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.