Monday, July 23, 2018

Great Pan Is Not Dead



According to Plutarch "Great Pan is Dead!" are the words uttered in a loud voice (sometimes called a "divine voice") heard by the sailor Thamus on his way--by boat one would assume--to Italy while travelling there during the reign of the Emperor Tiberius.  The extremely fat and inordinately glib Christian apologist G.K. Chesterton, who could be a witty fellow though over-fond of quips, thought Pan to be the only pagan god said to have died, and thought his death somehow connected with the death, or perhaps the birth, of Jesus.

I'm not sure if it mattered all that much for Chesterton's purposes, but I suspect the birth of Jesus somehow precipitated the death of Pan.  I think a case can be made that it did, though it took quite some time to do Pan in.  This had something to do with the birth of theology, according to Chesterton.

Others, such as Robert Graves, thought the story the result of some confusion, and believed the great shout had been mistranslated over time or mistold.  He believed there was no Thamus, but there was a Tammuz, another pagan god who died and whose death was remembered through a ritual which was being performed and was overheard by...someone.

It does seem jolly old Chesterton was mistaken about pagan gods and their birth or death, for various of them did die or their consorts did, and it was their death and resurrection which became the subject of the mystery religions such as that of Mithras, and Isis, and the Great Mother.

Pan was the god of nature, of wild nature that is; but also of shepherds and flocks, and music through the rustic flute.  He's often confused with satyrs, due to the fact that he had the horns, hoofs and hindquarters of a goat.  And it must be said he was inclined to physical pleasures as well, which of course rendered him abhorrent to many Christians.  As a nature god he wasn't worshipped in temples but in caves or wooded groves.  He was born in Arcadia.  His Roman counterpart was Faunus.

But if he died so long ago, he seems to keep coming back, Chesterton and, perhaps, Jesus notwithstanding.  He came back during the Renaissance, as did so much else pagan in spirit.  He was a favorite of the 19th century Romantics, and is even now worshipped by neo-pagans.  He is part of the great inheritance of Western culture that is pagan antiquity, and like it will not die much as some wish it would, who are blithely ignorant of the debt owed to it even, and perhaps especially, by Christianity. 

I know little of Wiccan or neo-paganism generally.  I'm not inclined to engage in rituals or ceremonies which are meant to revive or mimic ancient religious worship.  Nor am I inclined to worship any of the old gods.  But I am pleased that there seems to be a revival in respect for and reverence towards nature--by which I mean the physical world, the universe.  We've believed ourselves to be nature's master for far too long, and are paying the price of the monstrous credo we've accepted here in the West; that we like the God of the Abrahamic religions are apart from nature rather than a part of it.  We will pay more for our self-regard. 

Stoicism also keeps coming back, as the modern resurgence of that philosophy makes clear.  But it's always been around in one sense or another, and it's injunction to "live according to nature" is one that will be accepted it's to be hoped.  It may have to be accepted if we're to survive.

But if I were to worship any of the old gods, I think Pan would be one of them, along with Apollo and Hermes, the one the god of reason, the other the bright intelligence of the universe.  And Pan the god of the physical nature of all living things.

Sunday, July 15, 2018

Our Willy



Vain, verbose, muddle-headed, ignorant, boorish, morose, opinionated, excitable, scatter-brained, loud-mouthed, meddlesome...all adjectives used at one time or another to describe Kaiser Wilhelm II, the "Kaiser Bill" of fame of the Great War, or World War I as we came to call it after an even greater war (in terms of its extent and destructiveness) came along.

I was asked recently what Roman Emperor the current president of our Glorious Republic most resembled.  I found this required a certain amount of thought.  None of the great monsters who ruled Rome seemed appropriate; Caligula, Nero for example.  One of the most ridiculous of emperors came to mind--Elagablus, I mean--almost immediately, but his oddities were different than those of the present occupant of the White House.  The Empire had many bad emperors, bad for various reasons, but I was hard pressed to think of one who is a match.

The fact is, we have a more recent figure in history who matches this president quite well.  Wilhelm, or "Willy" as his many relatives in similar positions of power throughout Europe would call him, was most of all a nuisance.  But as a ruler of a nation, an autocrat, his influence was vast.  He was a nuisance in internal affairs, a nuisance in foreign affairs.  His ministers did his best to limit his influence, to control his sudden and sometimes inexplicable intrusions into careful plans and negotiations, but to no avail.  He somehow managed to insert himself in a matter and send it spinning into chaos.  He insulted, he repulsed, he badgered.  A colossal and offensive know-it-all, he offended fellow heads of state with words of advice.

His state visits to other nations were stressful to those involved.  Nobody knew quite what he would do or say.  He was made an honorary admiral of the British Royal Navy and apparently took this kindness so seriously he thought it appropriate to express his opinion regarding its operations to those who were actual members of that branch of the British military.  He hounded the poor Tsar unmercifully, always telling him what to do.  He exasperated his grandmother, Queen Victoria.  His cousin Edward, who became King of England, thought him malicious.

It seems that as war approached he wanted peace. He managed, though, to assure war came by his fecklessness and his remarkable ability to take inconsistent positions and stances, generally motivated by whoever it was he happened to speak with last.  Once at war, as might be expected, he was eager for victory, and so became the bane of his generals' existence.  A paranoid, he felt that he and Germany were constantly under appreciated and threatened by all other nations, with the possible exception of Austria, which he merely looked down on.

It appears he actually had some good traits.  He may have lived well enough as an eccentric country gentlemen in other circumstances, as it seems he did after he abdicated at the war's end.  But he was a loose cannon as leader of a powerful nation in a war far too full of cannon of other kinds.

Which brings us, however unwillingly, to the present.  The similarities between these two peculiar men seem evident to me.  But the times are certainly different.  And while Willy's advisers did what they could to control and discourage him from capering too wildly about the world stage, our president's advisers, such as they are, seem incapable of controlling him nor do they seem to want to discourage him.  Neither do most members of the Republican Party who seem content to be complicit with him in many matters.  Except, of course, where the money with which they retain their positions is concerned, and it may be that his antics with tariffs and economic policy may finally bring the various shills who make up the Congress to do what's required to stifle him.

It's a very odd thing, that such a man should be where he is, and it makes one concerned regarding the fate of God's favorite country.  One prefers one's villains to be intelligent, cultivated, knowledgeable if immoral and unworthy.  The devil is a gentleman, so it's said.  A small, mean, petty, ignorant and venal man makes a most annoying bad guy.  Even an embarrassing one.

Sunday, July 1, 2018

Meet the Nothing

There's something called "the Nothing."  There's something called "Nothingness."  They are (are not, perhaps) a concern to certain philosophers of a certain kind.  Apropos of nothing, Cicero once said (I paraphrase) that there is nothing so absurd that some philosopher has not already said it.

"Nothingness" I suppose represents the state of being nothing, or perhaps is characteristic of nothing, or is the quality of nothing or is characteristic of "the nothing."  Nothing is, apparently, the opposite of Being, or its negation.  I may be mistaken though.  I know nothing of the Nothing.

Heidegger the Great and Powerful wrote of the Nothing in his inaugural address on becoming rector at Freiberg, where he infamously made some speeches praising and indeed glorifying Hitler as, among other things "the future of Germany and its law."  I spent some time asking questions about this speech in a philosophy forum I frequent, and eventually was duly accused of bad faith for doing so and, I would think, also because I didn't understand what he was saying.  Which was nothing?  I still don't know.

I think Heidegger is something of a sacred cow in some philosophical circles and his followers eagerly leap to his defense whenever he is questioned or mocked.  They may be all the more avid in his defense because there's no doubting the fact that he was a member of the Nazi party, and never publicly expressed any remorse over that membership, nor to my knowledge did he ever publicly express criticism of the Nazi regime before, while or after it was in power.  As a result, those who defend him are defensive in doing so.

But I've been told many times, sometimes sternly, that his misdeeds in life have nothing to do with the merits of his philosophical works, and I would say that it's likely his fondness for Hitler and the Nazis at the least did not arise due to his writings regarding "the Nothing."  Had, in other words, nothing to do with the Nothing.

I think Rudolf Carnap said all there is to say about "the Nothing" as it is referred to in the inaugural address.  What he says essentially is that "nothing" shouldn't be spoken of as if it is something or used as if it is a name for something, and if it is so used it leads to meaningless propositions.  But Heidegger seems to understand this and indeed says he does in the address.  Nevertheless, he says this is a defect in logic, not in use of the word "nothing" or indeed in "the Nothing."  "The Nothing" is encountered only when one is "suspended in dread" (or anxiety).  It's only this encounter which allows us to understand Being.  "Being" apparently refers to that which is.  That or those which is or are have "Being."

"Being" and "nothing" are concepts, names, or something which fascinate many philosophers, I'm sorry to say.  "Being" seems to me to suffer from some of the same problems as "nothing" or "the Nothing."  It may be used as a noun or name, and is treated as if it is something, a quality possessed by that which is, as opposed, apparently, to "that "which is not.  But at least unlike "nothing" or "the nothing" it actually refers to something which exists; indeed, everything that exists.  "Nothing" doesn't refer to any thing.

The fascination with "nothing" seems to be related to a question which in turn is a fascination of some philosophers.  That question is:  "Why is there something instead of nothing?"

Now some, like me, would say that there are problems with that question.  That problem as I see it is that it also is premised on an assumption that there is something that would exist if something didn't exist, called "nothing."  One can ask if one wants to "Why there is something?" but one can't then refer to anything that is "instead of" something.   Nothing would exist, true, but "nothing" doesn't replace something.

I think the question when posed as, "Why is there something instead of nothing?" or "Why is there something?" isn't one that can be answered by philosophers.  If it can be answered at all, it would be an explanation of the fact that things exist, and that explanation would seem to be one that would formulated by science, not philosophy.  That is, unless one is satisfied by an answer which is merely speculative.

It is a question which invites not merely speculation but the use of words in the fashion used by Heidegger and others when it comes to "nothing" and so invites confusion and what Carnap calls "pseudo-statements."

Carnap suggests such statements by philosophers may serve to do what poetry and art does, or music.  For me, that means that such statements may be evocative, and evoke a kind of knowledge or appreciation of the true or correct.  That may be generally true, but as I think Carnap observes the poets, artists and musicians or composers do a better job in this respect that do philosophers.  Some of the most profound feelings I've experienced arose from reading poetry or listening to music.  But "the Nothing" inspires nothing in me, I'm afraid.  Don't tell anyone, though.  This is between you, dear reader, and me.