An Uncommon Faith

John Dewey did a series of lectures which were eventually published as a book called A Common Faith.  George Santayana, who was inclined to give other philosophers a hard time now and then, gave Dewey a hard time over that title, maintaining (or so I've read) that the faith described in the book was not common at all, or perhaps altogether too common (Santayana himself could be as obscure in his writing as Dewey, sometimes, though Santayana was clearly the better writer).  In any case, he thought the use of the word "common" inappropriate--perhaps even uncommon.  The title of this post is an effort to escape this "common" problem.

I think Dewey may have intended in using "common" in this fashion to contend that the faith he described in his lectures could be a faith all could accept, if they would but abandon the supernaturalism characteristic of religious faith and treated as religious what he believed should be and would be the focus of religious feelings and ideals once the supernatural was discarded.  He quoted Santayana on the similarity between poetry and religion (perhaps Santayana felt that to the extent Dewey extolled Santayana's idea as an example of the faith Dewey sought to instill, such faith must necessarily be uncommon as in "extraordinary").  Art, knowledge, wisdom and acceptance of our role as a part of the universe, not apart from it; these seem to be the "religious" ideals Dewey believed worthy of, or could be the result of, a common faith.

I have a certain sympathy with this view, this "faith", whether it be common or not.  I think our tendency to believe in the supernatural--which in this context would be something transcending the universe, generally a transcendent God--is unwise and unfounded.  The supernatural is something we cannot know and cannot establish.  Indeed, it's something we can't even describe or intuit or feel, being "bounded" by what we are; that's to say living creatures in the universe, parts of nature.  To the extent we purport to do so, we ascribe to the transcendent powers, thoughts, desires, intents all of which are things we experience and know of as creatures that are parts of nature, and are therefore natural themselves.

Of course, some of us also maintain that there is something transcendent about us as well, which presumably allows us to know the transcendent God if only dimly, imperfectly.  That dimness and imperfection, plainly, results from the fact that we though somewhat transcendent are too much a part of nature.  So we partake of original sin or are otherwise deficient, just as is nature itself.

This belief in the supernatural or transcendent thus brings with it a belief in our own uniqueness, as we necessarily cannot be merely creatures of the universe, parts of nature, in order to be saved.  We fail when we are too much a part of nature in this view; we succumb to our animal nature.

Interestingly, Dewey seems to feel that this tendency on our part to believe ourselves unique and special is shared by those he describes as "militant atheists."  He thinks that those who condemn not merely belief in God but religious feelings in general detach themselves from the rest of the universe as much as do theists, but in a different way.  If I understand him correctly, this is because the refusal to acknowledge what Dewey considers to be religious ideals, to be entirely materialistic, disregards the connection with the universe we must partake in to be truly what we are, i.e. creatures of the universe.  This is not clear to me, I'll admit, but I think I know what he meant by it.

Dewey seems to think that what he calls religious ideals as noted above are worthy of reverence.  Here I part from him.  Certainly they're worthy and are to be sought.  But for me, that reverence should be accorded to the amazing universe we've come to know more than ever in the past 500 years or so, but which I think is so boundless and remarkable that we still know it very little.  What we have considered supernatural may turn out to be natural (that would be a surprise).  Our moments of transcendence, to the extent that means becoming aware of something greater than we are, may be entirely natural as well; a recognition of something that's also a part of nature.

The Stoics thought this to be the Universal Reason, the controlling principle of nature, a small part of which we carry with us as beings capable of reason.  The Universal Reason was immanent in the universe, though, not beyond it, something which was material and could be such according to the physics of the time.  C.S. Peirce felt that the universe, though chaotic in its inception, has a tendency towards reason, forming reasonable relations and even laws by virtue of the interaction of its parts.

I feel they may have been on to something, but it's just a feeling and I recognize that it's just that.  Feelings don't inspire respect though they're an essential part of us (perhaps a contempt for such feelings is something Dewey felt was a weakness of the militant atheists he refers to which separates them from nature).  Perhaps if I thought I could do so without inciting ridicule or contentiousness I would venture to air this view in a certain forum I've frequented, but it is a very practical view and the practical seems to be something increasingly frowned on by those who participate in it.  Theorists are an intolerant bunch, and philosophers are nothing if not theorists; nothing but theorists, I suppose.  When one deals in contention as a job, it's no enjoyment to be exposed to it in one's free time.  Such forums are tedious if they can't be enjoyed.

Perhaps religion is an intensely practical thing just as ancient philosophies such as Stoicism and Epicureanism were practical.  Or at least religion can be and has been practical in the sense of being concerned with how we live in the universe.  That practicality began to diminish as people focused on the transcendent and a next life instead of the one we actually live.  Given social conditions in the later Roman Empire, it's likely that many were so miserable that the promise of some life other than that being lived made Christianity and the mystery religions quite enticing.  One would think that this disregard of life would dissipate as life gets easier to live, but it seems life isn't easy enough yet, or that we're still seduced by our own dreams of transcendence.

The Horrors of Certainty

Big John Dewey in his The Quest for Certainty was critical of philosophy and of certain philosophers for pursuing certainty as a goal.  I think he may have underestimated the extent to which certainty is cause for dismay.

We're never more dangerous than when we are certain, particularly when we are certain something is true or good.  Our certainty empowers us, renders us self-righteous, impatient of questions, even merciless.  Extremism in the pursuit of the truth or the good appears somehow appropriate to us.  Means, however dubious, are justified by the much desired, unchallengeable ends. 

The 20th Century is seen by many to be characterized by mere relativism, but it seems to me to be one in which certainty was the cause of vast and unspeakable horrors.  The Nazis and Soviets, spurred on by Hitler and Stalin, were certain of the need for the acts they took in pursuit of the goals they were certain must be sought.  Millions died as a result, Jews, kulaks, Ukrainians, Roma.

I've recently read a book called Bloodlands, which is a detailed description of seemingly endless atrocities and massacres engaged in by the Germans and the Soviets, particularly after the commencement of the Second World War, but before and after it by Stalin in his cruel quest to industrialize the Soviet Union.  Page after page reciting deaths by shooting, gassing, starvation, ceaseless labor.  It was a numbing experience, but one I feel I must recommend, if only because it illustrates the evil of certainty.

We've been warlike and cruel throughout our history, but it seems to me that our wars for power, glory, empire, money are small things compared with the wars we've waged for religious reasons, or to fulfill our destiny, or bring about the workers paradise, secure in the knowledge that all we do is for truth and the good.  The certainty that God wills it, or history or race or destiny require it, gives us carte blanche to do what must be done, whatever it may be.

Napoleon, Alexander, Caesar did a good deal of damage, as did England's wars of empire, but their quests for power, profit and personal glory are mere drops in the bucket of blood filled by such as Hitler, Stalin and Mao.  The Roman Empire was a military dictatorship, sometimes viscious and savage, but it required the triumph of Christianity, exclusive and certain, and its usurpation of the empire to render it intolerant not only of rebellion and disorder but of thought and religious belief.

When we believe the state is the means by which we may bring about the moral perfection of its citizens, or the human race at large, we are inclined to do most anything through the state, or to forgive most anything done by the state (this is a lesson Plato's totalitarian republic should have taught us--better Sparta than Athens, according to Plato).  There is therefore wisdom behind the view that the state should have limited power, as those on the Left and the Right are equally certain when it comes to what they feel is true or good, and are equally inclined to exercise power in their pursuit when they obtain power.  Stupid and selfish as we are, we may do less damage to ourselves than would a government convinced it must do what is necessary, regardless of our wishes, for our own good.

We're still on the quest for certainty, unfortunately.  We should teach ourselves to accept uncertainty, to feel comfortable with probability, respectful of the chance for error.  It will make us humble, cautious; even wise.  Not the most romantic or glorious point of view, but one which may allow us to live in peace.  At least it may lessen the chance for mass murder.   After the certain horrors of the 20th Century, that's no small thing.

Naivete and Naive Realism

"Naivete" is lack of wisdom, judgment, sophistication, experience.  "Naive realism" (a/k/a direct realism) is the view that those things we deal with every day, indeed every instant, taken for granted by all but philosophers and their students, are perceived by us immediately or directly.  Naive realism is apparently referred to as "naive" disparagingly.  It is, after all, the view typically taken by most of us, the untutored common folk, as a matter of common sense (I would maintain that it is for all practical purposes the view actually taken by those of us who consider themselves uncommon, as well).  Being so very common, it perforce is invalid according to those sophisticated in theories of knowledge and perception.

I find myself wondering, though, whether those who disparage naive realism are themselves naive, and whether their disparagement of it is a result of their own naivete.

We began to insert (as it were) something between us and the "external world" some centuries ago, for reasons I find difficult to understand.  It may all have begun with Descartes' insistence on the use of faux doubt to establish knowledge.  It may have begun with Hume.  It may have begun earlier, but I think not that much earlier at least as far as the modern forms of insertion as we know it are concerned.  Since ancient times there has been a tendency among the wise to doubt the quality, worth and even in some cases the reality of the universe--especially those parts of it that are not human--and it's possible the more modern reliance on sense-data or qualia to separate ourselves from the non-human, and perhaps our fellow humans as well, is an outgrowth of this tendency.  But if that is the case those who more recently doubt what the common folk believe are more specific in their doubt.

It's claimed philosophers frequently ask why we should believe what we believe.  Lawyers are known to ask why we do as well, but in my case and in this post I ask why philosophers (some of them, in any case) disparage naive realism.  For me, the old claims that we have reason to doubt the veracity of our senses because of hallucinations, sticks in water and such, are unimpressive.  J.L. Austin pretty well laid waste to those claims, as far as I am concerned; but there is also the fact that our senses seem to serve us very well in most cases.  Not being committed to a need for absolute certainty, I think our successful interaction with the rest of the world in most cases indicates our senses function quite well in perceiving the various "external objects" we cannot exist without.  Then again, the fact that, e.g., the perceptions of people who are distant from something may differ from those close to it is something I find unsurprising.  I'm inclined to believe that such differences are more the result of distance than anything else.

But I suppose it is the fact that we cannot exist without that portion of the rest of the universe with which we interact which makes me wonder why we're inclined to separate ourselves from the rest of the universe in this fashion and in other respects.  We're living organisms and like other living organisms we've been formed by our interaction with each other and the rest of the world over time.  As we are part of the world, the idea that we are incapable of knowing what other parts of it really are doesn't make much sense.  If we didn't have that knowledge, we wouldn't exist.  Of course, there's much about the universe we don't know, and our knowledge in some cases is based on instruments we create or inferences we make.  But it doesn't follow from these facts that we in all cases cannot experience the rest of the world as it exists apart from us. 

Perhaps those who disparage naive realism suffer from their own lack of knowledge and wisdom.  They seem to believe that we are in some sense detached from the rest of the world, different from or superior to a living creature in the world.  They fail to recognize our dependence on the world, being convinced that the world is dependent on us, an astonishingly unsophisticated, parochial view given the vastness of the universe.

It isn't necessary to posit the existence of sense data or some kind of "representation" of what's out there to explain or justify perception or knowledge.  It is necessary, however, to recognize what we are as creatures of the universe.  We have our limitations, but such is to be expected; to expect otherwise is to claim and seek for a godlike ideal of perception or knowledge.  We perceive and know just as human beings, formed over time through evolution, are equipped to see and know.  The fact we don't perceive and know as other creatures do merely means we're human and they are not.  It doesn't mean that there is something between us and the rest of the universe on which we're fated to rely.

If there is such a thing as sense data (or whatever) which is what we experience directly, it would seem that is the case for other creatures as well.  So presumably other creatures are similarly incapable of experiencing the world directly, perhaps even less capable than humans, being less sophisticated organisms.  All living things incapable of immediate experience of the universe, yet living in it.   It's a remarkable belief indeed.

Of course, the claim is sometimes made that we can know enough about the rest of the world, or can rely on our perception, just enough to survive and function, but even so we cannot know fully what "external objects" are or what characteristics they really have (or if they are?), being limited to that something or other, the insertion, which is all we can experience.  But that is to say that there is a difference which doesn't make a difference, and so is no difference at all as William James said as noted in a different post. 

We test the precision with which our senses function as we must test everything, by judging the results of our interaction with the rest of the world.  There is no other justification for our knowledge and perception.  But our interaction with the rest of the world establishes that our perception of it
is valid enough for there to be no concern, except perhaps for those who are naive enough to think otherwise.

Homage to Diocletian

Gaius Aurelius Valerius Diocletianus effectively ruled the Roman Empire in the late 3rd century and the very early 4th century A.D. (or C.E., depending on the date of the work you read about him).  He did so for about 20 years, though he shared power with an Augustus of the West along with two Caesars, one of the West and one of the East, through his creation of the Tetrarchy, or the Roman version of it at least--a system by which the Empire was administered by 4 individuals. 

You can still see the Tetrarchs.  They are huddled together, hugging each other rather uncomfortably it seems, in a stone sculpture snatched from a Byzantine palace by the Venetians and now in place in Venice at St. Mark's Basilica.

Ruling the Empire for 20 years at that time was most impressive in itself, as the 3rd century was something of a mess.  One emperor followed another with amazing rapidity.  Even those sanctioned by the increasingly irrelevant and no doubt bewildered Senate were many, and those declared Augustus, unsuccessfully, by one legion or another were many as well.  Diocletian was a relative unknown from the province of Dalmatia who rose up through the legions.  Though he shared power he was without question the senior Augustus, primus inter pares, though that phrase was even less applicable to Diocletian than to the first Augustus who coined it or had it coined for him to help lessen the appearance of regal autocracy 300 years before.

Perhaps even more impressive is the fact that Diocletian actually abdicated, retiring to his huge palace at what is now Split.  That palace resembles a Roman military encampment, called a castrum, which was typically laid out in the form of a playing-card with four major streets.  Perhaps he had spent so many years overseeing the creation of castra that he wasn't certain it was possible to build anything else.  He lived on for 8 years after his abdication, tending his garden, which is said to have been made up mostly of cabbages.

He's remembered most by us barbarians for his effort to impose price controls and the so-called "Great Persecution" of the Christians, policies which were failures.  Price controls continue to be debated and poor Diocletian's edict is generally held up as the first example of their use or misuse as the case may be.  The failure of the "Great Persecution" was trumpeted by Christian apologists at the time and has been ever since as evidence Christianity was/is divinely sanctioned, but recorded deaths of martyrs are actually very few, relatively speaking.  The Christians were known to have exaggerated the severity of persecution in that case and other cases.  In fact, the Christians were by that time so firmly in place among the bureaucracy and the military that there could be no extirpation of the religion even then let alone during the reign of Julian the Apostate.

Diocletian was most impressive, though, in his reformation if not reconstruction of the Roman State as a much more efficient (and large) bureaucracy.  He also transformed the status of the emperor, rending that position even more autocratic and sacrosanct in some ways, but less omnipotent.  His reforms of the military were impressive and effective as well.  He's been considered a kind of second Augustus, restorer if not creator of the Empire, and his achievement was such as to assure its continuance in one form or another for a thousand years, in the East.

Why do homage to such a man?  There is a disturbing tendency among some of us to treat as heroes or as truly great those who are, at the end of the day, great autocrats, dictators, rulers, generals.  Alexander, Julius Caesar, Napoleon for example.  These were men who were responsible for the slaughter of hundreds of thousands, however, and the oppression of even more.  It's unclear to me why they are selected for honor, but it is difficult for me to believe that the fact they are honored by us is honorable.  Is Diocletian different?

Diocletian was a cruel ruler in a cruel time, a ruthless organizer and administrator who imposed order where there had been chaos through the relentless imposition of absolute policies which sometimes worked and sometimes did not, but overall worked to prevent the Empire from dissolving.  It's probable the preservation of the Empire was more desirable than the alternative.

Constantine is sometimes given the credit for the preservation of the Empire, but he merely perpetuated the reforms Diocletian imposed, and didn't obtain power in similarly chaotic circumstances.  It may be that he came to be thought of in this way because of his rather ambiguous acceptance of Christianity, which sufficed to make Constantine almost holy as far as the Church and its chroniclers were concerned.

But beyond that, the preservation of the Empire and its restoration in a new form, however autocratic, was a colossal achievement, and the fact that it was accomplished by someone who started so low and was raised so high is impressive in itself, to me at least.  It is also representative of one of the truly odd aspects of the Empire.  Although it grew out of an oligarchy, it came eventually to allow for if it did not contemplate the acquisition of real power, even ultimate power, by certain individuals who were not aristocrats, not wealthy, not privileged in any real sense.  There is something I find fascinating about such a society and such a people.

Perhaps it was a society where power was more naked, that is to say that power was less influenced by other factors traditionally recognized as bringing power.  Roman imperium may have been authority "pure and simple" which could be exercised in and of itself, by anyone regardless of lineage, origin or economic status.  As far as power is concerned, the more honest and simple its use and creation the more respect it should be accorded. 

Differences that Make no Difference

"A difference that makes no difference is no difference at all."   This neat little sentence is one of many neat little sentences William James (I fondly call him "Wild Bill"), came up with while rampaging through philosophy and psychology.  He was a wordsmith, and also a great teacher, so it's said, and a popularizer (if there is such a word) of pragmatism and other things.  Not the most precise thinker, though, and that prompted C.S. Peirce to call his philosophy "pragmaticism" to distinguish it from that of James.  It also prompted, if it did not require, John Dewey to step in to tone down James' exuberance in response to criticism by such as Bertrand Russell.  Being a Lord, and British, Russell had no tolerance for exuberance of any kind.

But though rambunctious, James could be most insightful, and one of his insights was that purported differences, some of which have occupied great minds far too much, make no difference.  That is to say they do not result in any change to how we live.  They don't satisfy any desire or urge, they don't serve to solve any question or problem we encounter in living, they don't impact what we do, how we react.  They accomplish nothing, and cannot accomplish anything, unless perverted.

The perversion can result when a difference which makes no difference in itself is accepted as the fanciful grounds for or basis of a system or unwarranted inferences.  For example, because we can't know what the world really is, and what it seems to be to us is all that we can know and perhaps even all that really is, the world is ours to make or shape; we are the masters of the world and may do with it what we will.  This perversion is similar in some respects to religious beliefs; it breeds a kind of righteousness as it is founded on something which cannot be challenged. 

Unfortunately, we persist in considering that which makes no difference, practically speaking, to be of greater worth than that which does.  Too many feel truth and what is good are founded in something having an existence separate from the world, the world being fundamentally flawed.  A holdover from Plato, perhaps, or religious beliefs.  Whether or not there are ideal Forms or a transcendent divinity or absolute spirit, the world will be what it is and we will live in it as it is and we will be as we are, and so such creations of thought and belief make no difference themselves.  But some of us take such speculations and impose them on ourselves and others

Differences which make no difference seem peculiar to philosophy and religion.  Law has its share of fictions, but those fictions serve a purpose or at least make a difference in the sense that they must be treated or used in a certain fashion, may do certain things and not others.  It may be said that philosophy seeks to explain life or aspects of living, and in that sense is not concerned necessarily in making a difference to how we live.  That in itself is a noble and significant enterprise.  The function of explanation, though, is being preempted more and more by science, and given the fact that philosophical explanations never seem to be accepted by most philosophers, even, it is unclear that explanations will ever be forthcoming from philosophers.

Making a difference is significant because the failure to make a difference indicates that what is being touted as a difference is at best trivial and of no account, at worst subject to perversion or malicious manipulation.  Thus, while it may be the case that what we perceive as X is not what Kant would call the X in itself, we cannot know and have no reason to care whether it is or is not.  We will keep on perceiving X as we perceive X and will do or not do what we always have and always will do or not do regarding X.

The consideration of whether what is claimed a difference makes a difference is, I think, a most effective way of determining whether some idea or theory is worth any interest or concern.  If it makes no difference to how we live, then plainly we are best advised to devote real time and effort to something that does.  Something that makes no difference is also something that cannot be tested or observed, and in that sense will always be speculative.

Pragmatism's focus on consequences, on effects, is one of its most attractive aspects to me.  Although such as Russell insisted that it wrongly confuses what is true with what works, that seems to me a very simple-minded criticism.  It isn't a question of proposing that what works is true.  It's more an insistence that unless something has effects or consequences, i.e. makes a difference, it is not something which can be made use of, tested and judged as good or bad, right or wrong, useful or useless.  Most of all, it should not and cannot reasonably be used for any purpose.  Those who seize upon such things in making decisions make decisions for no good reason.

So it may well be that William James wrote philosophy like a novelist, and his brother Henry wrote novels like a philosopher.  I can't speak to Henry James, though, as I've never been able to read him.  I get the same impression reading him as I get when I read Henry Adams--the overwhelming impression of artifice, contrivance.  It may have been the style of the time.

However, William James must be respected as someone who, with Peirce and Dewey and others, sought to make philosophy pertinent to how we live by judging it by its effects on how we live and disregarding it when it has no effects.

Whither Jazz?

Earlier this month I was sitting in Birdland, the great jazz club now on 44th St. in Manhattan, sipping the alcoholic beverage of my second choice (the first choice being unavailable, much to my dismay), and found myself wondering over the fact that the Friday night crowd was made up entirely of white people.  Even the performers were white; some Hispanic. 

Birdland, called "the jazz corner of the world" by the man who inspired its name, the late, great Charlie "Yardbird" Parker.  The place where giants of the genre have played over time, including but not limited to--as we lawyers like to say--Miles Davis, John Coltrane, Dizzy Gillespie, Thelonius Monk, Art Blakley (the list goes on and on) since its founding in 1949.  And while I wondered I recalled that in my several visits to Andy's Jazz Club in Chicago, the crowd and performers have always been white, or at least they have been when I may be said to have been sufficiently aware of my surroundings to notice or remember.  I have overindulged in liquor there, on a few occasions.

I became a fan of jazz in my college years, mostly.  I am one of the unfortunates who lived through the 1970s as a young adult and adolescent.  The popular music of the time was for the most part a horrifying mix of cloying sentiment and disco tunes, with the ridiculous bump and other grotesque dances making us look like clowns.  We males dressed like clowns as well, of course; most appropriately.  I find it hard to even glance at pictures of the time.

There were some exceptions.  Rock wasn't entirely dead.  But that's when I began listening to and buying the works of the artists I refer to above and others like Charles Mingus, Rahsaan Roland Kirk and Yusef Lateef.  I attended the last Newport Jazz festival, disrupted by a bunch of hippies or vagrants who thought entry should be free of charge and so made certain that those who paid could not listen to the artists they paid to see, and that the artists would lose future pay days at least.  I saw Maynard Ferguson and his band at a club in Boston the name of which I can't recall, but that particular event I found disappointing; Ferguson and his band seemed to me simply to play uninteresting music very loudly.  I was something of an oddity at my Alma Mater, my stereo blaring jazz through the thin door of my dorm room.

There were some white jazz artists even then, like John McLaughlin who played on some albums with Miles Davis, primarily "fusion" artists.  And of course Bill Evans and Brubeck and other white folk were outstanding jazz men long before.  But it is not inaccurate to say that jazz began with black musicians, and it seems that like other music forms such as rock and, most depressingly, blues what began with black musicians and fans has been or is being overwhelmed by whiteness.  There's something about white men singing the blues that seems almost offensive.  As George Carlin once said (if I recall correctly) white people don't sing the blues; we make other people sing the blues.

White jazz musicians are certainly not offensive.  But I wonder why it is that at least to this observer, jazz is no longer dominated by black artists as it was in the past.  Have we white fans chased them away?  Is there no longer any real incentive for young black people to acquire the vast knowledge of an instrument required to play jazz, rap and hip-hop being more desirable (and, I think, far less difficult to master)?  Is jazz, which created cool, no longer cool?

Popular music has taken an odd turn, I believe (or maybe I've become an old fogey myself).  The great stars no longer play instruments of any kind.  Instead, they sing (or rap) and dance (or hop), usually in groups, while music is played by others if not manufactured by machines.  Popular music (with the possible exception of country music, where it seems stars may still play an instrument) seems to have transformed into a kind of parade of nightclub acts or Vegas shows, full of showgirls and showboys.

Jazz and some of what is called "world music" may represent all that is left for musicians who make new music.  I love classical music, but it seems unchanging.  The efforts made to make new classical music have in my opinion resulted in what may be called musical exercises, complex but uninspired.  They appear to be strained, small efforts compared to the great masterpieces of the past.

Perhaps jazz is becoming a kind of classical music itself, now.  It still continues to live and grow, but it may be that its limitations are being reached, not because the form of music itself is limited, but because it no longer attracts the young among us.

A Campaign in the "Culture Wars"

The Culture Wars (or is it war?) are similar to those "wars" we've fabricated which are not wars and which are not won or lost, but are unending, like the War on Drugs or the War on Poverty.  But the Culture Wars are sillier than those other non-wars in that they are even less wars than are the others, as the others at least have had practical impacts on some of us, good and bad.  It's unclear the Culture Wars have had or ever will have an impact of any kind in real life.  That's because they represent only opportunities, of which there are already far too many, for the more pompous and verbose among us to pontificate once more on matters they find disturbing and disagreeable. 

These days and for some decades past those of the right, socially and politically, take such opportunities more often than those on the left, and this has had the effect that the campaigns of these wars are rather dull and repetitive.  One of the more recent of them involves the old Maine liberal arts college of Bowdoin, which is the subject of a lengthy criticism issued by something called the National Association of Scholars, which describes itself as being committed to rational discourse as the foundation of academic life, rather than irrational discourse, which it would seem must be committed to by the National Association of Bad Scholars or Non-Scholars.  The study is called "What does Bowdoin Teach?", which I like to think was chosen as a title to parody the frivolous advertisements/brochures colleges use to lure students, which have titles such as "What is X University?", but which I fear was a title selected by those grim scholars who authored the study in all seriousness.

I've mentioned Allan Bloom's diatribe against modern college education in the past, and it seems Bloom lives again in the pages of this work.  There is much the same outrage and much the same that is deemed outrageous.  Assuming the study is accurate, it may be said things are even less Bloom-like or Bloom-worthy than when he wrote.

While I've noted that Bloom strikes me as someone who was very much an old fogey, I've also noted that I find some of his criticisms to be merited.  His fascination with the sex lives of the students and their parents is somewhat unnerving, though, and this preoccupation seems shared by scholars of this national association (I'll just call them the "scholars" for the rest of this post).  If the study is accurate, though, it seems that sex fascinates the professors at Bowdoin as well, as there are apparently courses about sex and sex which is the wrong kind of sex as far as the scholars are concerned.

That college students are obsessed by sex and experiment with it should come as no surprise.  The scholars, though, believe that they are being encouraged to experiment by the professors, and to be accepting of objectionable sex.  I have my own problems with college courses on sex that are not part of a psychology or sociological curriculum, i.e. which are not devoted to the study of sexual conduct, but rather advocate sexual conduct of a particular kind (if there are such courses).  But I think that our society generally and social conservatives in particular take sex far too seriously.  There was a great deal of sex going on in the distant days when I was in college; that's the way of it.  In itself it's nothing to get excited about.

Similarly, the fact that the curriculum and professors are overwhelming "liberal" is hardly surprising; that again was the case decades ago.  That the professors are not sufficiently American ("un-American" has some disturbing associations, but perhaps the scholars have their own committee on such activities) is not surprising either.  All these criticisms have a familiar ring to them, I'm afraid.  They're old news.

The study suffers from having a forward by William J. Bennett, famous gambling addict, proponent of the virtues and opponent of the Seven Deadly Sins (except, perhaps, greed).  It's difficult for me to take moralizing from Mr. Bennett seriously, and his participation in the study, however limited, gives it the appearance of political and ideological bias.

I have limited expectations regarding a college education.  I think it's desirable, but feel that those who graduate and do not continue in the academy in one way or another are not influenced by it greatly, and that what influence there is dissipates with time and in the face of the focus required to make a living.  I don't think it's necessary that certain books be read, certain history taught, certain languages learned.  There will be time to read those books, and one reads them to better effect when one doesn't have to read them.  What I think colleges should do, though, is instill in their students the habit of critical thinking and the means of intelligent analysis and inquiry.  This study purports to demonstrate that critical thinking is not being taught at Bowdoin and by implication at other liberal arts colleges.

That may be true and if true is most unfortunate.  But I don't think it would be taught in the context of a "good old" liberal arts university education either.  I don't think it has been taught at all, in fact, though I think I was fortunate in having a few teachers in college who actually made me think and taught me something about it.  That wasn't due to the courses being taught, however; it was a discipline taught not due to the topic of study but due to the demands imposed by the professors.  Critical thinking won't be taught in schools until courses specifically devoted to such thought are made part of the curriculum.  Until that time, it will be taught haphazardly if it all.

Critical thinking may create doubts regarding whether preferences of those on the right or the left are appropriate, however.  Nobody wants to see their sacred cows subject to criticism.  So it's unlikely the method of critical thinking will ever be taught as part of any curriculum.  It's very likely, though, that those who believe that particular courses should be taught, not others, will always maintain that those they prefer must be taught in order for students to know what is right, good and true, and that they will insist on telling us so.

The Great Shutdown

Although frequently asked--if not commanded--to bless America, our Great Republic, God doesn't seem inclined to do so in many cases.  Those of us who think as I do that God is unlikely to esteem any country on a planet representing such a tiny part of the universe more than any other tiny part of the universe will not find this surprising, of course.  Others might, however, and those so inclined may wonder just why he, or we, allow our elected representatives to disport themselves in so contemptible a fashion as they have regarding the shutdown which has taken place in the last few weeks.

Fox News insists on calling it a "slimdown" it seems.  Slimming down is good, you know; healthy.  It's all for our benefit in the end, no matter how painful it may be.  Thus its dismisses the fact thousands suffer as a result of the posturing of our politicians.  I suppose it's admirable in a way that this organization expresses its bias in such a cavalier manner.  I'd say such an honest revelation is refreshing even if unintended, but then there's that annoying slogan, "Fair and Balanced."  So we can't absolve Fox News of hypocrisy in this case, at least.  Why not just refer to a "partial shutdown" if "shutdown" is deemed inaccurate?  Then again--why be accurate in today's world?

For me the most disturbing aspect of this melodrama is the fact it seems directed to derailing Obamacare, which may not be good law but is the law nonetheless.  Republicans are pleased to denounce judicial interference with duly adopted legislation (sometimes, at least) but they apparently have no qualms about doing it themselves when they are unable to arrange for its repeal.  This is at best mere petulance, which is worthy of disgust, but I think something more is involved.  I don't mean money, as its overwhelming importance in our political system must be taken for granted.  I refer to the kind of insane fit or seizure which takes hold of certain of us when anything related to our President is encountered or mentioned.  One must wonder what the cause is of such remarkable symptoms, but it is clear that the President sends certain of us into a frenzy.

How else explain the self-destructive conduct of those leading the charge against Obamacare, or perhaps a better analogy would be the defense of an outpost, say by the French Foreign Legion, or of Rorke's Drift (which might better suit those who find the President's mixed genetic heritage offensive, and it is possible that heritage is at the heart of this lunacy).  Something romantic and inspiring is called for--the Alamo?  But in the end the motivation is that some politicians disagree with adopted legislation which is the law, and while such disagreement is of course not in itself bad or despicable and can even be merited, the use of power to injure people because of dissatisfaction with the law of the land is ignoble, especially when those wielding power for such purposes are charged with adopting legislation.

It seems that wiser heads may prevail as far as the debt ceiling is concerned, but what are "wiser heads" where our government is concerned?  Those who can manage to be reasonable in certain limited cases?  Are the best of those who represent us those who are not clearly idiots or unthinking zealots?

Well, it can be said we get the government we deserve, and perhaps this is God's way of telling us he will not bless us with good government because we don't deserve it.  Those who think that divine grace is accorded without regard to conduct won't find this conclusion satisfying, but perhaps they will at least acknowledge that the elected are not necessarily the Elect.  The Chosen People need not be those we chose to do these things.

The Dread of the Real

We're all fairly familiar with this dread, aren't we?  If not from feeling the dread, then from being immersed in it through the pronouncements of various intellectuals, certain of the religious, and of course by undergoing what is called a liberal arts education, which mandates the reading of the works of various dread-full titans of the history of the West.

I'm reading a book by Robert Unger with the rather exclamatory title The Self Awakened:  Pragmatism Unbound.  I have a fondness for pragmatism the philosophy (I'm still awaiting the movie), as anyone deigning to read this blog knows.  So, it seems, does Unger; but he also evidently believes it does not go far enough.  Regrettably as far as I'm concerned, he does not reveal where it or humanity or philosophy in general should be going in the first parts of the book, but he makes very firm statements that it and we and philosophy are not going where they and we should.  And, in pointing out why that is the case, he constantly refers to what he (or perhaps those of us who aren't going where we should--I'm not sure yet) feels is our plight as miserable, decaying, dying animals trapped in a universe beyond our comprehension.

Dread has a peculiar meaning in philosophy, or at least in some kinds of philosophy, being roughly the same as angst.  It seems a kind of glorified fear, a fear which some claim is even useful in an unusual manner.  I use it here in a broader and more common sense, which certainly may involve fear but would also include loathing and disgust, even contempt and disdain, directed of course sometimes with alacrity at us, our fellows and the universe in general.

Am I alone in thinking that the tendency to indulge in describing, explicating, bemoaning and expounding on this "plight" is tiresome and futile?  It's been going on for centuries, obviously to nobody's gain--indeed, the very idea of gain may be unimaginable if not intolerable to those who feel we exist in a foul, incomprehensible world without meaning or purpose.  I especially am interested by those who are called or call themselves "anitnatalists" who are apparently persons who take advantage of the fact that they live and think and experience to contend that it is inappropriate for us to give birth, thereby causing the creation of others who will live and think and experience as they do.  Inappropriate because, of course, the world is foul, incomprehensible and without meaning or purpose.

When we think of this tendency towards dread of the world we naturally think of the "usual suspects", dismal purveyors of misery and angst such as Kierkegaard (speaking of fear), Schopenhauer, Sartre and their many equally if not more miserable and angst-filled followers.  But the belief that the world is inferior or a source of evil and our brief lives a chore if not worse has been around a long time.  Jolly old Plato, of course, thought little of the world and even less of humanity.  Even Marcus Aurelius wrote of the world and we humans as being of little worth, now and then; whether this indicates his real feelings or thoughts written in his darker moments or as a kind of exercise is unknown.  The Stoic view that God is immanent in nature would seem to preclude the kind of disdain for it we find in Plato, or the odd despair over it which seems a feature of modern times.

But of course we humans really came to disdain the world in toto and even with gusto upon the advent, as it were, of Christianity.  For this we probably have to thank St. Paul, primarily.  Now there was a man who dreaded, and indeed hated, the world and all that's in it!  It's curious, though, that this dread of the real in the West, at least, is not limited to Christians, but may be even more evident in intellectuals who have renounced Christianity.  I'm not sure if this is a result of the fact that philosophy, like politics, makes strange bedfellows or the fact that misery loves company.

Assuming the world is pointless and hideous, and we if not hideous are at least pointless, though, why take the trouble to point out that this is the case, and pronounce upon it in hideous detail?  Perhaps we have here a even more striking example of the fact that misery loves company.  Does this represent an instance where the miserable among us are engaged in a relentless quest to make certain that others are miserable as well?  Or is it simply that many of us are whiners and many of us for some reason enjoy hearing others whine?

Why not, at the least, make efforts to lessen the misery; our own and those of others?  That would seem to be the intelligent response to misery, whether it is real or imagined.

Of Gods and Men

I ponder now and then the development of Christianity, which took place during the years the Roman Empire dominated most of Europe and the Mediterranean.  I find fascinating the manner in which it also became dominant, and ascribe that in part to its remarkable assimilation of pagan religion and philosophy. 

But I'm puzzled that in doing so it in turn became dominated by the doctrine of the Trinity.  That seems to me a unique characteristic of the faith as it exists now, although it has not always been so.

There were many sons of gods wandering about in the first few centuries of what we now call the Common Era, being apparently uncomfortable with A.D. as a peculiarly Christian phrase.  And there were gods who, like Christ, died for our salvation and were resurrected.  Those other sons of gods, though, were considered human or semi-divine.  Those gods were gods.

Christ for some reason is believed to have been while present on Earth both God and man, and indeed fully God and fully man.  And, while he is indeed claimed to be the Son of God, he is also God the Father and the Holy Spirit or Ghost, who are also the Son of God, but are also, all of them one God.

If this seems to you a problem, it was also a problem during Christianity's development.  Many thought Christ was divine but subordinate to the Father, a kind of sub-god, created by the Father.  Some thought he was not always a god but became one.  Some thought he was not a god, but despite that fact unique and extremely significant.

Unfortunately, because Christianity in most of its forms was exclusive and intolerant, the various kinds of Christians spent a great deal of time persecuting and even killing one another.  Those who believed the Son to be one in Being with the Father, i.e. of the same substance and therefore in no respect subordinate, faced the problem that the Scriptures tended to indicate otherwise.  Jesus in the gospels often seems to distinguish himself from the Father, and sometimes appears to claim that the Father knows something he doesn't know.  I don't think anyone knew just what the Holy Spirit was supposed to be, really.  Descriptions are quite vague.  But for the fact he or it is God, we know very little.  The Holy Spirit is a very nebulous God; one has to wonder why it is God at all.

Christianity's pagan predecessor religions avoided this confusion.  The issue for them did not arise.  And it seems early Christians didn't maintain that this was so because the pagan gods were imaginary or mere men.  Instead, they thought them demons.

Constantine is generally credited with having made Christianity the religion of the Roman state, and it's claimed by some the doctrine of the Trinity was established and the condemnation of Arius and his followers (who felt Jesus was not of the same substance as the Father) was completed during his reign.  But Constantine was rather eclectic and opportunistic when it came to religion.  So were others of the time.  We read of some individuals who kept statutes of Jesus, Asclepius, Apollo and others in their homes (there is something wonderfully Roman about this; a very practical people would have been careful to placate a variety of gods, keeping them all happy).  He held a great Council of the Church, but there were many, many councils still to come, some of them not having imperial sanction.  Constantine doesn't seem to have been concerned to impose Christianity or a particular kind of Christianity on the Empire.  That came later.

Probably Theodosius was the emperor who began the imposition of the brand of Christianity we know best today, banning all others, also banning pagan worship and closing the schools of philosophy that were still active.  The year in which the Western Empire disintegrated is traditionally considered to have been about 100 years later.  The Eastern Empire lived on.

Augustine wrote of the Trinity, in Latin, and so is considered the great authority on the Trinity in Western Christianity, but some of the Fathers of the Eastern Church had written of it as well.  They did so in Greek, though, which apparently Augustine could not read.  We probably have Augustine and the decline of those would could read Greek to "thank" in great part for what we here in the West consider Christianity today.  Augustine liked Paul, unfortunately, and Paul's grim view of the world and even grimmer view of sex was passed on to the Roman Church along with other things through Augustine.

Why was it so significant that Christ be one in Being with the Father?  Why did that view win out, necessitating the creation of the convoluted, inexplicable Trinity?  It would seem that the view that Christ, if he was a god, was a subordinate one would have made things far easier to explain and accept.  Was it the fact that the emperors eventually accepted this view that made it dominant?

It must have been considered by some, at least, of great importance that Jesus be God and not "merely" the Son of God.  But this required an explanation of his human existence.  How could God be human without being diminished?  That wouldn't be at all satisfactory.  So, it had to be the case that he was both human and God, and also both Son and Father, regardless of the fact that this would seem impossible or nonsense.

The Allure of the Obscure

Napoleon Bonaparte, prior to becoming Emperor of the French, asserted that a Constitution should be short and obscure.  Joseph Addison, English essayist extraordinaire, noted that there is no defense against criticism except obscurity.  Both of these gentlemen recognized that obscurity may have significant benefits, albeit benefits which (to be obscure?) are not, really, beneficial in every sense, and are instead beneficial only in a limited sense, and less than beneficial in other respects.

The benefit of obscurity in the case of a constitution, from Napoleon's perspective, was likely though not necessarily entirely selfish.  Obscurity in the law mandates interpretation.  Unambiguous language is not to be construed, but is instead to be applied.  Ambiguity in language is subject to judicial interpretation, which may be supported by all manner of factors, such as legislative history, rules of construction, definitions.  Such interpretation requires the forming of an opinion, which may in turn be influenced by all manner of other factors.  Opinion is susceptible to error, and self-interest.  Interpretation can also be manipulation.  The more nebulous the law, the more it can arguably, at least, be subjected to creative construction; that is, construed to mean something agreeable to those doing the construing.

Napoleon seems to have been someone likely to manipulate an obscure constitution to his own advantage.  Then again, as someone of immense intelligence (if not virtue, pace Goethe) he may have felt that an obscure constitution might allow for interpretations which would be appropriate given societal changes. 

Addison evidently recognized that by being obscure a writer/thinker may avoid criticism as obscurity renders intent and meaning unclear, indefinable.  Criticism in order to be apt requires a comprehensible subject.  Without such a subject, criticism is always suspect and is also subject to a most convincing if perhaps irritating riposte--"That's not what I (or he or she) meant.  What I (or he or she) really meant is.....  You're simply too dense or insensitive or ignorant to comprehend."  This particular benefit of obscurity is primarily if not exclusively selfish.

I would add another benefit which is perhaps a variant of of the benefits of obscurity resulting from the fact that the obscure must either be disregarded or interpreted.  Obscurity's benefit may not be limited to those who are obscure, intentionally or otherwise, but may extend to those who purport to interpret the obscure.  This results from the creative and purposeful use of the obscure to further certain ends regardless of what might have been the intent of the author of the obscurity.

Obscure thought and language, being uncertain and undefined, may be used in ways never imagined by the obscure.  They are a kind of clay which may be formed to match or support defined ideas through the instrument of interpretation.  In that manner obscure religious, political, philosophical sayings and writings are used in the furthering of various agendas.  Those who make use of the obscure in this fashion may even think that they use it appropriately.  And who could dispute them in their belief, given the intimidating uncertainty of the obscure?

So it can pay to be obscure; it can even pay to tout the obscure.  Obscurity can be useful not only to those who manufacture the obscurity but also those who do not create it but instead take advantage of the obscurity for their own purposes. 

Obscurity can be attractive to many of us, because what is obscure can at least be said to be profound, mysterious, insightful because of its very obscurity.  It's difficult to disagree with such claims because the obscurity of the obscure has the result that those who condemn it can only do so because it is obscure; nothing else can be said about it by its condemners.  It's at least possible something profound is involved, of a kind that can only be communicated obscurely.  The obscure can be said to be most everything, except clear.

And, except with respect to the possibly difficult task of being sufficiently obscure or strategically obscure, the authors of the obscure may be thought of or insist they should be considered profound, mysterious and insightful even if they have not devoted any thought or effort to understanding that regarding which they obscurely proclaim.  Obscurity renders pontificating undemanding.

Hume wrote that certain books should be consigned to the flames--those not containing abstract reasoning regarding quantity or number and those not containing experimental reasoning concerning matters of fact or existence.  It seems a rather arrogant contention; one wonders how many of his own works would have survived the conflagration.

I would propose something less absolute and draconian regarding obscure works (which are not works of art, which may be obscure because they are art) which purport to make claims regarding how we think and act and regarding the nature of the universe of which we are a part.  Call it presumptive disregard, or perhaps the presumption of gibberish.  If the authors of such works fail to communicate their ideas or assertions in clear, precise and simple language, we should presume they write nonsense.  But this presumption should be rebuttable.  If the author of the obscurity can explain the communication without creating one anew, or other portions of the author's work provide an explanation of the obscurity, the presumption will be rebutted.

This presumption may save us all a good amount of time and trouble.

The Persistence of Regret

Salvador Dali did a painting entitled "The Persistence of Memory"; it's one of his works featuring a dripping clock.  How tiresome such clocks become; how tiresome, perhaps, Dali became.  Memory is the same as regret, sometimes, and it is regret I find most persistent and daunting.

This is a significant confession for one who struggles to be a stoic, since regret may be said to be a feeling that results from ascribing significance to something clearly beyond our control, as it is a feeling evoked by memory or the consideration of something in the past.  We regret something done or not done, something that cannot be undone or done now.  It is an exercise in futility in and of itself.  In stoicism there is probably no purer example of something we should treat as indifferent in the ancient sense.

But we (or at least I) do not treat it as indifferent.  I dwell on certain things of the past, sometimes of the distant past; they pop up now and then in dreams, or even in waking life when memory speaks to me too loudly.  Memory may be quashed when one is awake, or overwhelmed by present concerns, but dreams present a real difficulty.  Some of us can alter our dreams as they take place; I have been able to do this, sometimes.  But I can't when the dream involves someone or something that is the subject of my regrets, since in such dreams I find my dream-self acting to prevent what I regret from taking place or to explain my regret and express how persistent it is.

But the expression of regret seems to degenerate into cloying cliche all too rapidly.  What indeed can be said in explanation; what can be said to acknowledge the pain of regret that doesn't make one sound like a Romantic poet at his worst?  If one can't overcome regret one can at least avoid histrionics.

If the regret is strong, though, it is not entirely a matter of indifference as it effects how we feel think and act now, which are things within our control.  We can correct ourselves as far as the present is concerned, and in this sense regret may be useful, I suppose.

Perhaps there is a kind of wisdom behind the sacrament of penance.  It may be a means to assuage regret.  We regret, we confess our wrongdoing, we are forgiven.  But penance involves a most specific kind of regret and remorse, and the regret is such that it persists in a different way entirely.  We regret doing something which displeases an eternal being, always there to forgive and available for reconciliation.  The prodigal son's everlasting father.  When our regret involves someone dead, or a love lost, there can be no reconciliation; there can be no renewal of love, as nothing can be the same.  What could have been is gone and can't be recovered.

Blood or water under the bridge, we say, and so the past is no matter how much we cherish it or how much it is a source of pain and remorse.  But perhaps there is more than memory involved.  Possibly we still want now what we could have had then.  Regret can be present desire for something which could have been in the past but is not now and cannot be now.  This is piling futility on futility.  Do we confabulate when we experience regret? 

Is regret merely a persistent dream or fantasy, or the recognition that a dream or fantasy which could have been was lost to us and we have only ourselves to blame?

We are disturbed not by things but by our view of them, to paraphrase the wise Epictetus.  So I am disturbed not by the past but what I think of the past, and perhaps what I superimpose on the past--what I imagine the present would be and the more recent past would have been.

I certainly regret, and that should be all.  I can feel regret, I can express regret, and have done so.  What I failed to do I can't do now.  The regret is of the past and is itself a part of the past, and should play no more part in the life left to live. 

Orson's Game

We hear much of Orson Scott Card these days.  Most likely we do because his novel Ender's Game has been made into a movie coming soon to a theatre near you, but also because he has taken it upon himself to declaim at some length verbally and in writing on topics such as gay marriage, our esteemed President and his claimed machinations, his (Card's) Mormon faith and the faiths of others, and more.  He seems rather offended that his pronouncements in these areas have earned him enemies, which I find rather odd.  But the self-righteous are, naturally enough, easily offended when their beliefs, so eagerly expressed, are questioned.

I find myself wishing he was content merely to write his books.  His books aren't bad; some indeed are good, or so I believe.  Ender's Game is a book I enjoyed reading.  I also enjoyed reading his books in the series involving the character Alvin Maker.  But I haven't enjoyed reading other books he's written.

The sequels to Ender's Game disappointed me, especially those written more recently.  Genius children can grow to be annoying, particularly genius children who talk and write incessantly and are surrounded by dull, gullible, bovine or boorish and violent adults.  Novels based on such conceits don't interest me after a chapter or two.  He's also written novels which seem to have a biblical or Book of Mormonical (?) connection, and alas that is a connection which doesn't interest me either, except with respect to the extensive and profound connection between Christianity and the beliefs which preceded it and which it assimilated, which I find fascinating.

But as is so often the case, what I wish for is not true and does not come true, either.  Mr. Card seems to rejoice in pontificating on various topics in various media.  I of course cannot object to that in itself, as I pontificate here in this blog, and on a certain forum.  But because of my relative anonymity and, I hope, because of a sensibility he seems to lack, my pronouncements are not quite as...well...loony, and not as likely to drive others to distraction (this sometimes seems to be his intent, regrettably).

Sadly, Card's opinions seem to be too much along the lines of the opinions already blared out by those who make their money doing right-wing talk radio, or are talking heads on Fox News.  I'm no fan of our President, and can even be described as conservative or perhaps libertarian in some respects.  But there is a level at which the expression of disagreement with the President and liberals generally becomes uninteresting and indeed unintelligent if not incoherent.

That level has been reached in talk radio and on Fox News, and that seems to be the level at which Mr. Card now operates.  Obama has a character which seems to evoke hysteria in some, and what might be valid criticism swiftly degenerates into lunatic exaggeration in those cases.  Card's very odd column in which he imagines the President usurping the government and revoking the Constitution strikes me as positively rabid.  It's hard to believe that he would think he was engaging in rational thought of any kind while manufacturing such nonsense.  Peppering it with facile references to Augustus, Napoleon and Hitler, which he appears to think evidences a keen grasp of history, simply makes him seem more of a crank.

He seems to believe that it is Muslim doctrine that any person who ceases to be a Muslim must be killed.  The little reading I've done indicates that whether that is the case is disputed, but clearly Card thinks there is no dispute, or perhaps rather that if there is a dispute it doesn't matter.  He maintains that unless Muslims agree to condemn this doctrine, they should be penalized by our government which should, among other things, deny Islam the exemption from taxes granted other religions.  This is punishment Card believes appropriate for Islam being uncivilized.

I don't object to the revocation of this exemption as I think there should be no exemption for any religion or Church.  The exemption is a benefit granted religions for no good reason as far as I'm concerned, but regardless they are not entitled to the exemption, they are given it.  No organization should be accorded special status under the law.  The revocation of a gratuitous benefit is not a punishment or penalty.

It seems gay rights advocates want us to boycott Ender's Game, the movie, because of Card's opposition to gay marriage.  As I've noted before, I think marriage in the law is simply a special kind of partnership, and should be just that and only that as far as the law is concerned.  Whether the partners are straight or gay makes no difference to me, and should not in the law.  But I'm not inclined to avoid the movie because Card evidently thinks that gay marriage will somehow result in some kind of vicious, mandated quashing of traditional life, culture and morals.  There have been plenty of novelists and artists throughout our history who have been idiots or bigots, but we should be free to read or view or listen to their work.

I won't go to see the movie for the same reasons I don't go to see others.  Why spend money on what will likely be a bombastic cookie-cutter production, poorly acted, as are most movies made in our Glorious Republic these days?  I'll wait until it shows up before me as I sit in my comfy chair in my living room, and then will probably end up turning it off in any case to read some non-fiction and listen to music (the History and Discovery channels having become for reasons unknown to me purveyors of strange "reality shows").  I may even think while doing that.  Thinking is not a game being played well or often by Mr. Card and too many others of our time.

The Kingdom of Fear

These words were used to describe these United States by the late and remarkable if not always great Hunter S. Thompson before his suicide, and were also used in a song he co-wrote with the late, great Warren Zevon.  I hesitate to call Thompson "great" without qualification because of the manner of his death; not necessarily because he took his own life but given the way he went about doing so.  As I recall, he shot himself while on the telephone with his wife and while his son was at home in another part of the house.  Exiting the kingdom in this fashion seems intended to cause the greatest possible harm to those who are close to you.  That may or may not have been his intent, but regardless of whether that was the case it is not an honorable departure.

But I can't help but think that the description is apt.  We are fearful of many things and that would seem to be a prerequisite of living in the Kingdom of Fear.  That is, apparently, also why we have so many guns and indeed should have them according to the gun shills; and we should also fear, of course, as others with guns may try to kill us or those we love or, worse yet, may try to take away the guns we require in order to prevent them from killing us or taking away our guns.  It is all a part of the great Circle of Strife.

There are certainly things to be feared, and perhaps more people to be feared than there were to be feared in the past.  As Thompson and Zevon put it in their song, "dangerous creeps are everywhere."  But one must wonder if this is indeed the case.  As we all know what transpires around the world with great rapidity, and as our government, ostensibly in charge of the Kingdom of Fear, knows what we know and do and say and write, it may be the case that we believe there is more danger simply because we have access to more information than we did.  Dangerous creeps may be more evident than they were not because there are more of them, proportionately, but because we can no longer be ignorant of them.  We can see them or hear of them or read of them 24/7 (a clumsy but useful little summary phrase).  Indeed, our knowledge of them is in a sense compulsory; we would have to be in a wilderness without TVs, radios, smart phones to enjoy the bliss of ignorance.

Perhaps also the dangerous creeps among us have more opportunity to display and indulge in their infinitely varied creepiness than in the past.  The Internet is a wonderful tool, but it is as well an outlet for all that is good and bad in us, and the bad, sadly, exceeds the good, or at least is more easily expressed than the good in the available format.

We've always been subject to fears and it seems are inclined to be overwhelmed by fear.  This inclines me, not entirely fearfully but perhaps warily, to wonder whether our interesting times have made us ripe for another of the periodic religious "awakenings" which occur now and then in our history.  Such things can have profound effects, not all of them good.

Religion is not really the opium of the people as Marx claimed; at least not religion as it develops in ages of anxiety like ours.  Opium may dampen fear, and religion can as well, but true comfort can only be obtained by certainty and certainty through religion is a product of righteousness.  If religion can be compared to a drug due to its use in confronting fear, it's more like cocaine.  It arouses, it is active.  It's certainty provides comfort in the form of euphoria, a kind of ecstatic absoluteness.  But certainty can degenerate into intolerance and paranoia.

Now it seems existent religions don't provide the kind of certainty required to quiet fear.  But that may change, and perhaps is changing as the religious become more emotive, simple, unquestioning in their beliefs.  The times demand action, we feel, and action is most satisfying when it is unthinking, and certainty becomes uncertain when subject to critical thought.  And so in the Kingdom of Fear we abstain from critical thought, the better to be certain.

Absurdism

I wish I was referring to the humorous evocation of the absurd, but no; "Absurdism" is, apparently, a variant of existentialism, and so humor has no place in its discussion.   But perhaps it does.

I came across a book called The Absurdity of Philosophy and downloaded it without much thought, just assuming, I must confess, that it would be an amusing read.  Thus far, it is not.

I was puzzled by the preliminary chapter in which the author describes himself as going through a daily routine pausing, with considerable frequency, to light cigarettes.  It's been some time since I've read anything written in last few decades which refers to lighting cigarettes at all, let alone doing so every time one is not involved in doing anything else requiring the use of hands.  I smoked for many years, and am familiar with lighting a cigarette in this reflexive manner, in my case whenever the phone rang in my office, for example.  Curiously, I find myself vaguely annoyed by the author's tendency to advise me that he lit a cigarette after a shower, while watching TV, etc.

Then, for reasons not foreshadowed, reference was made to Camus.  And then to Kierkegaard.  And then to French history.  The serial consumption of cigarettes seemed to be explained.  Ah, he must be French, I thought.  Cigarettes, Camus and Kierkegaard.  What else could he be?

But it seems he's not French.  He does, however, seem to accept (pun intended, I suppose) Absurdism.

It appears Absurdism reflects one of the three options the exceedingly melancholy Dane Kierkegaard believed rather presumptuously are available to us in reacting to (you guessed it) the meaninglessness of our lives.  The others are, unsurprisingly, suicide and belief in God or some kind of Other who or which manages to accord meaning to our miserable existence.  Absurdists, at least of the Camusian (?) variety, forego suicide (doubtless with difficulty and regret) and disdain belief in God.  They instead accept the meaninglessness, and live with it.  Perhaps this is similar to Sartre's version of "self-reliance", which evidently consists of withdrawing into oneself in response to the nausea said to result from everything and everyone but oneself. 

Now I will acknowledge that confronted with these three cheerful options, I would be inclined towards acceptance myself.  It is an option which would at least engender a kind of self-respect.  I would in that case, assuming I bought into the meaningless of life and was appropriately nauseated, be like Camus' Sisyphus and acquire a certain dignity.

However, I find the cause of the alleged three options to be difficult to accept.  That is to say, I find it difficult to conclude that life and the universe are meaningless.

What Kierkegaard and others like him actually seem to conclude is, in my opinion, that life and the universe have no meaning to them, in the sense of a purpose which makes everything bearable that they find disagreeable (and they apparently find many, many things disagreeable).  They have no meaning they find satisfactory, in other words.

But why should they?  Why expect they would, in the first place?   It seems extremely silly to believe the universe exists or you exist for a specific reason.  It seems even sillier to expect that this reason would be somehow intimately related to what we do or don't do, should or should not do, and that we would or should approve of the reason.

Acceptance of the fact that the universe and life need have no such reason would be more reasonable, if acceptance is what is appropriate.  Does this amount to the same thing, though, without the arrogant assumption that the universe was made for us, and the disappointment we feel when we understand it was not?

If so, the extirpation of the laughable conceit is beneficial in itself.  It's nice to live without being a self-involved fool.  How does one live, though, if we find the universe unsatisfactory?

We don't find it unsatisfactory, though.  We find our lives unsatisfactory for various reasons.  But we can solve certain problems, at least, and make it more satisfactory than not.  This isn't worthless, as our satisfaction is significant to us and why shouldn't it be?

We form our own goals and work towards them.  We make our lives meaningful. 

As someone who admires the Stoic way, I would say we live according to nature.  That doesn't entail belief in a God in any traditional sense, but it entails a respect and even reverence for the universe and all that's in it.  The universe inspires awe and reflection; we recognize this and act accordingly.

The Other Hitchens

The Rage Against God is a book written by Christopher Hitchen's brother Peter.  He and his late brother apparently were not close, as adults at least, and differed regarding God as may be guessed from the title of the book.  He writes well, though in my mind not as well as his late brother.  But I'm not certain just what he was trying to achieve in this book.  It would seem that the book was intended to be a kind of response to CH's (I'll use initials to distinguish them) voluble atheism as well as an effort to characterize and explain the rage which PH felt is behind the the New Atheists.  If that was the intent, I don't think it has the intended result.

In a way, the book begins much the same way as Allan Bloom's book The Closing of the American Mind (discussed in an earlier post) began:  with a summoning and nostalgic description of good old days, now gone, in part at least as a result of the decline in the Christian religion.  Is this sentimental recollection the result of age?  It would seem PH and I are not many years apart (perhaps Bloom was about my age, or older, when he wrote his book).

Do I do this too?  I have a certain fondness for the Catholicism of my youth, or at least for the aesthetics of it, and tend to be critical of the dullness and inanity of the current ritual and music.  But for me, at least, this fondness doesn't translate into a belief in the doctrine behind the older variant of the Church, nor is it a part of an insistence that the world has spiraled into a toilet due to the abandonment of that doctrine or variant.  PH indicates he is a Christian.  Just what that means and why he is one is not explained.

But it would appear the descent which is claimed to have taken place began even earlier than the 1950s.  PH believes that it all began after the First World War.  It makes sense to me that this cataclysmic event changed the world for the worst, and that it may have been responsible for a growing disdain for traditional religious beliefs which it seems both sides invoked in support of their efforts to kill.  But the belief that God was on the side of those warring against one another has characterized wars for centuries.

The wars of the 20th century dwarfed those of the past in magnitude, as a result of technology, but it is unclear the ferocity of those wars resulted from an abandonment of religion.  I think it is more likely that it resulted from the inference that given the technology available, it is necessary to engage in total war in order to defeat an opponent.  Victory on the battlefield is no longer as dependent on the skill and training of an opponent when one side can annihilate the other with mere firepower.  It's said that Napoleon's tactical brilliance declined as he came to rely more and more on massed artillery fire to win battles. 

PH is inclined to blame such things as the total war and atrocities of the 20th century on materialism.  He goes into detail regarding the character of society and culture in the Soviet Union where he lived for a time.  I'm sure conditions there were miserable for all but the elite, as he says, and share his disdain for Western intellectuals who it seems were incapable of viewing Stalin as a monster.  But in what sense was Russia better before the abolition of the Orthodox Church by the Bolsheviks?  Wasn't life miserable for all but the elite under the Czars?  Does PH think it was miserable in a better way under the Czars than it was in the Soviet Union?  Again, this is not explained.

I'm struck by the fact that this book, like that of Bloom's, is a series of assertions mingled with fairly frequent complaints.  There is no argument made in either work, properly speaking.  They consist of pronouncements, proclamations.

PH claims that morality is not possible without God, which is to say without belief in certain precepts which exist outside of what we consider reality.  If I understand him correctly, he maintains this is demonstrated though the concept of Christian love.  He notes that his brother CH wrote that it is not possible to achieve such love.  He distinguishes Christian love from the Golden Rule and believes the former provides a truer basis for morality than the latter, and the abandonment of the former is responsible for or demonstrates by its consequences the impossibility of a truly effective morality (he seems to acknowledge that reciprocity and decency are not dependent on the existence of God, but feels them to be insufficient).

Frankly, I've felt that what is called Christian love is impossible to achieve as well, and is something we honor in the breach, as it were.  We may tout it as an ideal, but we are better off practically speaking to try to do what we actually can do.  Regardless, though, I don't think it is accurate to claim that this love is something peculiar to Christianity, or even to religion in any institutional sense, at least.  PH appears to understand that Christianity is in many senses derivative of older religions, but he doesn't discuss this derivativeness in the context of his thesis.  I assume he must be aware of the writings of Celsus, who demonstrated long ago that the ancient pagan philosophers also referred to the need to love one another, to love others as we love ourselves, long before Jesus is said to have lived.

I'm no fan of the New Atheists, who do indeed sometimes seem enraged, and sometimes without good reason.  Their attitude seems to be one of contempt not only for established religion but for the religious or spiritual generally, and I think that is uncalled for and arrogant.

The book has a touching epilogue, in which PH notes that his last debate with CH was not bitter or contentious, and that they had some friendly time together before the debate.  The book was written before CH"s death, and there is no indication it was understood CH had terminal cancer when written.  One hopes the brothers reconciled fully regardless of their differences on this issue.

But this kind of response does little to defend traditional religion in general or Christianity in particular, in my opinion.  I keep looking for what I think would be a reasonable defense of a reasonable belief in God and do not find it.  Perhaps that's because the defenses made are dependent on a view of religion too tied to the myths and doctrines vested in established, institutional religions which must carry with them baggage which should be discarded.  Or perhaps that's because there is no reasonable defense.  I hope the former is the case.

Regarding Newman and his Apologia

The saintly John Henry Newman, Prince of the Church of Rome, whose elevation to sainthood took place with would have been thought celerity before the race to canonize John Paul II, wrote his Apologia pro Vita Sua ostensibly in response to an ill-advised comment by Charles Kingsley.  I've read and enjoyed reading some of Kingsley's breezy works on history, but must agree that Newman made a fool of him in his reply, and that he was able to do so in large part because Kingsley's remark was stupid and his efforts to defend it even more stupid. 

I say "ostensibly" because in addition to a meticulous rebuttal, the Apologia is an extended explanation and defense of Newman's religious beliefs and life, especially regarding his famous, or infamous depending on one's perspective, abandonment of the Anglican Church and conversion to the One Holy Catholic and Apostolic Church.  Newman was in effect given the opportunity to defend Roman Catholicism and apparently did so with great effectiveness.

I say "apparently" because this seems to be the reaction of those who read this work, but also because I find it difficult, if not impossible, to understand why Newman's conversion was the subject of such controversy.  I also find it difficult to understand or appreciate the distinctions between "High Anglicanism" and Catholicism, which presumably were of such significance as to render the conversion so controversial.  I suspect this is a difficulty which would be encountered by most who read the Apologia now.

Of course I can recognize that nationalism plays a part in the disputes between these churches.  All know that the grotesque Henry VIII had a falling out with the Church of Rome as it would not consent to his divorce of Queen Catherine and its assertion of authority over things sacred and profane Henry and others deemed to be the concerns of the English or of their rulers.  Since then the English have been sometimes virulently anti-papist.

The doctrinal differences, though, are beyond my comprehension or at least my patience, and regrettably this work is quite concerned with those differences, as might be expected.  It's difficult to believe that such differences were, and evidently are, still taken to be of great importance.  Even more difficult to believe is the extent to which these differences motivated seemingly intelligent people to devote extraordinary time, thought and effort to addressing them and the praise of such efforts which resulted.

My attitude is, I suppose, yet another indication of the extent to which traditional religions fail to excite or influence in these times.  While I'm not an atheist and don't take quite the savagely joyous delight others do in their decline, I'm unable to consider this failure unfortunate.

I must admit that I feel that Newman was in many respects a most peculiar man.  He remarks on the fact that early in his life he came to doubt the reality of the "visible world."  Presumably, he felt instead that there was a real or at least more real world that is not visible for some reason.  This invisible world would, I would think, strike most people as less discernible and comprehensible than the visible one.  To the extent that what is real should be something one can discern and understand, I would think the "visible world" would be more real than an invisible one. 

But it would seem that to Newman this was not the case; the less we know of something the more real it becomes according to this curious logic.  Or, perhaps, he believed the real is something we "know" of in a sense we can't know anything in the "visible world."

Then there is Newman's statement Christopher Hitchens enjoyed quoting, to the effect that the Catholic Church takes the position that it would be better for the universe and all that's in it to be destroyed than for anyone to intentionally tell a lie, or steal a farthing.  I suppose such a contention is to be expected from a person who felt the "visible world" is not real.  Who cares if the not-real is destroyed?  Such an attitude would make the remark appear less chilling and callous.

But it wouldn't, really, would it?  That's because we all know the "visible world" is in fact real, as we treat it as real all the time; it is, actually, the only thing we can treat with at all--we wouldn't "treat" but for the "visible world" because we're part of it.

There is something wrong with someone who believes the "visible world" is not real.  It may be the fact that their lives are testaments to the fact that they disregard what they say, or it may be the fact that if they really do believe what they say they disdain the world and all that's in it.  This breeds fanaticism, absolutism and intolerance.

Peculiar indeed, from my perspective.  But that seems to be one of the aspects of traditional religions, in the West at least.  The real and true are someplace else, unrelated to the world in which we live.  If they are apart from the world in which we live, then what takes place in that world is unimportant.  Those who believe such stuff are better off dead, even according to their own religion.

Allan Bloom, Old Fogey

In the late 1980s, Allan Bloom wrote a book entitled The Closing of the American Mind, which made quite a stir back then and still is a subject of some controversy.  It is a broad and somewhat ponderous critique of higher education here in our Great Republic, from his perspective as a professor.  It was latched onto by conservatives and lashed at by liberals.  Bloom denied being a conservative, and to do him credit he is now and then careful to qualify his assertions which seem on their face to be consistently critical of what are considered positions favored by the political left.

I find myself sympathetic with certain of his claims, though I must admit it's been quite some time since I lurked in the halls of the Academy.  But I can't help but disagree with most of them.  I don't think, though, that my disagreement arises from the fact that he is or should be considered a conservative.  For all I know, his statements he was not a conservative were earnest and true.  This book does not establish he was a conservative, in my opinion.  Instead, it establishes he was an old fogey; someone with a fussy and excessive regard for what and how things were done in the past, to and by them.

What strikes me about the book is the hostility to the modern which informs, if it does not inflame, Bloom's many complaints.  Bloom has a genuine fondness for the good old days when the classics were read, classical music was listened to, the family was the fundamental unit of society and politics, love and sex were romantic.  The father was a paterfamilias, the mother through the clever employment of feminine charm and "wiles" (a word he uses with some frequency) assured that the father, as a male constantly subject to his brutish needs, remained a provider to the children she instinctively produced and loved. 

But Bloom at the time he wrote his book found his students (he refers to them as "kids" all too often) to be orphans of a sort.  Largely the children of divorced parents, they lacked grounding in the dutiful and secure ambiance of the family.  They did not read the classics; indeed, they had been taught to despise or at best disregard them.  Sex was, to them, merely a pleasure.  They listened to rock music.

According to Bloom, this sad state of affairs was the result of the Enlightenment.  Divines like Hobbes and Locke opined that conduct was based on individual self-interest, and from this premise derived systems based on individual freedom.  Society and the family were no longer of real concern.  Things just got worse from there.  Soon people like Mill and Dewey appeared.  Bloom seems to think that these two were proponents of relativism (this is news to me, and would have been to them, I think).  They and others came to convince us that it is not possible to make critical judgments of claims or people, resulting in "openness" of a kind Bloom finds objectionable in his students.

Neither philosophy nor religion provides guidance to the kids any longer.  Modern philosophy is unconcerned with how to live, with the great questions which were addressed by philosophers in the past.  Nobody reads anymore, so the kids are not prompted to consider those questions through the influence of great writers.

To the extent Bloom takes the position that relativism and the view that critical judgments cannot or should not be made are adversely affecting our society and education, I am in agreement with him.  I'm uncertain where Mill and Dewey fit in, though.  Mill would seem to be the least objectionable of the Utilitarians from the perspective of an old fogey.  Dewey seems to have been a very unassuming person but has become a sort of boogie man to those of the right of the so-called culture wars. 

Bloom at one point acknowledges that Dewey sought to apply scientific method to addressing problems which were not traditionally scientific (political and social problems).  Given that fact, I think it's difficult to maintain Dewey supported relativism.  But it may be that what Bloom objected to was the application of that method outside of the sciences--though he doesn't seem particularly fond of science, either.  Dewey was an adherent of the use of creative intelligence and inquiry which requires the making of judgments and a consideration of their consequences in determining conduct; how does this amount to the rejection of standards by which judgments can be made?

Bloom frequently refers to Rousseau, and seems to think highly of him and his thoughts on education and love.  But Rousseau is an odd choice, I think, given Bloom's thesis.  If students are adrift due to their failure to read the appropriate works, what are we to say of Rousseau?  He relegated his own children to virtually certain death by consigning them to what passed as orphanages in his time, all the while writing of the proper way to raise and educate the children of others.  If Rousseau wrote admirably about children while casually disposing of his own, why claim it is necessary to read Rousseau in order to know how to go about educating and raising children?  Writing about this issue as he did didn't serve to induce him to act properly.  Why should reading him induce others to act properly?

Bloom was not a fool.  He didn't claim that the old ways were best except by implication, which is to say that he wrote that he didn't mean to maintain they were perfect, or the best guides to living and learning.  Instead, he states that since they are gone, and since they gave students the grounding they so clearly need, they must be replaced by something which will serve the same purpose.  Now, though, there is nothing, according to Bloom.

Of course, if there is nothing now, and if something is better than nothing and the old ways were something, then it would seem to follow that we are better off reinstating and following the old ways.  So it is difficult to contend that Bloom was not an advocate of the old ways of doing things, I believe.

What seems to pervade the book is the belief that the students, the "kids", must be led along the path of life in the Academy, as they receive no appropriate guidance from their families or friends or the declining culture and society in which they live.  There is a kind of elitism generating Bloom's complaints.  Accepting that it is at least possible there are no absolute truths (and it seems that Bloom accepted this possibility, or at least did not commit himself to propounding absolute truths exist) it doesn't follow that it is impossible to make reasonable judgments, i.e. to be open to anything, without objection.  On the contrary, we make judgments without relying on absolute truths or absolute certainty frequently; we must do so.  Bloom doesn't object to skepticism or the questioning of norms in itself.  He does seem to object to students as they are now (without education and enlightment courtesy of our relativistic and materialistic society) being skeptical and questioning, however.  He thinks that is something they are ill-equipped to do.

For Bloom, I think, the common herd is incapable of making the right decisions, and especially so the progeny of that herd.  It is for those who are truly educated to educate them so they can make those decisions.  Those who are truly educated are not modern.  They are, like Bloom, old fogeys.