Socrates must be considered one of the most influential men in history. It's difficult to think of others. Jesus, the Buddha and the man whose latinized name is Confucius (I like latinized names) come to mind as rivals in influence. Socrates would be a difficult act to follow.
Perhaps this is one of the reasons why I've never taken to Plato. Perhaps Plato is to Socrates what Paul is to Jesus; the great architect of a colossal system based on a revered personage that cannot speak for himself, or whose sayings and character have become models of wisdom, whose person has become divine if not merely godlike. One must always wonder how much of the system is Socrates, how much Plato. To a cynic like me, the answer is arrived at quickly. The tendency is to assume Plato used Socrates for his own purposes.
Another may be the resort to artifice. For me, there is no form of communication more annoying than that which consists of creating characters to parrot one's thoughts at each other in some imagined scenario pretended to be an encounter or dispute, particularly when one's thoughts are philosophical. It is obvious that no matter what the author contrives for his characters to declaim, the author will inevitably come to the conclusion he has already come to; he will convince his creatures of the propriety of a particular position no matter how they contend otherwise. It is a kind of ruse. But it was, and perhaps still is, a popular method of communication.
Another is certainly the horrid, indeed terrifying and miserable, state he swoons over in The Republic. It has seemed to me that no person with any self-respect or respect for others could countenance such totalitarianism. And yet it is here, I must confess, that my second thoughts begin.
I've always suspected claims such as those which have been made constantly over time that we humans are in a sorry state, the worst in our long history of depravity. But it seems that we are in such a state at this time. It may not be the worst we have been in, but it is pretty damn troubling. And I fear that when we force ourselves to consider the means by which we may escape from our endless squabbles, wars, killings, frauds, superstitions, etc., we necessarily begin thinking like Plato. That is to say, we begin to become totalitarians.
"First things" as they say, "first." To achieve any significant, lasting, change, one becomes convinced, one must change people. Of course Diocletian, faced with a crumbing empire, came up with the idea that to keep it from crumbling it was necessary to stop it, and stop everyone, from changing. Therefore, he decreed that the citizens and inhabitants of the empire must stop changing; all must continue to do exactly what they have been doing, and nothing else, forever--their descendants as well. Well, we haven't changed much in any case, really, when it comes to how we think or feel or desire, so it follows that not changing hasn't done us much good in the long run. Let's try changing, then.
How does one foster change? Necessarily through education, the social institution devoted, ultimately, to teaching and training. Philosophers from Plato to Dewey have realized the importance of education, and have pronounced on the manner in which humans should be educated. To change the way people think, feel and desire, one must teach them to think, feel and desire in a different way. One does that most effectively if one starts early, and if one separates those being educated from those who have thought in the way that it has been determined is inappropriate, because otherwise they will come to think in the same, inappropriate manner. It all seems so clear.
Such change cannot be obtained except through mandates, people being their troublesome selves, and the imposition of requirements of this kind necessitate the restriction of what we call liberty. One acknowledges that this restriction is unfortunate, but realize it to be necessary. Of course, the goal will be that liberty be experienced by all, but in order for it to be experienced in a stable, lasting manner we must first be changed.
And that's the way of it. Good men when falling into this way of thinking strive to fashion systems which will minimize the harm resulting from the restriction of liberty, and minimize the chance of such a society and government from becoming cruel and tyrannical, and I think that a fair reading will establish Plato did so as best he could. It may well be he did so better than anyone else has yet to do.
If we could learn to change ourselves, of course, we need not be compelled to change by others. Some of us can, and do. But we have little evidence that many of us can or even care to do so, and this becomes more and more of a concern.
Sunday, January 29, 2012
Sunday, January 15, 2012
The Age of the Dilettante
I was reading William Hazlitt's essay on Jeremy Bentham, and it struck me that a well-written essay is a very fine thing. If well-written, an essay may invoke admiration even when one disagrees with the author. I don't disagree with much of what Hazlitt writes concerning Bentham, but think that certain of his assertions regarding that remarkable man and his work would send Bentham spinning in his grave, if he was in a grave and not for the most part sitting stuffed in a chair at University College London. I think though that one might disagree with a skilled essayist and still enjoy and benefit from reading his/her essays.
A good essay is a coolly intelligent, witty, ostensibly analytic, discerning bit of observation and commentary, and so I fear essays will become rarer and rarer in these exclamatory, frenetic times of mere assertion. Montaigne is generally considered the inventor of the "modern" essay, and remains a model. I can think of few I would consider able essayists in recent history. Gore Vidal wrote some fine ones indeed, but seems now to lack the patience needed to engage in this kind of effort. The late Christopher Hitchens wrote some admirable essays, though he became more of a polemicist than an essayist over time. The same may be said of his fellow "new atheists" in my opinion. They say John Updike wrote formidable essays, but I must confess I have never been inclined to read anything he wrote. George Orwell was an impressive essayist; Graham Greene was as well.
The technology which now allows us to spray our opinions over the world with little or no effort (and which makes this blog possible, of course) may lead to the extinction of the essay, or at least of any extended essay--and perhaps much else. We bloggers, texters, Twitterers, etc. become used to expressing ourselves effortlessly, and unfortunately that which is done without effort is often done without thought, or at least without skill, and skill is essential to a good essay. It's useful to pause, now and then, to see if one is making any sense, or is capable of making sense out of what one is observing or reading and to pause today is to not react, and reacting immediately is what we seem to feel is appropriate if not necessary. And react is something we most certainly can do; we can respond to most anything in an instant, without reflection or effort, and are increasingly inclined to do just that.
A good essay is an examination of someone or thing, and examination requires reflection. Reflection is not encouraged when one may be incessantly interrupted, or when one seeks intrusion, through the nominally beneficial technology we have with which to amuse and enlighten ourselves. Those commercials where smug possessors of technology mock others as being "so 15 seconds ago" are amusing in some respects, foreboding in others.
We may be seeing the beginning of the Age of the Dilettante, where all are not by choice but necessarily somewhat knowledgeable regarding but without real commitment to any art, theory, subject, philosophy, person, association simply because we may know them superficially with such ease. We must strain ourselves to learn something well, indeed to even to think, when information is forthwith available. I wonder if we will find the effort to be too much of an inconvenience.
A good essay is a coolly intelligent, witty, ostensibly analytic, discerning bit of observation and commentary, and so I fear essays will become rarer and rarer in these exclamatory, frenetic times of mere assertion. Montaigne is generally considered the inventor of the "modern" essay, and remains a model. I can think of few I would consider able essayists in recent history. Gore Vidal wrote some fine ones indeed, but seems now to lack the patience needed to engage in this kind of effort. The late Christopher Hitchens wrote some admirable essays, though he became more of a polemicist than an essayist over time. The same may be said of his fellow "new atheists" in my opinion. They say John Updike wrote formidable essays, but I must confess I have never been inclined to read anything he wrote. George Orwell was an impressive essayist; Graham Greene was as well.
The technology which now allows us to spray our opinions over the world with little or no effort (and which makes this blog possible, of course) may lead to the extinction of the essay, or at least of any extended essay--and perhaps much else. We bloggers, texters, Twitterers, etc. become used to expressing ourselves effortlessly, and unfortunately that which is done without effort is often done without thought, or at least without skill, and skill is essential to a good essay. It's useful to pause, now and then, to see if one is making any sense, or is capable of making sense out of what one is observing or reading and to pause today is to not react, and reacting immediately is what we seem to feel is appropriate if not necessary. And react is something we most certainly can do; we can respond to most anything in an instant, without reflection or effort, and are increasingly inclined to do just that.
A good essay is an examination of someone or thing, and examination requires reflection. Reflection is not encouraged when one may be incessantly interrupted, or when one seeks intrusion, through the nominally beneficial technology we have with which to amuse and enlighten ourselves. Those commercials where smug possessors of technology mock others as being "so 15 seconds ago" are amusing in some respects, foreboding in others.
We may be seeing the beginning of the Age of the Dilettante, where all are not by choice but necessarily somewhat knowledgeable regarding but without real commitment to any art, theory, subject, philosophy, person, association simply because we may know them superficially with such ease. We must strain ourselves to learn something well, indeed to even to think, when information is forthwith available. I wonder if we will find the effort to be too much of an inconvenience.
Sunday, January 8, 2012
Second Thoughts on Seneca
I find it hard to make up my mind about Lucius Annaeus Seneca. His writing makes me cringe, sometimes--particularly the deplorable Consolation to Polybius, addressed to the freedman of the Emperor Claudius. He often strikes me as sententious in the extreme, given to platitudes he was apparently inclined to foist upon his long-suffering friend, Lucilius, among others. One thinks of Ben Franklin composing Poor Richard's Almanac, but Seneca seems to lack Franklin's humor and (one hears, and hopes) Franklin's irony.
Then again, there is no doubting his ability. He must have been a kind of genius, to manage to administer (with Burrus) the Roman Empire during the times of Agrippina and Nero, to have survived the reigns of Tiberius and Claudius having suffered no more than exile to Corsica, write plays which formed the bases for many of those of Shakespeare, and to have had such an effect on European thought and literature for so many centuries.
Famously, he did not survive the reign of Nero; neither, of course, did Nero's mother as well as others, and one of the problems I have with Seneca is that he may have written Nero's apology for matricide to the Senate, or at least tacitly endorsed it by saying, it seems, nothing at all about it. He died quite nobly, though, if we can take the word of Tacitus on the subject, and Tacitus could be rather savage when he thought it necessary to be towards many of the great names of Roman history.
He is, of course, one of the great Roman Stoics, and was thought of fondly by many of the Christian Fathers, so much so that some forgotten person contrived to create a fraudulent correspondence between him and St. Paul (Seneca's brother was responsible for sending the mischievous Paul to Rome when Paul noted belatedly but somewhat eagerly under the circumstances, one would think, that he was a Roman citizen). He is considered to have humanized (even "Christianized") the stern Stoic creed along with Epictetus and Marcus Aurelius.
Perhaps his accumulation of wealth and power was a part of that humanizing. Some of the later Stoics came to consider such things, which should be indifferent to the sage, to be indifferent, yes, but also advantageous, provided one considered them ultimately unnecessary. Yet it is difficult to tolerate solemn pronunciations regarding the ills of wealth and power, or the fact that they mean nothing, from someone who was one the the wealthiest and most powerful men of his time and seemingly content to be one until Nero began to turn against him.
But he writes well, if in a somewhat artificial, highly stylized manner, regarding important things. It's difficult not to admire what he wrote and evidently thought.
It's also difficult to assess what kind of person he was based on the accounts we have of the time. How much of what survived may merely be malicious gossip? One reads good and bad things about him, but it seems the good outweighs the bad, in the end.
I suspect he was a "man of the world" who sincerely believed in what he wrote, but was very human, and driven by that which motivated the great of his time. He reminds me in some way of Cicero; vain, but essentially wise. Not a sage, no. Capable in any case of good counsel if not always of ideal conduct; interesting, influential, able. Generally admirable, as far as we human beings are or can be concerned.
Then again, there is no doubting his ability. He must have been a kind of genius, to manage to administer (with Burrus) the Roman Empire during the times of Agrippina and Nero, to have survived the reigns of Tiberius and Claudius having suffered no more than exile to Corsica, write plays which formed the bases for many of those of Shakespeare, and to have had such an effect on European thought and literature for so many centuries.
Famously, he did not survive the reign of Nero; neither, of course, did Nero's mother as well as others, and one of the problems I have with Seneca is that he may have written Nero's apology for matricide to the Senate, or at least tacitly endorsed it by saying, it seems, nothing at all about it. He died quite nobly, though, if we can take the word of Tacitus on the subject, and Tacitus could be rather savage when he thought it necessary to be towards many of the great names of Roman history.
He is, of course, one of the great Roman Stoics, and was thought of fondly by many of the Christian Fathers, so much so that some forgotten person contrived to create a fraudulent correspondence between him and St. Paul (Seneca's brother was responsible for sending the mischievous Paul to Rome when Paul noted belatedly but somewhat eagerly under the circumstances, one would think, that he was a Roman citizen). He is considered to have humanized (even "Christianized") the stern Stoic creed along with Epictetus and Marcus Aurelius.
Perhaps his accumulation of wealth and power was a part of that humanizing. Some of the later Stoics came to consider such things, which should be indifferent to the sage, to be indifferent, yes, but also advantageous, provided one considered them ultimately unnecessary. Yet it is difficult to tolerate solemn pronunciations regarding the ills of wealth and power, or the fact that they mean nothing, from someone who was one the the wealthiest and most powerful men of his time and seemingly content to be one until Nero began to turn against him.
But he writes well, if in a somewhat artificial, highly stylized manner, regarding important things. It's difficult not to admire what he wrote and evidently thought.
It's also difficult to assess what kind of person he was based on the accounts we have of the time. How much of what survived may merely be malicious gossip? One reads good and bad things about him, but it seems the good outweighs the bad, in the end.
I suspect he was a "man of the world" who sincerely believed in what he wrote, but was very human, and driven by that which motivated the great of his time. He reminds me in some way of Cicero; vain, but essentially wise. Not a sage, no. Capable in any case of good counsel if not always of ideal conduct; interesting, influential, able. Generally admirable, as far as we human beings are or can be concerned.
Sunday, January 1, 2012
A Balancing Act
I'm reading a book by F.W. Bussell called Marcus Aurelius and the Later Stoics which I am inclined to describe as rather angry. The author seems irritated by the fact that Epictetus and Marcus Aurelius in particular are admired by many. He thinks them inconsistent, melancholy, selfish and, perhaps worst of all, "Buddhist" and strives to tell us why. He accuses them of quietism.
As I've noted before, I'm impatient with those who criticize the Emperor as a philosopher on the basis of the Meditations because, as should be apparent to even the meanest intelligence, it is clearly not and was not intended to be a polished work of philosophy propounding a particular position (alliteration brings me joy now and then). The same may be said of the works of Epictetus as we know them, which consist of the notes of his student Arrian. Macus wrote to himself as a kind of spiritual or mental exercise; Epictetus was rendering counsel on a variety of issues having to do with how to live. It seems merely foolish to expect the exposition of a consistent, formal system of philosophy from these works.
The comparison of Stoicism with Buddhism is made fairly often, and makes a certain facile sense. As they were developing at more or less the same time, mutual influence is quite possible. If one considers the fact the Stoicism is intended to be a means to personal tranquility, I suppose it may be described as "selfish" in a broad sense.
This would be to ignore the emphasis of the Stoics on the brotherhood of man, though, and the fact that Stoicism recognizes us to be social beings with obligations to one another. As far as melancholy is concerned, it is also to ignore the fact that Epictetus in particular seems at times to be joyous, calling on us to thank God for our lives and abilities. Bussell acknowledges all this, as he acknowledges that Marcus was a most dutiful and earnest Emperor, but this represents what he believes is the "inconsistency" in their views. They are really, or predominantely, selfish and melancholy, no matter what they profess to the contrary, according to Bussell. It seems he feels that in order to be admirable, the Stoics must be more cheerful, optimistic, but it is unclear how he thinks this is to be achieved.
I think it's fair to say there is a tension in Stoicism as there may be in other systems, as to goals. Tranquility demands an acceptance of things beyond our control and an appreciation of the fact that we must be indifferent to them, and sometimes it seems in the case of Marcus that it may also demand a disdain for our humanity to the extent it consists of the body and our interaction with others (Bussell also sees a connection between Stoicism and ascetic Christianity). It may be that taking a cosmic view of our place in the universe, recognizing the vastness of the things beyond our control, is conducive to a kind of selfishess and quietism.
But I don't think it necessarily does so. One need merely be intelligently realistic. The fact we hold a very small space in the universe, the fact we are human, should be self-evident; nevertheless, it is clear we are human and it is in our nature to have human concerns, desires, needs, experiences. Living in accordance with nature should not mean that we must deny our natures. We are what we are; we are where we are. The issue is how should we live, in the circumstances in which we live. Pretending we are more important (usually far more important) than we are in the universe is not intelligent. Neither is it intelligent to disregard our needs or the needs of others.
Recognizing this is I believe a part of our use of our Reason, which is one of the things in our control. It may be the first step in the use of our Reason.
As I've noted before, I'm impatient with those who criticize the Emperor as a philosopher on the basis of the Meditations because, as should be apparent to even the meanest intelligence, it is clearly not and was not intended to be a polished work of philosophy propounding a particular position (alliteration brings me joy now and then). The same may be said of the works of Epictetus as we know them, which consist of the notes of his student Arrian. Macus wrote to himself as a kind of spiritual or mental exercise; Epictetus was rendering counsel on a variety of issues having to do with how to live. It seems merely foolish to expect the exposition of a consistent, formal system of philosophy from these works.
The comparison of Stoicism with Buddhism is made fairly often, and makes a certain facile sense. As they were developing at more or less the same time, mutual influence is quite possible. If one considers the fact the Stoicism is intended to be a means to personal tranquility, I suppose it may be described as "selfish" in a broad sense.
This would be to ignore the emphasis of the Stoics on the brotherhood of man, though, and the fact that Stoicism recognizes us to be social beings with obligations to one another. As far as melancholy is concerned, it is also to ignore the fact that Epictetus in particular seems at times to be joyous, calling on us to thank God for our lives and abilities. Bussell acknowledges all this, as he acknowledges that Marcus was a most dutiful and earnest Emperor, but this represents what he believes is the "inconsistency" in their views. They are really, or predominantely, selfish and melancholy, no matter what they profess to the contrary, according to Bussell. It seems he feels that in order to be admirable, the Stoics must be more cheerful, optimistic, but it is unclear how he thinks this is to be achieved.
I think it's fair to say there is a tension in Stoicism as there may be in other systems, as to goals. Tranquility demands an acceptance of things beyond our control and an appreciation of the fact that we must be indifferent to them, and sometimes it seems in the case of Marcus that it may also demand a disdain for our humanity to the extent it consists of the body and our interaction with others (Bussell also sees a connection between Stoicism and ascetic Christianity). It may be that taking a cosmic view of our place in the universe, recognizing the vastness of the things beyond our control, is conducive to a kind of selfishess and quietism.
But I don't think it necessarily does so. One need merely be intelligently realistic. The fact we hold a very small space in the universe, the fact we are human, should be self-evident; nevertheless, it is clear we are human and it is in our nature to have human concerns, desires, needs, experiences. Living in accordance with nature should not mean that we must deny our natures. We are what we are; we are where we are. The issue is how should we live, in the circumstances in which we live. Pretending we are more important (usually far more important) than we are in the universe is not intelligent. Neither is it intelligent to disregard our needs or the needs of others.
Recognizing this is I believe a part of our use of our Reason, which is one of the things in our control. It may be the first step in the use of our Reason.
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