it was the mercury with which it was treated). That's what you get for being human though you have a divine talent; there is a kind of irony attached to such a death of such a person. It must be admitted there is something about human nature which encourages dualism.
What I find impressive about Schubert, who I think represents the last gasp, as it were, of classical music before it succumbed like so much else to Romanticism, is that he managed to excel at "lighter" music, particularly lieder, and can even sometimes be said to be sentimental, but at the same time was capable to composing music of real majesty. This could not have been easy. And yet it would seem to be natural enough for one who feels things with immediacy. Someone who has the focus or mindfulness to accept and understand what is transpiring now may be best able to portray that moment. Some moments we are happy, some we are not.
That focus is something I lack, except perhaps when called on to criticize or create an argument. My mind is too chaotic until it is required not to be. Perhaps this is what Dewey meant when he wrote that we only truly think when confronted with problems. Otherwise there is no need to think, and necessity is of course the mother of invention.
Regrettably, we are at our best when we think. This is sad as we do not think often enough. Thinking is hard. It is far easier not to think, but instead to drift along.
Is there some inconsistency here, though? If we should be mindful of the present moment, does that not require that we give up thinking? When we are mindful, focused on what is transpiring now, do we cease thinking? There would seem to be no problem being addressed.
Perhaps it would be more accurate to say no "problem" as typically defined. Because there is a problem of a kind that presents itself, and that we seek to solve, and that is the problem of living in a tranquil, rational manner.
Living in such a manner would appear to require a certain detachment from considerations which distract us from what is being experienced, i.e. from what we call "worries." I wonder if this is a kind of detachment which can be obtained by artists more easily than others. It wouldn't seem to necessitate a complete detachment; nirvana is not necessarily desirable for an artist, I would think, as for an artist there is something to be created and it would seem creation is an act which requires a certain involvement and even desire.
Complete detachment may be an attribute of the wholly self-sufficient, of a god or God. This makes me wonder whether the wholly self-sufficient can be a God we would be inclined to worship. Regardless, though, we are social animals, and there is necessarily a limit to which we can be detached.
Intelligent appreciation of the moment would seem to be a reasonable goal; it may even be achievable, with practice. Now I only have to determine what it consists of, and hope I can do so shortly.
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