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.
Sunday, December 28, 2014
Friday, December 19, 2014
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.
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.
Tuesday, December 9, 2014
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.
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.
Monday, December 1, 2014
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.
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.
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