Why Monotheism?

I'm not a polytheist.  For what seems most of my life, however, I've heard and read that monotheism is in some sense superior to polytheism.  This is not unusual given my Catholic upbringing, I suppose (or perhaps not--more on that later).

Polytheism has been equated with paganism and idolatry.  It has been characterized as a religious belief system of a primitive and superstitious nature, replete with magic.  Well and good, perhaps, for the unsophisticated of ancient times and even in modern times in savage lands, until assorted missionaries brought with them the truth and began inviting the savages ever so gently to accept it.  Monotheism, though, is considered a sophisticated and far more profound system of religious belief.

Why is this the case, though?  Let us acknowledge as we must that Christianity, and especially Catholic and Orthodox Christianity, has certain problems in claiming to be monotheistic.  The first problem is the Trinity.  It may be a great and unfathomable mystery, but on its face, at least, it requires one to maintain that a single God consists of three persons, each of them God but all of them God, as well, and necessarily so.   It should surprise no one that such a conception of God is not easily accepted as monotheism.

Then there is the related problem of God having a son (or indeed being the Son, as well as the Father and the Holy Spirit).  The pagan gods had sons; plenty of them, in fact.  Those sons, however, were distinguishable from their divine parents, and so it may be claimed that Christ as Son is not similar to pagan sons of gods; but again it must be acknowledged that this distinction that is not a clear distinction (Son of God but also God) leaves one feeling rather uneasy.  Monotheism?  Well, so we have been taught.

Also, Christianity's assimilation of pagan gods in the form of saints, and the prevalence of statutes and icons in Catholic and Orthodox branches of Christianity, at least, makes one wonder about the extent to which Christianity represents monotheism.   Ancient Greco-Roman paganism accepted that there were minor gods subservient to Zeus or Jupiter, and the saints hold similar subservient status and have been said to perform miracles which duplicate or are similar to the works of minor gods worshipped in antiquity.  It almost seems Christianity is polytheistic in a sense.

The same cannot necessarily be said of the other Western monotheisms such as Islam and Judaism.  However, those religions seem to recognize angels as subservient powers sometimes involved in the interrelations between God and humanity.  And we have not even considered the devil and his host of demons who seem to figure in each of the major Western monotheistic beliefs.  Monotheism, it seems, still contemplates a rather crowded universe filled with supernatural powers, some good and some bad.  As understood in the major Western religions, it seems monotheism may not be as different from polytheism as we have believed.

There is a least one clear difference between ancient polytheism and institutionalized monotheism, though.  The major Western monotheistic religions each claim that the god they worship is the only true god, and that the worship of that only god is the only way to truth and salvation.  Ancient polytheism by its nature didn't require a belief in one god to the exclusion of any other. 

The monotheism we know has been exclusive and intolerant to varying degrees throughout its history, sometimes violently so.  The violence continues, and it's likely it always will as long as monotheists insist there is only one god, one truth.  The superiority of monotheism over polytheism is not clear at all in this respect, to me at least.  Worship of a god which requires intolerance of other religious view doesn't strike me as a religious belief, or a god, which can be called superior to much of anything.

But there have been kinds of monotheism which have not been exclusive and intolerant.  Those monotheisms relate to gods who are generally less personal and less lawgivers than those of the institutional religions.  Deists, pantheists may posit the existence of a single god, but not one who is so insistent on certain conduct and ceremony; a god that is less human, shall we say.

Is monotheism of this kind superior to polytheism?  Well, the gods of ancient polytheism were notoriously human in nature, and as it seems that such very human gods would not be expected to hold sway throughout the universe, an impersonal single god would appear to be a more reasonable hypothesis.  May their be an impersonal polytheism?  An interesting question.  I can't see how this would be an impossibility, though.  If it's not, why would monotheism of that kind be superior to polytheism of that kind?

Would Occam's Razor make the single god preferable in that case?  Perhaps.  But it's not clear to me that preferable in this sense is superior.  I doubt an atheist would be impressed by either monotheism of polytheism.

Movies, Moralism and Books

If the title of this post causes confusion, I will clarify.  I refer to books which are made into movies, by moralists--moralists who depart from the book on which the movie is said to be based, for what they consider to be the good of the audience, or because the book is lacking in some respect which the moralist believes must be corrected in the movie.

Most recently, we see this take place in Peter Jackson's prolonged treatment of a relatively short book by J.R.R. Tolkien, The Hobbit.  Compared to The Lord of the Rings which followed it, and which rather obviously addressed good and evil, I've always thought The Hobbit to have been written with no moral point in mind, rather like other classic "children's" works, before we began writing books to teach children what we refrain from teaching them ourselves.  In the film versions, it becomes a kind of morality tale regarding the perils of avarice.

Then there is the insertion of characters and events; something at which Mr. Jackson excels, and indulged in even when filming The Lord of the Rings.  For example, he managed to coax an entire host of Elves to come to the relief of Rohan at Helm's Deep, though no such thing took place in the book.  The chief of this host, who looked disturbingly like Legolas as played by Orlando Bloom, as did the members of the host we could see, announced they came to stand beside Men in the fight against evil.  Most uplifting.  But I wonder whether Jackson unwittingly was suggesting all Elves look the same, to him.

This time, though, he inserts as a major character one not mentioned in the book at all, an Elf woman of his own devising.  From what I've read he did this because he thought girls should have as kind of role model someone of their own, though an Elf, slaughtering Orcs and Goblins.  Not content with manufacturing this character, he conjures a romantic relation between her and one of the dwarves, probably to show us that we can all love one another and are all really the same, regardless of our differences.

I find myself wondering what it is that possesses someone making a movie based on a book, to depart from the book radically.  Presumably, the book is being made into a movie because the book is loved and admired, or at least very popular.  Why, then, change the book?

It's possible, of course, that scenes from a book cannot be effectively presented in a movie.  Our technology allows us to do a great deal in movies we couldn't do before, of course.  But even so, sometimes a picture won't do what was done in print.

It's also possible, of course, that a movie may be better than a book by departing from it, at least as far as lesser books are concerned, or that a movie may depart from a book in such a way as to take its place as a uniquely separate work of art.  Stanley Kubrick made a habit of taking books and running with them, in directions the author did not or could not imagine.

Although Kubrick collaborated with Arthur C. Clarke in making 2001:  A Space Odyssey, the movie and the book differ significantly.  There, though, Clarke may have written the book after the movie.  This has never been clear to me.  And Stephen King was appalled to find out what Kubrick had done to The Shining, though frankly I would take the movie over the book any day.  I consider the movie far superior.  As if to prove this to be the case, King made his own movie version of his book, which was uninteresting.  I'm not sure of what Anthony Burgess thought of A Clockwork Orange, but it's justly considered a great movie.

"Better than the book" doesn't work in the case of Mr. Jackson's adaptions of Tolkien, in my opinion, but neither are they such as to be considered unique works in and of themselves, being too derivative except in certain carefully selected ways.  So are others where moralists make movies.  The film version of The Scarlett Letter has Hester running off with Dimmesdale, presumably to live happily ever after.  Disney, of course, annihilated The Hunchback of Notre Dame, with everyone loving and accepting Quasimodo.  Such are perversions of great novels.

One can go on, of course.  But I think it takes an especially arrogant and self-righteous person to radically change a book, "for the better."  Great books should be taken "as is" and with all faults.  They cannot be made "better" and if those making movies seek to accomplish such a thing they should leave well enough alone.

Nothing Worthwhile

Napoleon Bonaparte, First Consul of France and later Emperor of the French, and without question a remarkable general and great homme de guerre, had the following to say about torture:  "The barbarous custom of having men beaten who are suspected of having secrets to reveal must be abolished.  It has always been recognized that this way of interrogating men, by putting them to torture, produces nothing worthwhile."

Most would agree that Napoleon was not a terribly squeamish fellow and not one to hesitate to kill vast numbers of men who stood in his way on the battlefield.  He is known to have committed what would today be considered a war crime by ordering the massacre of between 2,000 and 4,000 prisoners of war during the siege of Jaffa.  He was not an especially delicate, namby-pamby, pacifist sort of fellow.  He was ruthless in the pursuit of his goals and in waging war.  He was also, by all accounts, almost frighteningly intelligent.  His assessment of torture as barbarous and worthless thus must be respected, even by the most virulent of our many arm-chair generals.

A report on the interrogation techniques employed by Central Intelligence Agency has been released, and it is not such as to redound to the credit of that organization.  Regrettably, that organization is closely associated with our Great Republic, and its conduct is taken by many to be the conduct of the United States.  So there has been concern, which is probably well-founded, that it will lead to our nation as being considered something less than the last best hope of the world.  Whether it will result in violence towards U.S. soldiers and citizens remains to be seen, at least at the time this is being written.

The potential for violence is of greater concern, to me, than the potential for disillusionment.  That the CIA engaged in questionable interrogation techniques and even torture in some cases has been strongly suspected by if not known to many for some time now.  Some, unfortunately, even glory in it, or at the least consider it a necessary evil.  I think this is to take an extremely selfish and short-sighted view.  Those who applaud torture are generally those who are unlikely to be tortured.  But as they sow, so shall those who put themselves in danger on their behalf reap.  An enemy who considers himself to be subject to torture by us will be inclined to torture us if they can. 

So the disillusionment of the world with the practices of our City on a Hill in pursuit of information is likely something we are confronted with already.  That such disillusionment will be bolstered or considered supported by this report is not a significant worry.  If violence will result, as it seems many believe will be the case, that is another thing.  It would seem to make more sense to prosecute or punish torturers and abolish torture than to flaunt instances of torture, particularly where violence is likely to result.  And of course flaunting them for political purposes is inappropriate; but I'm not convinced that is what is taking place.

I take it as a given that we should know what is done in our name.  Such knowledge is required for any honest and honorable assessment of our policy and ourselves.  A determined ignorance of such things is sought only by the weak and the callous among us.  If we are going to sanction torture, we should damn well know what torture is rather than seek to wrap ourselves in scented cotton-wool and leave the dirty work and knowledge of it to others.

Most of all, however, we should know that if we sanction torture we must expect that others will torture as well.  We can't pontificate when others engage in it without being hypocrites, and contemptible ones at that.  We should also know, though, that the efficacy of torture has been doubted even by such as the Corsican Ogre. 

Should we accept, without question, the claims of those who torture that the torture was necessary and produced valuable results?   I would say no, if it was accepted even by Napoleon that it was useless.  We should put them to the proof.  And what if the proof is provided?  Is the torture then justified?

The intentional infliction of great pain in the form of torture would not be justified merely by the fact that valuable information is obtained, because torture by others would in that case be justified.   The assessment to be made and the factors to be weighed are not so simple.  We would render ourselves and others subject to torture if we accept such a rationale.  Following orders has also been justified as valuable, because it contributes to order and efficiency, and we've seen the results.

Shakespeare, Genius and Anachronism

When in high school, I wrote a little paper on The Merchant of Venice, something we were required to read (the quality of what we were required to read was uneven, but Shakespeare is generally worth reading).  The question addressed was whether Shakespeare was anti-Semitic.  Motivated, perhaps, by a continuing tendency to provoke, and a certain cynicism, I argued he was indeed an anti-Semite.  My teacher, a kind man, told me I made some good points and gently said he thought I was wrong.

One of my arguments as I recall (it may have been my only argument) was that it was absurd to think that Shakespeare had overcome the overwhelming prejudice of his time and was, in effect, writing a satire about anti-Semitism, because he was Shakespeare.  To me, that was the only basis on which he was--or could be--defended from the charge.  It was to many unthinkable that a genius of his magnitude would succumb to vulgar prejudice.  How could someone who wrote so well of human nature, with such empathy, be in this respect so like the people of his time?

Well, easily enough, I think.  Anti-Semitism seems to be a most peculiar and ubiquitous affectation; an ancient and abiding prejudice.  Genius provides no immunity to it.  We've seen that to be the case by now.  I no longer claim that this play in itself establishes his anti-Semitism, however.  I merely think that he was not necessarily extraordinary in all respects, and that he shared the prejudices of his time, as there is no reason to believe otherwise.  The Merchant of Venice is evidence of that fact but is not conclusive.

Shylock may give the "Hath not a Jew" speech, but in all other respects is a loathsome character, demanding his absurd pound of flesh, hateful of Christians.  He is in many respects a caricature, a stereotype, along the lines of Marlowe's Barabbas (nice naming, Chris).  Shakespeare was a professional playwright; he should be expected to have wanted to please his audience, to sell tickets, at the least.  Granted, the trial portrayed in the play is ludicrous, but his audience would want to see the Jew bested and would have enjoyed him being bested in this fashion.  Shylock loses all, in the end, including his daughter.  He is utterly humiliated.

Shakespeare's defenders do something we lawyers are taught not to do to the law.  That is, to read words into the law that are not in the law, or to treat the language of the law as superfluous.  [Was I a lawyer even in high school, to write such a paper? A sad thought.]  But Shakespeare's defenders are not just indulging in an instance of wildly inappropriate interpretation.  They purport to disregard the text, and the times.  It is an example of the stubborn, unreasoning imposition of a desired attribute onto an admired figure.

We tend to do this sort of thing when it comes to birds of paradise; to heroes.  We makes excuses for them, we make assumptions, regardless of the facts, even in spite of the facts.  This is one of the dangers of having heroes (and we say we have so many among us, now).  We stop thinking when we think of them.  We are so invested in their courage, wisdom, genius, that to find fault in them renders us indignant.

Revisionists are rightly viewed with skepticism.  Particularly these days, we're infested with those who delight in finding flaws in those public figures of the present and the past.  We should beware of taking literature literally, certainly, and should avoid making grand inferences from few statements.  But we should also beware of disregarding entire works.  Shakespeare's Merchant contains statements that are not made casually or en passant.  Shakespeare wrote the play to be performed before the people of his time and in the hope it would be popular and make money.  He was not out to teach everybody a lesson in the ill-effects and unreasonableness of a vicious prejudice.

Make the World Go Away

What a song Hank Cochran wrote.  It has been sung by many, perhaps too many, from stars to bands in bars.  Some of these bands no doubt had to put up with annoying listeners like me, who once began to sing "Make the Band go Away" after their version of this sad classic finally reached its conclusion.

But I have no wish to write more of the song, except to note its claim that it was the world which caused the heartache expressed in such a maudlin fashion.  The world did it, not the one with the broken heart.  He should not have....what, exactly?  Succumbed to the charms of the wicked world?

Regardless, I wish the world to go away for different reasons.  I find the world annoying, or rather the people of the world, or most of them.  Those we see and hear about in any case, and their number is growing. 

This makes me sad.  I should not be annoyed.  I strive to walk the Stoic path (has nobody yet written of the tao of Stoicism?), and so should be indifferent of that which is not within the control of my will.  But I find myself irritated by so much of what transpires in the world I see, and sometimes wish that the irritating components of it would kindly go away.  Or unkindly go away, it matters not to me.  At least I'm indifferent to the manner in which it would go away.

We see, and hear, too much of the world and those people who inhabit it these days, as I've noted before in this place.  I've maintained that the deluge of information and opinion we suffer encourages thoughtlessness and thoughtless response to thoughtlessness.  I suppose I'm indulging in that now, thereby proving my point, to me at least.  How does the world annoy me?  Let me count the ways.

The politics of our Glorious Union irritates me tremendously; all aspects of it.  Most recently, I scowl helplessly at the (most recent) calls for impeachment of the President for taking executive action on immigration.  I can't help but wonder at this, given the long history of such action taken by Presidents in the past and given the enormous discretion it seems has been given to the President and the agency by the law and regulations.  There is also, of course, the consideration that the House has refused to legislate, out of what I assume is what it seems primarily motivates our politicians--the desire to be elected and fear of not being reelected.  The seemingly deranged reaction of those opposing the action leads me to wonder, once again, why it is this President provokes such rancor.  More and more it seems to me to be fundamentally irrational, and contemptible.

But unreason is present everywhere, not merely in politics.  It seems we flaunt our unreasonableness around the globe.  Surprisingly, there seems to be a kind of reaction against reason.  We see it and have seen it for some time in the guise of postmodernism, perhaps the most futile of intellectual pretensions.  Futility indeed seems to be what it seeks, everywhere.  At least, it revels in what it conceives to be the futility of everything but postmodernism.  Unfortunately, it provides no hope of anything but futility; it simply claims to provide us with a means to establish that all is futile.

I pause to wonder, though.  Is this my age talking?  Am I becoming, or have I become, an old fogey, like Alan Bloom?  Perhaps.  But what might distinguish me from other old fogies is that I think of reason as a method; I don't think that what was then and is not now is necessarily better than the present.  I don't long for good old days or good old ways.  I don't think the use of reason will result in a return to things as they were.  For the most part I think, and hope, it will not do so. 

But it seems that thinking is something we're not interesting in doing.  Perhaps we never have been.  Perhaps we've always acted on impulse and irrationally, and simply have more opportunity to do so now, in new and different ways, and this is broadcast instantly to the world at large.  It may be that technology has merely enhanced our irrationality, provided a means by which circumstances which previously served to blunt our impulses and stupidity (provided time to think or at least to be less excited).

Certainly, we've found ways to make ourselves appear ridiculous to more and more people.  Also, our sins may be forgiven but if we're not careful they'll live on forever, somewhere on the Internet or some smart phone. 

The likelihood is we're no more stupid (and no smarter) than we have ever been, but our stupidity is less private than it has been in the past.  One would think that would make us long to be less stupid, or at least more careful.  Perhaps it will, in time. 

We can hope that our technology may save us.  Because it emphasizes our faults and failings, it's possible that we'll eventually feel so shamed or disgusted with ourselves that we'll learn to exercise restraint.  Perhaps it will make this world go away by forcing us to think about what we do.

Well, it's good to dream.  But I see another future, one born of our tendency to assign blame to anyone, or anything, but ourselves.  The fear of technology has been with us since at least the last century, what with Heidegger and others whining about what it does to the world and to us.  If we find ourselves so disgusted with what we see and hear, the inclination may be to prevent ourselves from being able to see and hear what disgusts us.  It would be so much easier to regulate media and the Internet than correcting or regulating ourselves  As we have so many times in the past, we may seek to prohibit people from using technology in certain ways, regulating the content of what can be seen or heard or sent or broadcast. 

That would not work of course, but would result in a different world, which we then would wish to go away.

William Gibson and the Creation of Worlds

I'm rereading Neuromancer and am moved to comment on what makes the superior writer of what's called science fiction such a boon to those who love to read.

All know William Gibson as the creator of cyberpunk, the man who named cyberspace, the matrix, who coined so many words and phrases now in common use when the Internet as we know it did not yet exist.  But reading this early work I'm struck by the imposing realness of the world he creates in this novel, and detailed in the subsequent novels Count Zero and Mona Lisa Overdrive.  As far as I'm concerned, our Internet is far less interesting than the artificial reality he described as accessed by his computer cowboys, though it is not (yet?) here in our world.  But the world in which his cowboys lived and, sometimes, thrived, bears considerable resemblance to the one in which we live.

Consider the ubiquity of drugs use in that world, the omnipresence of new and interesting technologies, the significance of money, the grittiness of the urban landscapes in which people live and die, deals are made and information obtained and traded, the twisting of medicine and genetics to doing service in making money and pursuing and exercising power though the enhancement of physical and mental abilities.  The latter may not be here yet, but one feels that it will come; that it must come.

For some reason, when I try to visualize the world that Gibson shows us in these novels, the landscapes we see in the movie Blade Runner always comes to my mind.  That's what I see when the Sprawl or Chiba City are mentioned.  I'm surprised that a movie hasn't been made of Neuromancer.  I would prefer such a movie to the sword and sorcery epics we're being dubiously treated to instead in the form of Lord of the Rings and Game of Thrones and their imitations.  Odd that we obsess over faux castles and kingdoms, swords and magic; there's something adolescent about it.

Which is not to criticize either Tolkien or George R.R. Martin, both of them being superb creators of worlds themselves.  Other such creators are (or were) Frank Herbert who made the Dune universe, and Philip Jose Farmer for his Riverworld.  C.J. Cherryh has made more than one interesting world, as has Dan Simmons, the maker of Hyperion and the Shrike.  Orson Scott Card, when he is not busy moralizing, has also manufactured fascinating alternate realities.

It is unsurprising that it is in science fiction and fantasy that the worlds are created and live and are experienced.  Nowhere else is the imagination given such free reign; nowhere else is it the case that new and different realities are expected.  But it is the gift of Gibson and others to make these realities simultaneously familiar and unfamiliar.  Outlandish worlds somehow turn out to be uninteresting.  It's impossible to picture oneself in worlds that are entirely unreal, and one must picture oneself somewhere in order for it to hold one's interest and attention; in order for it to be worth the effort of reading or thinking, or dreaming. 

Science fiction is a curious genre, though.  Great science fiction can fascinate in a good way, but science fiction that is not great can fascinate in a bad way.  The many versions of Star Trek and Star Wars are examples of science fiction that is not great.  They are not bad, really, but they are silly.  This may come of the need evidently felt to come up with aliens who always seem to be far too much like human beings, but human beings who are comical or irritating or mystical in one sense or another and used as expositive devices.  We see the results of the fascination with science fiction that is not great in conventions and cosplay, in a devotion to the Klingon language or to The Force, in dreaming one is a Jedi Knight or superhero. 

The worlds of great science fiction are disturbingly real; those of science fiction that is not great are cartoonish.  It's regrettable that the science fiction we see translated into visual media these days is that science fiction which generates cartoon realities, primarily those of the superhero.  This suggests we desire to escape our own world, which is understandable.  But to escape into cartoons is only to escape reality, not to reimagine it and think of it.

No Balm in Gilead?

It's interesting that we expect others to understand, or at least recognize, phrases or stories taken from the Bible.  The Old and New Testaments have permeated Western imagination and thought, at least to the extent they supply ready grist for a variety of mills, reference points, expressions, thought-images.  The West has other common reference points as well, of course.  Most of us know instantly what is intended when the Trojan Horse is mentioned, for example, or when reference is made to Caesar crossing the Rubicon.  These are commonalities of the Western mind, foundations on which may be placed all manner of constructs and comparisons.  Analogy can instantly prompt understanding in certain cases.

Here I refer to the sickness which characterizes our Great Republic, and the question whether we have become a hopeless case; thus, no balm in Gilead.  Jeremiah 8:22 according helpful Google.  Not quite as common a reference as would be one to the Walls of Jericho, or Daniel in the lion's den, I know, but you see this healing balm referred to by Poe in his poem The Raven, and elsewhere.

I know--you tire as I do of doomsayers.  There are so many of them and they are so insistent and noisy.  This is especially the case, as it always is, with those who have much to lose and are fearful of losing it, and with the old.  What was the case will not be the case, more than likely, and change, though the darling of nature as it was called by Marcus Aurelius, has always evoked fear among those who cannot abide change.  The content are satisfied with what they are and what they have and care next to nothing about anything but remaining content.  When there is a chance that something will happen which would endanger their satisfaction, however, they are rabid in their defense of the status quo. 

"Radical conservatism" has a nice ring to it, but I hesitate to call "conservative" what passes for the Right Wing these days in our Glorious Union.  "Radical" seems an appropriate enough word, however, though "reactionary" may be more appropriate.  Intelligent conservatism doesn't deny that change will occur or maintain that change is in all cases something bad, something to be avoided at all costs.  If that was the case then J.S. Mill's remark that most stupid people are conservatives would be true, as stupidity is required if one is to object to all change, any change.

A true conservative may be cautious in making changes, and leery of social experiments when engaged in by the government, but isn't ipso facto against all change and an unswerving supporter of tradition.  Conservatives once thought, and may even have thought truly, that they were more reasonable than their Liberal counterparts.  But it is necessary to employ reason in order to be reasonable, and reason seems to be something those who style themselves as conservatives now conspicuously lack.

Today's conservatism is in fact anti-reason, anti-science, anti-education.  It scoffs at evidence of climate change.  It would be more reasonable to acknowledge the evidence and do something about it rather than yammering over whether or not it is in whole or in part or not at all related to the conduct of our rapidly multiplying and exceedingly selfish species.  It seeks to require than creationism be taught in school; that homosexual relationships be at best ignored if not criminalized, but in any case recognized as qualitatively different from heterosexual relationships and accorded no status in the law; that our nation involve itself militarily in disputes all over the planet; that drug use be criminalized; media regulated; religion (Christian, that is) not merely tolerated but encouraged and granted special benefits by the law, and seeks to make what was intended to be a secular state assuring religious freedom into a state actively fostering religion of a particular kind.

I don't mean to claim that conservatism is the disease we suffer from, first because conservatism has been jettisoned but also because what may be a fatal disease is one that runs deeper, and has its basis in the abandonment of reason as a guide to conduct.  This has many consequences, but among them is a tendency to tribalism and thoughtless adherence to what is familiar.

What conservatism has lost sight of is its roots in classical liberalism, which emphasized individual rights and civil liberties.  Today's conservatives want people to act in specified ways and to think, if at all, in a particular manner.  They do not want people to have the freedom to live as people themselves think best; they want people to live as they do.  Today's conservatives seek to create their own version of a nanny state, they've merely chosen a different kind of nanny interested in pursuing other goals.  Their nanny is God-fearing, traditional, close-minded, distrustful, insular and unreasonable.

There may in fact be balm in Gilead, though, but if so it is not a balm which need be applied.  Death may be the ultimate medicine for our nation's illness.  Death and globalization. Soon, those who call themselves conservatives will die off, and it is not at all clear that there will be others to take the place.  Unfortunately, it's not likely that this will result from the fact that younger generations will be better educated and more reasonable than their hidebound elders.  It will more likely result from the fact that the traditions to which their elders adhere will dissipate as we all come to be more familiar with different customs, different traditions.

What conservatives should be doing is assuring that reason and science are given prominent places in education and that the young grow used to employing critical thinking in decision making.  This would be the best way to assure that actions are taken only after intelligent consideration.  But critical thinking is not respectful of tradition and generally not indulged in by those who want nothing more than to have things just as they are or were.

Raiders of the Lost God

I'm reading a book called The Death of the Mythic God: The Rise of Evolutionary Spirituality by Jim Marion.

Let's pause for a moment (humor me) and consider the use of "Jim" instead of "James" by the author.  Such things prey upon my mind.  Is the use of "Jim" an effort at self-effacement, or perhaps intended to to give the impression that the author, though we don't know him, is our buddy, our pal?  A swell guy?  I grow suspicious when encountering these diminutives in a name.  I think of Jimmy Carter, and Bill Clinton, and other narcissists who have indulged in this ploy.  If one is going to do such a thing and scorn the formality of "James" why not go all the way?  "Jimbo Marion"; why not?  "Slim Jim Marion", or "Sweet Jimmy Marion"?  But to the book.

The author describes what he considers to be the death, or pending death, of God considered as the source of absolute commandments, proscribing all conduct and thought, accepting (sometimes) petition and prayers, intervening in creation, speaking through ancient books and prophets.  In other words, the death of the God of the Abrahamic religions if not others.  The knowledge of this death inevitably works on most of us, through the Kubler-Ross stages of denial, anger, etc. (I don't think the author explains why these stages apply or are appropriate).  Some of us linger in our worship of this Sky-God, some of us (those who are mystics, it seems) do not.  The Sky-God, or rather our worship of Him, has had various negative results.

This Mythic God was preceded by other, even more primitive, gods as we humans grew in sophistication and knowledge.  The Mythic God has been, for all practical purposes, interred by the growth of the rational view, exemplified it would seem by science, which to borrow Laplace's supposed remark to Napoleon rendered Him an unnecessary hypothesis.

This rational view has triumphed, but in its turn has wrecked havoc on the world, for the most part through the acceptance of a thoroughly materialistic conception of the universe which has caused us to rape the environment and each other when deemed appropriate.  Now is the time to evolve to a yet higher level of spirituality.

These levels of spirituality, or consciousness, have been categorized for reference by colors by some psychologists, and Marion makes use of these categories.  It seems the highest level is turquoise, which is indeed a nice enough color. 

The God of this higher level seems to be an immanent one, but I'm not entirely certain of this.  Marion's God may be both immanent and transcendent.  Marion (or should I say "Jim"?) is unclear in this, and in much else regarding this presumably real God.  He seems in some fashion to associate him with Jesus, who he says rejected the Mythic God, but whether Jesus is God is not directly stated.  He speaks of Jesus as discovering divinity in himself, but also indicates that we may, and should, do the same by "looking within" or seeking God in ourselves.  Perhaps we're all God, or God is everything, human beings included.  Perhaps Jesus is God in a sense, or a path to God, as are other great religious figures such as Buddha.  Marion's God seems to be one that has been realized and accepted by Christian and non-Christian mystics.

Marion evidently rejects materialism, and in addressing its limitations refers, as it seems many do, to physics or more particularly quantum mechanics.  This is something of a red flag, though, as physicists generally (not just Alan Sokal) have written despairingly of the misuse and misunderstanding of the theories of physics by those unfamiliar with them, and the efforts made to assert that they establish the existence of God, or an afterlife, or some inexplicable relation between everything in the universe and portals to other universes or dimensions.  If materialism is rejected it seems we may have problems with immanence.

Perhaps Marion's interpretation of physics is correct; perhaps it is not.  As I incline towards a Stoic point of view, I have a sympathy for the proposition that God is immanent in all things, and that we therefore partake in God.  However, I don't pretend that this view has the support of science of any kind or that it can be established by application of the scientific method or reason.

Marion also may be correct that the great religious mystics have encountered the divine, and that we can all do so.   We don't know whether they did or not, although it would seem to me that they felt in good faith they had experienced the divine.  I'm unconvinced that if we do this, or perhaps regardless of whether we do or not, we therefore become divine or are divine in a way we're unable to understand until we become divine.

One thing we can be sure of, though, is that those who have experienced the divinity cannot describe with any specificity what that experience was or how or why it took place.  Mystical encounters of this kind cannot be put into words, it seems, or if put into words are largely incomprehensible.  This may mean they are phantasms, or that we lack the ability or tools to describe them.

What seems clear enough, however, is that certain people have experiences which may be called mystical, and which may or may not serve as evidence of something beyond the universe we normally encounter.  While I'm not generally a follower of William James, I'm inclined to think with him that such experiences should be the subject of scientific inquiry, or at least may be the subject of inquiry (in other words, they are phenomena which can be studied intelligently).

What is also clear, for good or ill, is that we seem compelled to search for whatever it is we call God, or a higher or different reality which we may experience now or after we die.  Perhaps that's a part of being mortal.  Many of us are not willing to seek him in old books or in church, but seek him we will, and we'll write books about our search.  Most of us seem to want God or at least to seek God, despite the fact that we've lost one or more in the course of our evolution.  Lose one god and we will find another.  Good old Jim Marion may have found him.  If not, he and others will keep on trying until they can't try no more.  God is wanted, dead or alive!

Homage to Edgar Poe

I don't name him Edgar Allan Poe for what I consider to be good reason.  The "Allan" is taken from his stepfather (and stepmother too, I suppose), and Poe despised the man, who in turn thought Poe a degenerate gambler and all around wastrel; which I suppose he was by the standards of the time.  In paying homage, it's right I should avoid the name he is said to have hated.

It is, for good or ill, that time of the year where it's considered appropriate to think of Poe, or read or listen to some of his work at least.  Sometimes, alas, they're almost unrecognizable.  I listened to what was said to be a version of his The Tell-Tale Heart  broadcast by the Radio Classics channel while driving the other day and was amazed by its lack of resemblance to the story I recall reading.  Boris Karloff played one of the characters and someone else, whose name I can't recall, played the part of someone who it seems to be does not figure in the story at all; at least as a living, talking, acting agent.

But this is not unusual in the efforts which have been made to translate his work for radio, television or films.  There have been several of such efforts, for the most part involving actors like Karloff (Peter Loree and Vincent Price for example).  Very often, only the titles of these productions bear any relation to Poe's work, and often enough we're told that whatever it is we're watching or listening to is "from the master of the macabre, Edgar Allan Poe!"  Or words to that effect.  That way, it was apparently believed, we'd spend our money to hear, see.  Poe is associated with what is now called horror.  I wonder if he would be pleased by that association.

Well, I suppose it may be said that we of the United States don't take a great deal of pride in our artists as a rule, and so feel no obligation to treat them with great respect.  But for my money (which I wouldn't spend except perhaps in acquiring his actual work, not what has so curiously come of it) Poe was the first great American writer.  For me, Hawthorne, Melville, Irving, Fenimore Cooper, Longfellow simply don't compare to Poe, who it seems had an analytic mind but was masterful in evoking emotions, and who was the first original artist in our history.  He was, I think, something entirely new.

I speak of his prose, not his poetry.  I don't much like his poetry.  I'm fond of The  Conqueror Worm because it is so odd, and have memorized most of The Raven for some reason, but it seems to me that it is in his poetry that Poe is most clearly a Romantic, and I don't like the Romantics.  I prefer Poe the literary critic and author of short stories.  Perhaps we Americans are best at writing shorter works; we tend to get carried away in our novels.  If so, it was Poe who first pioneered this region of literature with any success and rigor.

It seems Poe is considered Romantic, though.  This is somewhat odd, I think, as in his works involving the detective Dupin and his"science-fiction" work, as in his literary criticism, he demonstrated a real respect for analytic and critical thinking and used them to good effect.  But it would be inappropriate to think of him as a Realist, given the fundamental role of fantasy in so many of his stories.

He was above all a great storyteller, and his talent had an immense scope, from detective (or mystery) stories, to what would be called science-fiction stories, to horror, and adventure, even in comic writing, for which he is not known--he was remarkable in each.  He died at age 40, and we can only speculate about what he could have written had he lived longer.  It seems to me that given the extent and scope of his work, it is difficult to characterize him as lazy or undisciplined in his art if not in his life.

His life was sad, undoubtedly.  He might be a character in a Dickens novel given the tragedies with which he had to cope.  But there was no happy ending for Poe; no clear reason for his ending, either.   Much of that remains a mystery.  He was found incoherent, wearing clothes which were not his own, may have had cholera, or been poisoned by alcohol, may have been mugged.  A sad end for a man who wrote much of sadness.

We can only wonder what it was like to be a highly intelligent, sensitive and talented person in Poe's time in the U.S.  Death was more prevalent and more a part of life then, sickness, often deadly like tuberculosis common, communication slow and sporadic, cities filthy; premature burial was a real possibility, not just a product of a feverish imagination, little was known for certain, money was no easier to obtain, and may have been largely unobtainable to someone like Poe.

Because of the scope of his work, it's unfortunate he's remembered to any real degree only at this time of year.  But I may be being unfair.  He's certainly remembered and read by many, more so than many he criticized, like Longfellow, and probably always will be, due to our continuing fascination with death and the occult.  That fascination won't leave us until we stop dying.

Part of his continuing appeal may be the fact that in his writing he was not didactic, unlike so many who wrote at that time.  For many years now, writers of literature have had little interest in teaching us anything.  But the purveyors of other art forms, particularly movies and television shows to the extent they can be considered art, seem increasingly intent on teaching, or perhaps preaching, so the moralists among us need not feel deprived.

Goldengrove Unleaving

I like autumn (which is at least in my part of this Great Republic so appropriately and simply called "Fall").  I love the color we see in the trees, especially in the angled sunlight which makes the world seem somehow more comfortable and accepting.  I like the way fallen leaves swirl in the wind and the not yet oppressive chill in the air.  Some of my most tangible memories of my increasingly distant youth include the smell of burning leaves.  We lived in Michigan then; I don't recall burning leaves anywhere else during my family's travels.  No doubt burning them is prohibited now, and has been for quite some time. 

The title of this post is of course taken from a poem of Gerard Manley Hopkins (how wonderful it must have been to have "Manley" as a middle name).  A very inventive poet with a suggestively archaic, almost magical, way with words.  "Grieving over goldengrove unleaving" is quite good, I think, as is "Kingdom of Daylight's Dauphin; dapple, dawn-drawn falcon" (I quote from memory, and may be inaccurate).  "Goldengrove" seems particularly appropriate given the temporary golden-like color of the leaves as they slowly--die.  There's no other word for it.

But they return, as does so much else after winter, and the turn of the seasons in turn induced our ancestors to dream of gods who died and were reborn, and even more to dream of being reborn after they died, or at least to live again in some manner, in some place, and better than they had here.  We've had that dream for quite some time, and have it still.  Probably, we had it in Europe even before the Eleusinian Mysteries developed, in some way or another, and those mysteries may date from Minoan times or even before.  Ancient Egypt had such dreamers as well, though in its case death and rebirth was likely suggested by the rise and fall of the Nile.

The person ostensibly grieving in Hopkins' (I'm tempted to call him "Manley" but won't) poem is a child, and the poet implies that those older than a child are inclined to consider the unleaving more coldly, which I assume means less sadly in this context.  This seems odd.  Why would a child grieve over falling leaves at all, let alone more than those old?  One would think children would find little to grieve over in dying nature, and suspect Hopkins of a bit of sly posing.  But we forget that children had a tendency to die with some frequency not long ago if they survived the trauma of birth.  Perhaps the anti-vaccine zealots will see to it that the days of high child mortality will return.  In any case, children in Hopkins' time may have been far more aware of death than they are now, and so may have been more likely to grieve as does his Margaret.

Why does the idea of dying cause us to grieve?  For reasons primarily selfish, perhaps.  Life is all we know.  So, it contains all we can desire as well as all we can fear.  Unless we think we continue in some sense, there's nothing "in" death for us that would render it worth our while.  The idea of nothingness is daunting to those who have been something.  And death deprives us of friends, family, lovers.  Death causes us to suffer just as life does (according to those jolly antinatalists).

The ancients, if they felt life after death was a kind of shadowy, poor substitute for the life they knew (the Greek Hades, for example), apparently longed for everlasting glory, or at least everlasting notoriety.  The story of Herostratus who burned the great temple to Artemis to the ground so his name would be known forever is instructive.  We still know his name, or some of us do.  Human lifetime was shorter then, though we hear of some who lived into what is considered old age even now. Yet they struggled for immortality of a sort.

If we become nothing at all, though, what possible difference can it make to us that we're remembered, by many or a few?  Clearly, the emphasis then was on the world and not on the world to come, and to such an extent that our lack of participation in the world due to death was not a concern.  What was of concern was what was thought or known by the living.

Perhaps the ancients' feelings towards death were less selfish than ours are now.  We're largely concerned by what, if anything, will happen to us, or what will happen after death.  They were concerned by how they would influence what would happen to or be thought by others after they died.  Or is the desire to influence what takes place after our death, and the steps we take to insure we still have such influence, the ultimate in selfish conduct?

Some of us through wills or trusts impose conditions on the disposal of our property or money in an effort to limit or restrict what our heirs may do with it once theirs.  What better example is there of concerning ourselves with things not in our control than seeking to control what takes place after our death?

Should a Stoic be concerned with what happens after death?  Perhaps Marcus Aurelius didn't take any steps to prevent his lunatic son Commodus from assuming the purple because he felt that to do so would be to seek to control what was not in his control.  But the fellowship we have, according to the Stoics, due to our sharing of the Divine Reason may extend after life if we become one with it after death, and because of that fellowship we retain an interest in those we would leave behind and act for their good.

In our Stars

One has to wonder why, despite our reliance on science and our enlightened state, so many of us take astrology seriously.  You would think that its day is long gone, but it isn't.  One can see it in any  newspaper (even the ones which still are made up of paper), and be enthralled by an Eastern version of it in many Chinese restaurants.  Curiously, it seems that whether we are, e.g., a Cancer or a Horse, many fine qualities are attributed to us as being a part of our nature.  Our signs, or years, at birth never seem to ordain that we're idiots, or twisted, or fanatic, or hideous.

We all know the story of the Reagans, or at least Nancy Reagan's, belief in and reliance on astrology when considering the future.  It's reminiscent of Tiberius' reliance on it especially during his time in Capri.  Presumably, neither Ronald or Nancy would have hurled their astrologers off a cliff in the event of a bad "reading" however.

It must be said that astrology played a part in the birth of modern science, particularly astronomy, much as alchemy may be said to have played a part in the birth of modern chemistry.  Since the time of the ancient Chaldeans, at least, some of us have been busy identifying and plotting the courses of heavenly bodies.  These observations were reputedly quite precise; indeed, it appears that a good deal of mathematical information and knowledge were employed by those who read the stars and what else can be seen from the Earth.  The problems with astrology resulted from inferences made from the mathematics based on unfounded assumptions regarding the nature and influence of the stars and planets.

The cult of Mithras in the Roman Empire is an example of the influence of astrology on religion.  We know little of the ritual or liturgy of that cult, but we know from the mithraeums themselves that astrology was involved as the signs of the Zodiac are frequently on display, along with Mithras and his bull and the torch-bearing twins, Cautes and Cautopates.

Why, though, did we (and do we) associate the stars and the planets with our character and fate?    Were the predictable and regular movements of these objects in the sky suggestive of the order of the universe, the laws of the universe?  Being such, was it inferred that we were similarly ordered, or that the order in the sky necessarily governed the creatures of the Earth? 

It's difficult to contend that astrology was or is a means to control our destinies as that is plainly not the case.  Astrology seems to be an example of deterministic thinking; that is to say that we are controlled and unable to control ourselves.  It would then seem more plausible that astrology was used as a means by which to understand our destinies, to know the future which has already been ordained. 

It can't be the case that astrology was looked to as explaining, or at least predicting, what the gods had in store for us as we thought of them as gods themselves.  Particularly in ancient Greece and Rome, the gods were notoriously unpredictable and some of them easily offended or aroused to action.  It would be difficult in that case to attribute to them neatly ordered conduct such as that displayed in the sky.

The Romans, of course, adopted the apparently Etruscan practice of determining the future from the entrails of animals.  Thus the liver of an ox or other creature took the place of the stars as indicating the what was in store.  This seems even more unlikely than accepting the movement of the stars as governing us and our fate. 

Undoubtedly it was hoped that the future could be known and predicted and so it's nor surprising that we sought for (and found) ways by which that could be done.  Priests who knew that way were not required to be of high moral character themselves, as they were simply discerning what was written for us through a consideration of what took place in nature, not through a vision or grace bestowed, or special favor of the gods.  Astrology represented a kind of learning or system rather than a knowledge granted for good conduct.  It was not an award by the gods, it was something that could be taught.

We can "forgive" the ancients for their ignorance, but modern practice of astrology or consultation with astrologers is mystifying.  As it must be the case that most of us are now aware of the vastness of the universe and our planet's tiny part it in, it should be extremely difficult to believe that the stars and planets in their movements serve to fashion our nature and reveal our fates.  But we all still want to know the future, and it may be said that praying for such knowledge or awaiting a revelation of it by some beneficent deity is not all that different from seeking it in the movements of the stars and planets.    If we have no problem accepting the former, there is no problem with accepting the latter.

Acceptance, however, is not something that can be associated with astrology.  If we were blithely willing to accept whatever happens we'd have no need to know what is going to happen.  Astrology and certain kinds of religion may therefore be considered efforts on our part to disturb ourselves with things not in our control, a cardinal error for a Stoic.  I don't recall whether Epictetus, Seneca or Marcus Aurelius dealt with this practice, but will review their work to find out.

Histrionics and American Entertainment

I'm given to watching English television series which appear, now and then, on PBS and BBC America.  What passes for entertainment on the small screen here in God's favorite country seems to me to be very shabby in comparison, and I wonder why this is the case.

I suppose it's possible that the English are simply better actors, writers and producers than we are, but I suspect there are other reasons.  One of them may be the fact that American actors, if not now then in the past, came to believe that acting involved emoting as much as possible.  I'm not sure whether this is the result of the teaching of what's been called "method acting" or not, but there appears to have been an entire generation of American actors, such as Marlon Brando, who felt that acting at least in part consisted of shrieking, weeping, smirking, laughing, gesturing in a very broad, almost lunatic manner.  This evidently was required in order to impart a sense of reality to the fantasy unfolding on the screen; reality was very much a melodrama, filled with anguish, angst or ecstasy. 

I recall the story of Laurence Olivier and Dustin Hoffman during the filming of Marathon Man.  Hoffman felt that in order for him to portray his character, who was being hunted and tormented, he had to stay awake for days to achieve an appropriately overwrought appearance.  Supposedly, Olivier said to him:  "Oh my dear boy, why don't you try acting?  It's so much easier."  It may be that histrionic generation passed along their hysteria to succeeding generations.

Another reason may be that we consider ourselves, or are considered to be, utterly lacking in subtlety and wit.  We are profoundly stupid or are believed to be by those who seek to amuse us.  So, in order for us to know a particular character is angry, for example, it is necessary for the character to break various things near at hand or beat on someone, preferably a woman or a child.  Or better yet, the character shoots someone or several unlucky extras.

Those who seek to amuse us sometimes seek to enlighten us as well, it would appear, at least as they believe we should be enlightened.  And thinking us to be dullards they do so blatantly.  To teach us to not be racists, they populate the shows or movies we watch with representatives of every race if possible, sometimes even inserting a character of their own creation into a plot where no such character existed.  This is the accepted method of teaching us not to be sexist as well, of course.  Thus Peter Jackson saw to it that a female elf played a prominent part in his three-part version of The Hobbit, though no such character appears in the book.  Unsurprisingly, we're also being taught by the entertainment industry that same-sex couples, and gays and lesbians, are perfectly fine in the same manner.  All are equal in the world of show business if nowhere else.

What Hollywood and the entertainment industry apparently seek to teach us in these respects is admirable; racism, sexism, homophobia, prejudice are all noxious.  Whether it should be teaching us at all, and whether it should be doing so by, e.g., rewriting or falsifying the works of writers, are interesting questions regardless, however.

Violence and sex are of course omnipresent in our television; not so much in that of the English, it seems.  Perhaps, though, this only appears to be the case because we portray violence and sex in the same way we portray everything else--in as exaggerated a manner as possible.  We cannot merely imply violence and sex (that would require subtlety).  They must be apparent, jarringly obvious.  So must everything be.

This lack of, or perhaps more accurately contempt for, the subtle naturally extends to plots.  Nothing is a mystery, really; answers are as obvious as everything else.  And all must be done quickly.  Characters seem to finish each others sentences.  If there are no car chases there are chases on foot, or at the least all are in a hurry for one reason or another.

Perhaps our perception of reality is so manic we feel that any drama which purports to be real must be manic as well.  Or perhaps we are by now so used to the overwrought that we are jaded.  The merely overwrought may do nothing for us.  We require the extreme to be entertained.

This sort of thing seems to more or less inevitably lead to comparisons with ancient Rome though, doesn't it?  That would be tiresome and is something of a cliche.  Cliche of course is itself the rendering of wisdom into the obvious, and so we see cliche a great deal in our television as well.
 
The comparison is not a sound one, I think.  The Romans were remarkable because their excessiveness was original, while ours is not.  Our art imitates their life.

The Significance of Ritual

Since I ceased attending mass and being an at least nominal member of the One Holy Catholic and Apostolic Church, I've thought now and then of joining a Unitarian Universalist Congregation.  That association has had many distinguished and even admirable members.  The Church has had its share of those as well, of course, but there always seems to be something peculiar about them, like Cardinal Newman and his belief that the "visible world" is unreal.  No commitment to a disturbingly human kind of God is required.  I find it increasingly difficult to worship a God that has human characteristics.  Unitarians are actively involved in good works, which is to their credit.

Perhaps I should say "revere" instead of "worship" when referring to God.  If worship requires praying to or petitioning or placating, or participating in set practices which are expressive of devotion, I stopped worshipping even before I stopped attending mass.  I would stand up, kneel and sit down when others did so, true, but wouldn't sing the largely silly songs that made up the liturgy and avoided as much as possible giving to others "the sign of peace," which for reasons unclear to me is done by shaking hands.

As best as I can recall, Jesus is not said to have gone about shaking hands with his apostles or with anyone else for that matter.  So, we don't shake hands as we do other things in memory of him.  The Gospels state he said "peace be with you" at least once, however, and suppose we may say it as well in his memory.  Shaking hands in imitation of Christ doesn't seem right, though.  The sign of peace must be the creation of some inspired liturgist, then.

Based on what little reading I've done, it seems Unitarians don't worship (as I define it) when they gather.  This should serve to attract me, but does not.  They have readings, it seems, though not necessarily from the Bible or from anything else.  Unfortunately it seems they also sing.  I find myself wondering why.

The simple truth is I have no desire to go somewhere on a Sunday and listen to people read and sing.  It doesn't matter to me what they choose to read or to sing; I don't want to watch or hear them do either or, worse yet, be called upon to read and sing myself and be suspect if I do not.  It would make sense to do so if failing to do so constituted a mortal sin assuring an eternity in hell, of course, but absent such a penalty there is no point as far as I'm concerned.  If one isn't worshipping, though, there is presumably something about gathering, reading and singing which serves some other purpose.  But not it appears for me.

But still, I find myself thinking now and then that something should be done, if not on a Sunday then on some other day, expressing a reverence for the divine, and that it should be done in a group of people.  It's possible I feel this because of the years I spent genuflecting, kneeling, standing, sitting, even singing, in a Catholic Church.  Or it may be the case that we humans have a need to acknowledge the divine with and before others and to do so in a special, prescribed way, which seems to us to have acquired divine sanction.

I'm inclined to think that ritual has and always will play a part in our affairs.  Certainly ancient peoples engaged in ritual, and felt that ritual had always to be performed in a certain way.  In Graeco-Roman religion any departure from the form of the ritual required that the participants begin it again and again until they got it right.  Even those who disdained traditional religious rituals sought to create their own--think of the Freemasons with their convoluted and contrived ceremonies, for example, or the preposterous forms dreamt up by leaders of the French Revolution to celebrate the Supreme Being.

When it comes to ritual, the High Latin Mass was quite a spectacle.  I'm not aware of any modern ritual which can compare with it.  Perhaps my assessment of the significance of ritual is a kind of nostalgia.  It seems clear the Unitarians have nothing similar.  It seems clear the Catholic Church has nothing similar, now.

If we're creatures of ritual, the absence of ritual must disturb us mightily.  Are we seeking some substitute for it?  If so I think the rituals of the future will be garish and barbaric.  The drab nature of what rituals we still have leaves us unsatisfied and we hunt for something which will be colorful and tinged with mysticism.  The Old Church understood the need for ritual quite well.  What person or institution or religion will grasp and exploit this need in the future?

Regarding Senescence

Both Cicero and Seneca, and no doubt other wise and good people, wrote of old age.  They did so to extol it; to tell those of us who are not as wise as they were that our disaffection with it is unwise and unneeded.  As I race (or so it seems) into my twilight years (well, late afternoon years, perhaps) I'm inclined to wonder just how much of such reflection is wisdom and how much of it is wishful thinking.

I don't doubt their sincerity.  Perhaps I do doubt Seneca's sincerity, though, at least a bit.  Regardless, I ask myself if they were trying to persuade themselves if not others that the evidence of aging--which can't be spoken or written away and which is disturbing sometimes, at least--is also evidence of something else, something less apparently bad and even good.  This is not necessarily an easy task. 

It's not necessarily a Stoic task either.  Pierre Hadot and others have claimed that the ancients engaged in spiritual exercises and have made that case convincingly.  Marcus Aurelius' notes to himself are such; Epictetus' recommendations, called "negative visualization" in this latest resurgence of Stoicism, are others.  Imagine the worst and what is the case or will be the case may be tolerated with equanimity (the anxious have always been Stoics, perhaps--something of a surprise).  But extolling age, if that is a practice, is of a different kind.  Were these two sages engaged in "positive thinking"?

The fact is that aging is a kind of progressive failure of the body and its little helper, or guiding spirit, or prisoner depending on your point of view, the mind.  There isn't much in that to celebrate when you think of it, unless you have a soul inclined to clap its wings and sing and louder sing for every tatter in its mortal dress as I think Yeats' poem says.  That singing presumes a life after death which somehow turns out to be much better than the one that ends in death, and many think that improbable.  I'm not certain what I think, and not for the first time.

As I contemplate with a sense of resignation if not delight the degradation of what physical and mental powers I possess, I think of Warren Zevon's song invitingly titled My Shit's Fucked Up.  The singer goes to a doctor as he's feeling kind of rough and is told that his shit's fucked up.  He tells the doctor he doesn't see how, and the doctor replies that the shit that used to work won't work now.  It's a kind of anthem of the aging sung in a mournful tune that is unmistakably Zevonesque. 

And as I noted, this is certainly true.  Wherefore then is old age the crown of life as Cicero called it?  An increasingly heavy crown, it seems.

Continuing with the popular music theme, which has somehow replaced that which was evoked by the mention of Cicero and Seneca, another view of old age or at least older age is given by Steely Dan in the song Janey Runaway.  In that song an older, well-heeled man, tells of the new lease on life he experiences taking up with a young woman who ran away from home.  It's a kind of anthem to lechery, the fantasy of an older man.  But alas, although the libido doesn't seem to decrease for us aging males the opportunities to indulge it sadly do, at least if one is not rich and living Gramercy Park.

Fantasies and mourning aside, how does a Stoic pass this time as time so indifferently passes him by?  By realistically acknowledging it and accepting it, I think, neither bemoaning it nor extolling it.  It's one of the many things beyond our control (for now, at least; perhaps soon we'll find a way to control it).  As such, it shouldn't disturb us or worry us.  It's simply life and we do the best we can with what we have and take the rest as it happens.

Orwell's Foresight

Eric Arthur Blair, a/k/a George Orwell, has been much on my mind during these fearful times.  We've all read Animal Farm and 1984, of course; most of us had to read them.  Sometimes, the American system of public education requires that good and interesting books be read.  Other times, it might require that Goodbye, Mr. Chips be perused by young scholars.  But I speak of what was read in my youth, and can't speak to what is read now.

But I prefer Orwell's essays and nonfiction, for the precision of their style and their insights into many people and things.  He's said to have been something of a prophet regarding the politics of the future.  I was inclined to agree with this assessment in certain respects, and being an American thought his gift of prophecy was limited or directed to Soviet Communism.  But the profound nature of his foresight is most striking in an essay he wrote regarding W.B. Yeats which I read just recently, and it seems to me that in criticizing Yeats he intuited a world to come.

He treats the poet (one I admire) rather roughly in the essay, not as to his poetry necessarily, but the political, social and cultural views which are reflected in his poetry.  He portrays Yeats as a frustrated aristocrat, essentially conservative, contemptuous of the modern world and its people, drawn to the occult and inclined towards Fascism.  This infatuation seems to have been a characteristic of certain artists and intellectuals of the West of that time--Ezra Pound is the usual example--or at least those of them who were not similarly infatuated with Communism.  According to Orwell, Yeats longs for the chaos of the times to produce an authoritarian civilization ruled by a cultured elite, but fails to see that civilization will not be aristocratic.  As Orwell sees it:  "It will not be ruled by noblemen with Van Dyck faces, but by anonymous millionaires, shiny-bottomed bureaucrats and murdering gangsters."

The cynics among us might say that is a very striking description not just of western civilization, but of our global civilization today (we must of course substitute "billionaires" for "millionaires").  The wise jurists sitting on our Supreme Court were wrong to hold that money is speech, as I've noted before, but it is most certainly power, and those who possess that power become an increasingly small and insulated group.  They are served by a host of lackeys who do their bidding and assure that all others will do so as well.  Those who do not or cannot turn increasingly to violence as a means to acquire money and power themselves.

This is a simplification of course, but it seems nonetheless to have a certain ring of truth to it, does it not?  How did Orwell manage to foresee this state of affairs and describe it so well, so succinctly?

It requires a great knowledge of human nature and history, I would say, as well as art.  But also required is a kind of pitiless, almost ruthless, perception.  Orwell seems to have no illusions of any kind, or dreams of any kind.  He assesses but doesn't admire.  His is a grim task; to review, analyze, criticize, and to in most if not all cases to find fault and lay it bare.

This may be a pose, of course.  I imagine a critic is inclined to ferret out defects to begin with, and skillful critics necessarily do so most efficiently.  One at least seems most efficient when detached.  Is this the kind of literary criticism one hears of spoken together with philosophy (philosophy being naught but a kind of literary criticism, I mean)?  Philosophy may be said to consist at least in part of the rigorous criticism of language in its use by others.  Taken in that way, it may be said that philosophy is literary criticism and intend by it a sort of compliment.  But I fear that's not the case, or perhaps I should say not the narrative, there being nothing that is the case that is not part of a narrative, it seems.

Not so much a pose in Orwell's case, I think.  It seems to be more of a way of thinking, and thinking ahead to anticipate the future without the benefit of hope or faith in humanity or God.  And Orwell may have chosen such an approach deliberately, as he writes that it is to be expected given the decline of Christianity that we will face the future hopeless and faithless, at least as those states were conceived in the past we've abandoned.

Perhaps such cold appraisal is required for one to be an oracle.  The priestess of the Delphic oracle was named after the Python, the great cold-blooded serpent slain by Apollo when he established the oracle.  Those who consulted the oracle would claim they could still hear the serpent, hissing.

The 7th Circuit Decision on Gay Marriage

There has been much comment regarding the decision of the 7th Circuit Court of Appeals holding that laws adopted by the great states of Indiana and Wisconsin banning gay marriage are unconstitutional.  It's not clear to me that there should be, however.  I'm not quite that enthusiastic about it, though I have no problem with Judge Posner's decision.

It may be that it is receiving what I think is excessive praise merely because Judge Posner wrote the decision.  He is something of a star, even outside legal circles; perhaps this is why he is a star.  This is in part because he has commented on the philosophy of law, which used to be referred to as jurisprudence.  He is, I believe, a proponent of what has been called legal pragmatism.

Or it may be that the decision delights the more liberal of the media commentators because it was penned by a Court of Appeals judge nominated by Ronald Reagan, who a mere nine days before the issuance of the decision had treated the attorneys for the states in question rather roughly during oral argument.  Certainly Posner's ironic reference to a dissenting opinion by Justice Scalia delighted them, at the least.

The decision is well written, and as I said I don't object to it.  And there's no question that Judge Posner scored several hits during oral argument and in the decision itself.  I don't consider it a masterpiece, frankly, simply because the arguments of the states in support of their laws were from the purely legal standpoint clearly weak, and it was difficult to take them seriously, as Judge Posner noted several times in his opinion.  Even an accomplished writer like the Judge would find it hard to reach the heights of legal reasoning and eloquence when confronted with such arguments.

I think, however, the court's position that marriage imparts an element of respectability to a sexual relationship, and this is a benefit gay couples would be deprived of if not allowed to marry, is not very strong itself.  That may be the case in the future, but I doubt those who feel homosexuality is bad in itself would think it more respectable if those engaging in it were married, and to many others the idea of gay marriage would be so novel and unfamiliar that it will take them time to accord it the same respect as heterosexual marriage (if indeed heterosexual marriage is accorded such respect).

I think it's appropriate to address the decision and the arguments from a "purely legal standpoint" because that is the only standpoint from which they should be considered.  Judicial decisions should not be based on politics or religion, and should relate to morality only to the extent morals are evidently a part of the law itself.  Political and religious considerations may influence the adoption of laws, but once the laws are adopted they become part of the vast system of law and its administration and enforcement.  From the purely legal standpoint, the arguments made in support of the law had no substantive basis in law or in fact.  I wonder whether such arguments were the best that could be made for such bans.   If so, I think there's very little to argue about, and I feel sorry for those lawyers who had to make the argument nonetheless.

The simple fact is that tradition, morality and religious values don't factor strongly in the enforcement, administration and interpretation of the law.  They may play a role in the adoption of laws, but those laws once enacted are governed by the same systemic rules applicable to any other law.

Thus, political, religious and moral objections to gay marriage or arguments against it are, in a way, doomed to failure from the start as far as the law is concerned.  For good or ill, the law treats heterosexual marriage as essentially a partnership, not as a sacred institution, and is unable to discriminate against "gay partnerships" and favor "straight partnerships."

Religious institutions, however, are allowed to discriminate in many ways, and so may not allow gay marriage now or in the future.  Opponents of gay marriage must, I believe, be satisfied with that.

O tempora, o mores! Part V

Cicero used this phrase twice, first in one of his orations against Verres, governor of Sicily, and second in an oration against Cataline.  These orations deplored the conduct of certain Romans and mourned the depravity of the times, and customs, which sanctioned such conduct.  Today our times and some of our customs or morals, at least, are troubling as well, but that trouble is global in its effect and implications, for reasons which would have astonished Cicero, astute politician of what was then an Empire in fact if not in name though he was.

It's most unclear what can be done about these troubles, however, by our Great Union or by others.  The barbarity of ISIS (I wonder if they know their name is that of pagan goddess), the intransigence and imperial ambitions of Russia, militant Islamic fundamentalism, North Korean absurdist cruelty,  the extraordinary Ebola outbreak--this is all we hear of through the good offices of our relentlessly intrusive media.  Of course those who represent or seek to represent us, intent on being elected if not intent on anything else, exploit such issues for their benefit.

One pities our unfortunate President.  In fairness, which is of course of little concern in politics, there may in fact be very little he can do that he isn't doing.  But he manages to give the appearance of being at a loss and doing nothing, and appearance is overwhelmingly significant when there is no substantive action to take.  It's doubtful there would be any real public support for sending troops to Ukraine, Iraq, Syria or Somalia.  We know, or should by now know given the results of our efforts in Iraq and Afghanistan, that this would make no lasting difference in the last three cases, and taking on Russia on its front doorstep would be foolish and may be practically impossible.  If such action isn't likely or practical, what more is to be done?  More air strikes, more punitive economic measures?  If there are ISIS targets which can be attacked, and have not been, then it would seem appropriate to strike them.  If there none, though, what then?

In these all too interesting times, it seems we must accept uncertainty.  We must resign ourselves to the fact that our world is an unstable one.  I fear that if we don't do so we will seek certainty wherever and however we can, and will do so recklessly and without regard to the consequences.  Both certainty and uncertainty, both stability and instability, may be fostered now with great celerity by our communication technology, which may be used by anyone and for any purpose.  We can instantly terrorize others or arouse them to fury or fear, and many of us are willing to do so.

Acceptance of uncertainty doesn't require that we do nothing about the troubles of the world, but may assure that we won't try to do too much, or despair, or resort to efforts which will further limit what freedom we yet have.  Perhaps a Stoic approach to these troubles is best and the most thoughtful way of assessing our options and taking action.  We would do the best we can with what we have and take the rest as it comes, to paraphrase Epictetus.  We would avoid being overwhelmed and being inclined to take mindless action.

Can Stoicism be applied on a grand scale, or is its usefulness limited to individual thought, feeling and action?  It has been applied to a significant degree in the law, in the West at least.  But will it be applied to world affairs? 

Eventually, and voluntarily or involuntarily, we will learn if we have not yet learned that there is a limit to what we can usefully do, and cannot make all the evils in the world our problem or concern.  This would seem to be the first step towards practical wisdom in these very practical matters.  But Stoicism doesn't mandate detachment from world affairs, as Buddhism might, and indeed promotes service to the public good.  We would do the best we can with what we have, and not react irrationally to what happens.

Intelligent action is required, in other words. 

Ars Gratia Artis

It's an odd phrase, really:  "Art for art's sake."  Most may know the Latin version now from its disconcerting use as a motto by MGM, in combination with a roaring lion.  Presumably, the lion roars for the sake of roaring.

What does it mean?  It's easy enough, I suppose, to know what art means, even to those at MGM.  But what is "for art's sake"?  Can art have a "sake"?  It would seem so, as that word can mean "end" or "purpose" but surely this isn't what is intended by the phrase, as the general idea behind it was that art need have no purpose or has none.  In particular, those who conjured it and used it took the position that art need have no moral purpose; art need not make us nobler or better (perhaps even should not) in order to be art or in order to be good art.

"Sake" can also mean "enhancement" according to the dictionary, or "good" or "advantage" or "benefit."  We speak of doing something for some one's sake.  Does it mean, then, that art enhances art or should be for its benefit or advantage?  Is the intended meaning that each new work of art adds to the quantity of art already existing, or to its quality, or that it should do so?

We don't often speak of things as being for their own sake.  "War for war's sake" might mean that a war is without a purpose.  "Sport for sport's sake"?  Could that be a motto for amateur sports?

It's difficult to think of a novel or short-story, or even a poem, as being art for art's sake.  That seems to be because language is by its nature a means of communication, a way of saying something--telling a story--describing something.  It's easier to think of a piece of music or painting as art for art's sake, or perhaps it's more accurate to say it's easier to accept them as such...certain music or paintings, in any case; certain instrumental music and abstract paintings, for example.

I suspect the truth is it's one of those phrases that are essentially negative, which are intended to express not much at all beyond the fact that something else is not the case.  There is a purpose behind all art, even the purpose to have no purpose.  Something is always being done, for some reason.  There is no entity "art" separate from works of art, for which a work of art is created.  The phrase is simply a neat, tidy, evocative way of saying that art has no special purpose of the kind envisioned by such as Ruskin, for example.  But like all phrases which seek to express complex ideas, it can be at best hazy and at worst misleading.

We seem to have a need to categorize, and this is unfortunate.  It's unfortunate because it inclines us to think of things, or people, as though they should be placed in particular groups and thought of as being representative of or a part of a group.  This leads us to underestimate people, which can be dangerous, and to ignore or fail to observe things, which can also be dangerous.  Most of all, it's unfortunate because it encourages us not to think critically.  Regrettably, the tendency to think of things, or people, as not being subject to valuation or comparison also encourages thoughtlessness.  We must guard against both.

To the extent "art for art's sake" induces us to carefully and thoroughly consider an individual work of art on its own, without any preconceptions regarding what it is or should be, it's a phrase which has a worthy purpose.  But it has also been construed to mean that a work of art cannot be considered critically, cannot be assessed, because its wholly personal and without meaning or purpose and not subject to any analysis as not subject to any rules or criteria.  Art then becomes something which cannot be subject to any kind of valuation or comparison.  De gustibus non est disputandum writ large.

If art is purely a matter of taste, though, regarding which there can be no dispute, it's hard to understand why we take it so seriously, or more seriously than we do flavors of ice cream, for example.  Why bother in that case to complain about the manner in which it is perceived, or argue about its purpose or lack of purpose? 

If it isn't purely a matter of taste, however, than how can art be solely for art's sake?

A Citizen of the World

The claim that one is a citizen of the world has been attributed to both Socrates and Diogenes.  If Socrates made the claim, he did so before Diogenes who as a Cynic was a follower of Socrates as were the Stoics.  It was the man Socrates, though, they followed and not the creation of Plato--the character appearing in Plato's dialogues.  It's said that Socrates was concerned primarily with philosophy as a guide to how to live, and eschewed epistemology and metaphysics which, alas, meant a great deal to Plato.

The idea of being a citizen of the world instead of a citizen of a city-state evidently horrified many at that time.  It seemed to denigrate the city of one's birth, the significance of one's county.  This was deemed unpatriotic then and is still thought to be now, particularly it seems in our Great Union.  For the Stoics, however, being a citizen of the world, the cosmos (thus cosmopolitan), was something of great worth and followed from the desirability of being virtuous.  It emphasized the common nature of man and fostered the ideal of a brotherhood of man encompassing the world; ideally a world which functioned according to natural law.

Those who believe in American exceptionalism sometimes think it appropriate to proclaim this fact in a rather prideful manner.  We are proud to be Americans and feel ourselves in some sense better than those who are not.  But pride, for me, when we apply it to ourselves, is something which we're entitled to feel when we, personally, have achieved something.  We who are born Americans did not achieve that status properly speaking and what our country does isn't necessarily our personal achievement.  It would seem more appropriate to be grateful we're Americans in that case, and this in turn would seem to make it less likely that we would indulge in the chest-pounding we like to engage in when patriotism is invoked.  But instead we boast of our country rather as we do our favorite team in sports, which diminishes our country and I think ourselves.

But we are not alone in our pride and our belief in our superiority and exclusivity.  In fact, the world seems more tribal now than it has in the past; indeed, it seems violently tribal.  Religious extremism, racism, ancient grudges perceived or actual, political disagreements, nationalism, all seem create divisions among us.  Curiously, the fact that the world is for other purposes "smaller" than ever before due to technological advances hasn't mitigated these divisions.  It seems to enhance them in certain senses, in fact.  We live in a time where we can learn most anything we want about what is transpiring throughout the world in real time, and the opinions of others are readily available if we care to discover them.  Perhaps we are intimidated by this rather than enlightened. 

The wisdom of the Stoics and others is in any case disregarded.  It may be this is due to the fact that we resort to the most comforting, simple beliefs when confused or uncertain, even if those beliefs sanction barbarity.  Anything to avoid thinking.  It may be we're fundamentally irrational creatures regardless of our knowledge and sophistication.  It may be we wait for a god to save us like the unfortunate Heidegger (the Fuhrer having failed him), and in the interim are willing to do anything that will assuage us.

I'm more inclined to believe that selfish concerns, the pressure of cultural and religious beliefs long ingrained in us and an unceasing desire to master or possess things which are not in our control are at fault, but must confess that I despair of this ever changing unless we take the time to train ourselves and others to think rationally and understand the insignificance of the things which dominate our conduct and desires.  This training, though, may be something which can't be imposed on others in any useful manner.  It would seem to be worth a try, though, as nothing else has worked in the past.

One sees why education has been considered so important to certain philosophers.  How to think is something which should be taught as early as possible, but parents fear this and may not tolerate it as part of their children's education.  This is because they're inclined to want their children to think and act as they do, and fear that their children won't be taught to think as their parents do, which would likely be true.

This has been recognized, and since Plato those who think they know what is best for all have dreamed of education as a process by which those being educated are dragged to the truth as it were, screaming and kicking if necessary.  It's why totalitarian, fascists and other authoritarian governments insist so often that children be taken from their parents to be trained in the Right Way.

We're in trouble I fear, and the question is how and whether we'll work to get out of it.  I doubt if circling the wagons is the way to go, but am having problems coming up with workable solutions.

The Curiously Disturbing Case of Lucius Annaeus Seneca

I've been reading a book by James Romm entitled Dying Every Day: Seneca at the Court of Nero, and am more than ever fascinated and disturbed by the life of this very able proponent of Stoicism and very able man, who nonetheless taught and facilitated the reign of a possibly demented and undoubtedly unpredictable tyrant.

While I have issues with the sometimes contrived, sometimes cloying and sometimes pompous style of his philosophical writings, there can be no question that he must be considered one of the great Roman Stoics, and that his thought and works have been immensely influential throughout the centuries from his death (he's also a significant literary figure).  He's thought to have championed a milder version of Stoicism which appealed to the Church Fathers (Tertullian called him "our Seneca").  Unlike Epictetus who did not write, and Marcus Aurelius who wrote only for himself, Seneca wrote understanding his work would be published (and no doubt seeing to it himself, as was not unusual for the time), and possibly even with posterity in mind.  So it can be assumed that he did so carefully and in most cases for a purpose.

In some cases he clearly wrote with Nero in mind, such as in his work On Anger, and in some cases with his own advantage in mind, as in the dreadful Consolation to Polybius.  In some cases, in his letters, he may have done so not for any personal or political purposes but with philosophy in mind, or at least the good life.  It's difficult to ascribe purpose to his work in other cases, where he seems--perhaps deliberately--ambiguous. 

"Cautious" may be a good word to describe him after his return to Rome from exile in Corsica at the behest of Nero's mother, the formidable Agrippina.  He had managed to run afoul of the princeps in the past and would not want to do so again.  It's understandable that he would strive not to provoke imperial anger.  It would also seem he was ambitious.  This ambition must, I think, be considered in the context of the time.  Romans of his class (though he was a provincial) were supposed to be ambitious, to attain wealth and high office, to be renowned. 

But it's hard to reconcile ambition and wealth with Stoic tenets, and Seneca became very wealthy and very powerful.  Pursuing public service, though, is consistent with Stoicism. 

When brought back from Corsica to tutor the young Nero, then, it's possible, perhaps even probable, that Seneca thought he was being given a chance to do good; to mold the future ruler of the known world to be wise and merciful (as described in his work On Mercy).  And he may have thought that becoming wealthy and powerful while doing so appropriate and even necessary to the task.  How else influence an emperor, who would likely only listen to the wealthy and powerful?  But it's difficult to accept his reply to those of his time (and subsequent times) who condemned him for his acquisition of wealth as being unworthy of a philosopher, particularly a Stoic, except with a scowl or grimace.  He noted that disdain for wealth was to be expected from a Stoic Sage, but he had not yet attained that status--he was still trying to be a Stoic Sage.  When he became one, presumably, he would not want to be wealthy any longer.  An unsatisfying reply, I think.

But what of his conduct as Nero "matured" in tyranny?  Romm notes Seneca may have played a part in freeing Nero from the dominance of his mother.  She was not herself a saintly figure by any means and may well have been thought to be a bad influence on her son, but Nero unbound was a dangerous man.  It can't be said with certainty that Seneca was involved in Nero's matricide, but it seems clear that he wrote the speech given by Nero to the Senate in which his mother was reviled and her death justified.  Seneca can be said to have done what he could to restrain Nero from his social excesses--his acting, singing, chariot racing and writing of poetry was scandalous given Roman tradition--but eventually he was engaged in this conduct openly.  But just what he did otherwise to restrain Nero is unclear, if he did anything.  Seneca wrote a great deal but said almost nothing at all regarding what took place while he was a senior consultant to the emperor.

Eventually, as Nero grew more dangerous, Seneca offered to grant him all his wealth and retire from politics--twice.  It can be argued this was motivated by purely practical considerations, though, and in an effort at self-preservation.  This is likely so.  But it's difficult to condemn someone in Nero's court for being fearful.  And Seneca could have felt fear not only for himself but for his brothers and his nephew, whom we know as Lucan.  They were known to and within the reach of Nero.

It may be that Seneca believed he was caught in a trap at least in part of his own making, and he could not see his way out.  But he wrote admiringly of those, including Cato, who took their own lives when life became intolerable and they could not live with honor and in virtue.  Why didn't he take advantage of this option himself?  Eventually he did, of course, but only when ordered to dispose of himself by the emperor, having been implicated in a plot to kill Nero.  His nephew Lucan was involved in the plot, but Seneca declined to participate.  Cowardice?  Caution? 

Not cowardice, I think, at least not in the sense of fear of suffering.  His death took a long time.  When cutting his veins would not work effectively, he took hemlock.  All accounts are he died nobly though in great pain.  So caution is more likely; caution and indecision, which are not unusual in old men, and he was old then and likely very tired.

It's bewildering that someone could write so well regarding virtue and the good and yet be so hesitant and ineffective in being virtuous and good in great things.  But perhaps this is a case of the spirit being willing and the flesh weak.  Perhaps it's unfair to think a man in his place to have acted in bad faith, dishonestly.  It's possible to be a good but weak man.  We should consider it possible that Seneca should be pitied rather than reviled.