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.