There's a couple of things I found quite interesting reading in and around Rousseau's Julie, or the New Heloise.
Section I: Rousseau's milieu and its influence on later writers.
I see in Rousseau's emphasis on making the 'personal political' and the 'private public' what is seen later in the works of Dickens, Tolstoy, Dostoyevsky, and Gorky's emphasis on the life of the commoner. Rousseau has taken the life of relatively common people in Julie, Claire, and Saint-Preux and turned it into a complex melo-drama. In his opera, Le devin du viallge ("The Village Soothsayer"), Rousseau presents two otherwise ordinary people in love, Colin and Colette, and their inability to trust one another and raises it to a complex drama. The same can be said of the lives of Julie, Claire, and Saint-Preux: otherwise innocuous people whose pedestrian trials and tribulations revolving around love denied Rousseau raises into (700+ pages worth) of complex drama. This raising of the common to centre stage was not unknown before Rousseau did it, but Rousseau can be seen, because of his broad popularity and appeal as a turning point in raising the common to being a worthy subject of discussion.
Their private lives--until Rousseau a decidedly un-common topic--are made public. The shared, common, yet rarely discussed private tensions and conflicts of people were not seen as topic worthy of public discussion let alone consumption. It seemed to be a received wisdom that such topics simply were of little interest. Rousseau would change this. In Julie there is no great moral upheaval, great events, or renowned figures. There's only the lives of a few people and their conflicts; people who Rousseau's audience would be comprised watching their lives unfold before them. In this sense his characters are unifying: a group of everyman, and woman. It is also, at least in some respect, egalitarian in that, although the subjects in the opera were not people King Louis XV was likely to run into (perhaps over in his carriage...not that he'd stop), but the sensibilities that these characters struggled with would be one that king and queen--as well as miller's wife and miller--could identify with. That king and queen, miller's wife and miller, could all share in these 'private affairs' are shared--thus, by presenting characters as lowly as he does, Rousseau is levelling the playing field, as it were.
Rousseau, in making the private public, is also making the personal political. Readers do not have to look closely to see didactic messages in Rousseau's tale. The epistolary novel is, in fact, a roman a these: a novel with a thesis.
At the centre of the story the characters all struggle with being 'virtuous'. Julie, after her early tryst with Saint-Preux, struggles with being virtuous, but stands by virtue (to her detriment one could say) to her end. Julie, overall, keeps the corrupting forces of society at bay, unlike Saint-Preux who falls almost the minute he enters the city (or is liberated, depending on your point of view).
By exposing their personal lives, Rousseau is making political statements.
Before moving into the later writer's, I found it quite interesting that Rousseau--although he respected and appreciated the work of Moliere--viewd him as dealing with immoral sunjects. In this, I'm not so sure I agree with Rousseau as I see the work of Moliere, The Misanthrope, for example, and Rousseau's, Julie, as being quite similar in several key regards. Both authors present worlds that are everyday and common--even, perhaps, pedestrian; yet, these are also glimpses into the characters private and personal worlds. As such then, both are embarking on making the private public and, thus, the personal the political. Moliere simply did it before Rousseau using worlds, characters, and situations certainly more macabre and grotesque than Rousseau, but no less didactic.
Ralph Leigh, professor of French at Trinity, Cambridge notes the following and, in thinking of Leigh's words, I would ask that you read it twice: once thinking of his words as they certainly are reflective of Rousseau, but then a second times considering, for example, Moliere's, The Misanthrope, as I cannot see how the observations are equally applicable:
"Julie is first and foremost a novel: it is about human beings locked into a number of intractable situations, which drive them to the verge of nervous collapse, and, indeed, sometimes beyond. These situations involve five different people, most of them continually developing, expressing not only the immediacy of their reactions, but also constantly interpreting and reinterpreting their experiences (sometimes wrongly), sometimes contradicting one another, sometimes saying what they think and sometimes not, converted in the course of the work to values very different in many ways from those which they began."
I don't think one would want to take a comparison between Rousseau and Moliere to far or to deep; however, I do think they had more in common than at least Rousseau seemed willing to admit. In topic, in milieu of the characters--and, I would add, in at least some extent, in the authors 'project'--they appear to have things in common, at worse, they clearly overlap (I think the same can be said between Rousseau and the Marquis de Sade, of which I'll say a bit about pater). I think this quote by Leigh could also be read in conjunction with the authors whose work I suggest is influenced by Rousseau.
It is in this common, private, and personal sense, then, that I see the work of later writers who would present common characters front and centre in ways shifting between the pitiable (highlighting injustices) in Dickens, to glorification in Tolstoy, to the cautionary in Dostoyevsky, and, finally, wallowing in the misery as Gorky would do.
In Dickens' Hard Times, I am reminded of the characters Stephen Blackpool and Rachael. Both characters live amongst the lowest of the low within in the world of Coke Town. Yet, the deep respect between the two of them demonstrates a camaraderie and a virtue that exceeds any of those from the higher social castes. Stephen won't, irrespective of any great need he may have for support, even allow himself to be seen too long with Rachael for fear of tarnishing her name. His admiration for her is unwavering:
"He looked at her with some disappointment in his face, but with a respectful and patient conviction that she must be right in whatever she did. The experession was not lost upon her; she laid her hand lightly on his arm a moment as if to thank him for it."
Although the Russians would delve into the world of the commoner in ways Rousseau probably could not--or would not--ever conceive does not, I believe, deny the approach of his influence upon their works. I do not think readers have to look too far into the likes of Tolstoy, Dostoyevsky, or Gorky to see the influence of Rousseau and his emphasis on the common--it may be, perhaps, only vetigial in their works, but I believe it there none-the-less.
Tolstoy's Anna Karenina, like Rousseau's Julie, loves one man, Count Vronsky,, but is constrained (for awhile) to remain with Alexei Karenin, out of virtue to social norms as well as her own indecision. Although Anna does decide on the affair with Vronsky, we may see in her decision the fate that may have awaited Julie and Saint-Pereux if the had decided to elope. In the end, like Julie (and foretelling Edna Pontillier yet to come in our readings), Anna's only real release is in death. Perhaps in Anna we see the unification of two separate people--Claire and Julie--into one..?
In Dostoyevsky's, The Idiot, we meet Prince Lev Myshkin who find himself in the middle between two women--one kept and one virtuous. In his innocence and goodness ends in disaster and in the ironic position of him finding sanity inside the walls of a sanitarium. In his character we can perhaps see what a single-minded adherence to virtue can end in.
Finally, there's Maxin Gorky's, The Lower Depths. I see similarity him and Rousseau not so much in their characters per se, rather in the private and personal struggles each of the characters engages in, and struggles that are otherwise very common. Perhaps what these two authors share most commonly is their desire for an 'ethics of authenticity', or what Gorky would hold as a primacy of harsh truths over comforting lies. I think where Rousseau may, in this sense have balked is in taking such authenticity to its natural ends: self-destruction.
Certainly, in comparing these writers to Rousseau one would best not look for exact matches, rather the hints--the vestiges--of an approach that began with Rousseau and who follow a similar path, but blaze it into very different--if not radically different--territories.
Section II: Sharing at least some common ground with the Marquis de Sade.
I found two overlapping areas between Rousseau and the Marquis de Sade. On the one hand, there's the shared political conviction regarding the problem of property ownership.
Rousseau, in his Discourse On Inequality (1754), states that the "first man who, having enclosed a piece of ground, bethought himself of saying 'This is mine,' and found people simple enough to believe him, was the real founder of civil society. From how many crimes, wars, and murders, from how many horrors and misfortunes might not any one have saved mankind, by pulling up the stakes, or filling up the ditch, and crying to his fellows: Beware of listening to this imposter; you are undone if you once forget that the fruits of the earth belong to us all, and the earth itself to nobody."
Although he was writing some 43 years after Rousseau (and was known to have read Rousseau), in his novel, Juliette, de Sade states that when "[t]racing the right of property back to its source, one infallibly arrives at usurpation. However, theft is only punished because it violates the right of property; but this right is itself nothing in origin but theft."
There is also the interesting--perhaps better stated as morbidly interesting--connection between Rousseau's self-confessed pleasure (Confessions, 1782) and interest in what de Sade would, in his writings, coin sado-masochism. Whether or not Rousseau's probable need to have Therese help him with his *gulp* ivory catheter (don't lie guys: every one of your flinched when you heard that!?!) could/can be seen as a possible fetish remains to be seen...figuratively speaking, of course!
In looking at the overlap between Rousseau and de Sade one must realize that the comparison is only superficial. As much as Voltaire heckled Rousseau's writings as being pretentious and pompous, de Sade went much further and completely inverted the character of Julie in his novel, Justine; and, further inverting the idea of goodness 'winning' in his novel, Juliette (much as Moliere's Alceste and Célimène do).
Section III: My kingdom for...viagra..?
As a final note, I think it is interesting, building on my comparing de Sade and Rousseau,when we note that Rousseau probably had significant problems with his kidneys and urinary system. In turn, it is quite likely that, given this condition, he would suffer at least sporadic bouts of sexual dysfunction. If we add to this Rousseaus conviction as presenting himself as text, and considering one of the two sub-titles to Julie is the New Heloise, I think it quite reasonable to see at least some of Rousseau's identification with this romanticized duo as not simply focusing on Heloise, but on himself as a Abelard. Abelard would, of course, have to find some solace in the Platonic love with Heloise after, to quote Austin Powers, his 'twigs and berries' were so unceremoniously lopped off (like the catheter doesn't make a guy flinch!?!), I think it equally reasonable to see--between Rousseau's predilection to sado-masochism in conjunction with his possible dysfunction (and, if not dysfunction, the fact that he would be quite vulnerable if it was, indeed, Therese who administered his catheters)--Rousseau as identifying figuratively with Abelard's literal castration.
Section IV: Final note
I think one of Rousseau's most interesting works is his Letter to M. d'Alembert (1758). I say interesting because it seems to highlight one, of the many, paradoxes that is reading (if not being) Jean Jacques Rousseau. In this letter Rousseau is disagreeing with d'Alembert regarding the opening and use of a theatre in Geneva. For a man so stepped in Salon culture, a writer, a musician, and a playwright (if we consider opera's writing aspect loosely for a moment) that he would describe the "artificial emotions" a danger that theatre represents. And, as such, that would, in turn, corrupt the minds and morality of that society.
Perhaps this shouldn't come as much of a surprise at it first seems, however. It is important to remember that even in the preface to his own novel, Rousseau states that he is critical of literature in general.
Like his characters, their situations, and the milieu's he chose to present them in, we need remember Leigh's comments that Rousseau's, Julie, is about "human beings locked into...intractable situations" that see these characters "interpreting and reinterpreting their experiences (sometimes wrongly)" [emphasis added]. If Rousseau the person was trying his best to re-present himself in and as a text, then such interpretations and reinterpretations of himself should neither be seen as contradictory nor surprising...
Thursday, November 17, 2011
Wednesday, November 2, 2011
Descartes
In Progress [By this I mean I have notes and ongoing thoughts on a Word document that I've not finished and/or edited to my satisfaction...just in case a certain someone is raising an eyebrow in regards to what 'In Progress' means. I can, if need be, put these rough versions up however...just let me know]
Dante and Bunyan: Two (More) Guides to Surviving the Zombie Apocalypse
At first glance, it may seem flippant—if not outright ridiculous—to compare the world’s created by Dante and Bunyan to those of the zombie apocalypse. However, provided we move beyond the ‘hack and slash’, fangoria-style zombie stories (or those of more dubious content like the cannibal zombie sub-genre), those not faint of heart will find more going on here than meets the morbid eye. Upon closer inspection of the better zombie stories audiences come to find that the human themes, the conflicts, and relationships—as well as the motivations behind the telling of these stories—continues a very long tradition of apocalyptic and post-apocalyptic literature.
Some of the zombie stories I would suggest as warranting closer inspection include the films: Night of the Living Dead (George Romero) and 28 Days Later (Danny Boyle--Warning: opening scene is graphic), and even Shaun of the Dead (Simon Pegg & Wright); the television series: The Walking Dead (Frank Darabont); the graphic novel: The Walking Dead (Robert Kirkman), upon which the television series is based; and, the novels: The Rising (Brian Keene); Zombies: A Record of the Year of Infection (Don Roff); Pontypool Changes Everything (Tony Burgess), later made into a film; and, even the more light-hearted, Pride and Prejudice and Zombies (Seth Graeme-Smith). Amongst the most recent and, I’d argue, amongst the best is World War Z: An Oral History of the Zombie War (Max Brooks), which arose out of The Zombie Survival Guide (Max Brooks) and evolved into The Zombie Survival Guide: Recorded Attacks, an excellent retrofit of zombie attacks throughout history—from the Stone Age, to Rome, and feudal Japan. The original book is being released as a film sometime in 2012, and is almost single-handedly responsible for the recent resurgence of this genre.
In this entry, for simplicity’s sake, I’ll be referring predominantly to Danny Boyle’s, 28 Days Later in discussing Dante’s, Inferno, and Bunyan’s, Pilgrim’s Progress (part one).
These stories—spread over hundreds of years—share common themes and devices. At their core they all share a concern—a pre-occupation—with the state of the world the creators existed in with an eye as to what lay in-store for humanity given our species’ frailties. All three are allegories as the deeper meanings within the stories reflect world’s beyond the texts themselves. As such, their messages speak to the moral, political, and/or social issues surrounding them. The stories often act as extended metaphors (conceits) carrying and evolving otherwise didactic lessons in more figurative than literal ways. Equally, many of the characters are symbolic, or are personifications of these more abstract ideas.
Where Dante and Bunyan represent societies more bound to religion and religious institutions, and where the ‘end times’ are singularly in the hands of God; Boyle, without excluding these realms, includes our secular institutions. Here the destructive power, for example, of nuclear weapons places apocalyptic destruction within humanity’s hands. To the ‘original sin’ of our ancestors that assured our destruction (or salvation), Boyle has added hubris, hubris that began with Mary Shelley’s Dr. Frankenstein.
The world’s Dante and Bunyan navigated were, as Hobbes would reflect, “solitary, poor, nasty, brutish, and short” (Leviathan; Chap. 13, para. 9). It is within such a world that Dante’s and Bunyan’s allegorical narratives arose and, thus, are unsurprisingly a reflection of. During such times it should not be surprising to find that the faithful (or ‘chosen’) would come to the conclusion that humanity was doomed, and the world they existed in was evil. It should come as no less surprising that many would have held that the ‘end times’ were nigh; that God’s judgment--his wrath--would be visited upon the sinful, while rewarding the faithful and ushering in the ‘rapture’ would be both a comforting and a vindicating belief to hold. Who wouldn't, then, look earnestly for those ‘signs of the times’ heralding the ‘second coming’ (apocalypse) and ushering in the time of ‘The Great Tribulation’. The chosen would rise and everyone else would get their just deserts.
As fulfilling and comforting as this belief might seem to the faithful, it is reasonable to assume that as time marched on and the signs of the approaching apocalypse petered out leaving only run-of-the-mill plagues, wars, and natural disasters as always, that somewhere during the wait even the faithful would begin wondering (and worrying) as to who, exactly, were the ‘chosen’..? Dante's allegorical ‘circles of hell’--filled with his celebrity denizens-- and Christian’s journey encountering a myriad of human foibles and frailties, would reasonably provide some solace.
Certainly we wouldn’t be well served to take too literally the eschatology motivating Dante and Bunyan and simply shift it upon Boyle; however, as the saying goes, ‘the more things change, the more they stay the same.’ In Boyle’s world—our world—humanity has created massively destructive technologies, yet, in the face of such destructive forces of our own design, we've come to unquestioningly accept policies like ‘mutually assured destruction' (M.A.D.). Worse, we believe that, in so doing, we're actually participating in the confrontation of these forces--adequately and reasonably--in fact, what we're doing is insane. So, where the ‘faithful’ of Dante and Bunyan's world looked around and wondered what it was, exactly, that had gotten into everyone else that left them so blind to the ‘signs’, we would today find the well-informed citizens who looks closely at such ‘solutions’ and finds him or her-self wondering the same thing. Whether it is God’s wrath or our own brinkmanship that results in the apocalypse, the one thing that those in-the-know can rest assured of is that Hobbes’ observation is very likely to come to pass.
In such times, faced with such suffering, degradation, turmoil, and insanity (what else can anyone call such hypocrisy of thought), what people seek is ‘hope’; a reason they can cling to so as to endure the suffering: because there's something better to come.
Dante is goes through hell so as to be made frightfully aware of what comes to the unfaithful. He is then shown paradiso so as to see the rewards that await those who endure this world's tribulations accordingly. In so doing he is given (and giving) hope. Christian is confronted by characters who represent the foibles, follies, and sins of the faithless (the un-chosen) and witnesses to what ends they come to. He is shown the reward for enduring his journey will see his being amongst the 'chosen' entering the ‘Celestial City’--with, of course, the help of his friend, Hopeful.
Equally so, Boyle’s protagonist, Jim (Cillian Murphy) is faced with despair, hopelessness, callousness, forlornness, and cruelty as he meets other characters on his journey and as he tries to make sense of this post-apocalyptic world. Along this trail, Jim is confronted with tragedy, great suffering, senseless violence, and—in the ‘safe-haven’ of Maj. Henry West (Christopher Eccleston)—is confronted with a world perhaps even more insane than a world filled with zombies. Yet, through this all Jim consciously chooses to be optimistic even though at times such a stance risks his life; Jim chooses to hold to hope. And, in so doing, he influences the ‘worthy’ others to emulate and/or to follow him to a better place. Through his actions, in all he faces, and all those he influences, Jim transcends beyond hope (optimism) as a character trait. It is in this sense that we can see Jim as being more than the epitome of hope, rather as the personification of it. [The idea of Jim as the personification of 'hope', and as 28 Days Later as an allegory, is not my own, but my wife's insight. An insight that gave me a whole new appreciation of the zombie genre--thanks Allana.]
In the 20th century and beyond the idea that God will like the cavalry to right the wrongs and save our skins is as overly simplistic a solution as it is unsatisfying a narrative. This isn’t simply the atheists’ view—although I am an atheist—it reflects a world where people have set higher expectations as to what constitutes satisfying answers and meaningful narratives to answer life’s larger questions. In today’s world we’re simply more credulous. Of course, there will be those who would argue that today's world is a world where most people inhabit the space somewhere between pessimism and outright cynicism.
I disagree with such an attitude.
Furthermore, I would hold that, at its core, such attitudes rest upon overly emotional and nostalgic perspectives, perspectives that choose to look backwards in the belief that, back 'there'--somewhere-- was once the ‘good old days’; or, perhaps, fail to realize (or admit) that the attributes they'd heap upon others they do so simply because these 'others' refuse to see it their way…more likely, it is a combination of both attitudes.
Either way, I hold that such attitudes as these belie an unwillingness--perhaps out of fear--to confront the ills of the world. Such people would dress their apathy and their withdrawal-from-the-world as being the received wisdom or as righteousness. Both perspectives are, in the end, pitiful excuses to hold in today’s world—this being said, we must not use the knowledge and awareness we have today as a mean of judging or understanding the past that Dante or Bunyan inhabited (to do so is to commit an ‘anachronism’).
I disagree with such an attitude.
Furthermore, I would hold that, at its core, such attitudes rest upon overly emotional and nostalgic perspectives, perspectives that choose to look backwards in the belief that, back 'there'--somewhere-- was once the ‘good old days’; or, perhaps, fail to realize (or admit) that the attributes they'd heap upon others they do so simply because these 'others' refuse to see it their way…more likely, it is a combination of both attitudes.
Either way, I hold that such attitudes as these belie an unwillingness--perhaps out of fear--to confront the ills of the world. Such people would dress their apathy and their withdrawal-from-the-world as being the received wisdom or as righteousness. Both perspectives are, in the end, pitiful excuses to hold in today’s world—this being said, we must not use the knowledge and awareness we have today as a mean of judging or understanding the past that Dante or Bunyan inhabited (to do so is to commit an ‘anachronism’).
Within many of the zombie apocalypse narratives you will find characters discussing God’s will, God's wrath, or whether or not it is the case that "God’s away on business." This does not represent a contradiction to all I've said. In fact, zombie stories would not be worthy of the deeper analysis I suggest they are if they were not to recognize the complexity of how humans react when confronted with such apocalyptic scenarios. In such situations there are going to be people who come to grace as well as those who will turn from it. However, the predominance of this narrative of faith (of salvation) is left as one amongst many, and is rarely answered in any clear manner (except, of course, for the recent Left Behind series by Tim LaHaye and Jerry Jenkins). The more representative and authentic post-apocalyptic stories—irrespective of the mechanism of our species’ demise—are meaningful because they refuse to digress into simplistic deux ex machina solutions. In an era where the vast majority of the world’s population sat idly by while 11 million ‘undesirables’ (Jews, homosexuals, mentally handicapped, Romany gypsies, criminals, and communists) were herded up, tortured, denied their existence, and eventually murdered such apathy cannot—and should not—be entertained.
It is the same when we seek culprits to blame. It may have suited the world of Dante to hold Satan responsible, just as it suited Bunyan to rest blame on the shoulders of Beezelbub; however, for the same reasons we cannot accept the deus ex machina that is the salvation of our species from destruction, neither can we seek to blame demons or the devils for our failings. As the cartoon character, Pogo, so astutely observed: “We have met the enemy, and he is us.”
Perhaps we’ve simply outgrown such reductionist answers. This is not to suggest that faith in God is to be utterly discarded or ridiculed (although I hold no stock in such beliefs); rather, that in using God as an excuse for our inaction, or the Devil as the root of our evils, we're avoiding the reality that we're the architects of our own demise, and in recognizing this, perhaps of our own salvation.
The psychiatrists Stanley Milgram and Phillip Zimbardo hoped to better understand human evil (for there is no other kind of evil) by investigating the root causes of such atrocities as the Holocaust. When they found themselves glimpsing into that evil as something not rooted externally from us, but rather as part of us, they had the courage to accept this--no God or Devil here.
I would suggest that contemporary zombie narratives refuse to provide simple or homogenous solutions because it is common knowledge that the roots of evil are rooted in all of us. Modern audiences are aware of the fact that all that awaits the next attrocity is neither a demon nor a devil, but the right social circumstances to unfold and unleash this capacity from within us..
Perhaps we’ve simply outgrown such reductionist answers. This is not to suggest that faith in God is to be utterly discarded or ridiculed (although I hold no stock in such beliefs); rather, that in using God as an excuse for our inaction, or the Devil as the root of our evils, we're avoiding the reality that we're the architects of our own demise, and in recognizing this, perhaps of our own salvation.
The psychiatrists Stanley Milgram and Phillip Zimbardo hoped to better understand human evil (for there is no other kind of evil) by investigating the root causes of such atrocities as the Holocaust. When they found themselves glimpsing into that evil as something not rooted externally from us, but rather as part of us, they had the courage to accept this--no God or Devil here.
I would suggest that contemporary zombie narratives refuse to provide simple or homogenous solutions because it is common knowledge that the roots of evil are rooted in all of us. Modern audiences are aware of the fact that all that awaits the next attrocity is neither a demon nor a devil, but the right social circumstances to unfold and unleash this capacity from within us..
So we must search within ourselves for the answers and the reasons for surviving because simple survival is not reason enough. We need reasons; we need hope. In episode 3 (season 2), "Save the Last One," of The Walking Dead, Lori and Rick's son, Carl, is shot in an accident. In one powerful scene Carl's mother Lori challenges Rick to answer her as to why it wouldn't be better for Carl is they simply let him die peacefully and not have to continue to face what, at least as far as Lori sees it, amounts to little more than existing day-by-day on the raw edge of survival. Again, what meaning simple existence? Rick cannot provide an answer, and God is silent...
In 28 Days Later, the zombies of Jim’s world reflect some of the more negative qualities and characteristics of our species. In this world people literally eat one another alive and turn one another into their own depraved and deprived likenesses. The virus that ‘infects’ humanity is perhaps the only obvious symbol in the film: it is simply called ‘Rage’. Humanity is infected by its own hubris. On the one hand, are the scientists playing god and who rationalize away the suffering they cause other creatures as being for the greater good; While, on the other hand, the righteous and zealous animal rights/eco-activist's disregard the warnings of the scientist that the animals they wish to 'liberate' are infected. The activists justifying their actions as also representing the ‘greater good’. They invade the laboratory and, in the process of 'freeing' the animals, are infected, thus releasing the virus into the world and ushering in the apocalypse. In the end there is hubris and blame aplenty to go around, but only humanity is to blame.
It is into this infected world that Jim awakens from his dream-like comma caused by an accident. He has no idea what has happened, or why it has occurred. He simply seeks to survive. Jim— a 20th century ‘everyman’—rises to face the challenges presented to him. Although Jim faces zombies, it is perhaps the uninfected humans who’s ‘pragmatism’ has reduced them to the level of the Gestapo
that represents the greatest dangers. In the process, he learns that to simply survive is not enough. He realizes that he must find meaning for surviving and, so, delves into the depths of his humanity to confront—and defeat—despair and hopelessness. It is through this Jim's self-sufficient inward adventure, quite unlike the more didactic and two-dimensional journeys of Dante and Christian, that he emerges to transcend ‘this’ world and ascend to an allegoric status, and one which we can both believe and identify with.
that represents the greatest dangers. In the process, he learns that to simply survive is not enough. He realizes that he must find meaning for surviving and, so, delves into the depths of his humanity to confront—and defeat—despair and hopelessness. It is through this Jim's self-sufficient inward adventure, quite unlike the more didactic and two-dimensional journeys of Dante and Christian, that he emerges to transcend ‘this’ world and ascend to an allegoric status, and one which we can both believe and identify with.
It is in this sense, and for these reasons, that I would dare to compare such ‘great works of literature’ as Dante and Bunyan to that of Boyle (Brooks, Romero, et al). Such stories present and force us to engage in the world in whatever its state--not to withdraw from it. We're required to question why we would wish to continue to exist--not simply to emerge from the other side. Just as Rick, from The Walking Dead, eventually finds and can provide an answer that gives Lori reasons to see why Carl should survive, Jim, from 28 Days Later, can present reasons as to what meaning there is in this existence?
Without disparaging these works, although we may be able to enter into Dante's and Christian's narratives, I would argue that to do so is more an academic pursuit than one most audiences can identify directly with. I would, then, also hold that Jim is a better Virgil to us than either Dante or Christian.
One significant difference between our world and those of Dante and Bunyan is that, at least to some extent, we’ve harnessed our hubris. We've come to realize that the causes--as well as the solutions--are to be found inside of us: we need not seek salvation externally nor wait idly by until it comes to us; hoping for such salvation is no 'hope' at all. Our narratives—however perennial to the human condition—require more complex, dynamic, varied, and ambiguous narratives as well as solutions…That is, if solutions are forthcoming at all.
Today, more than any time in our past, we are more accepting of ambiguity, if we simply don't demand it Therefore, our allegories must reflect this ambiguity if they're to be both believable and meaningful to us.
Without disparaging these works, although we may be able to enter into Dante's and Christian's narratives, I would argue that to do so is more an academic pursuit than one most audiences can identify directly with. I would, then, also hold that Jim is a better Virgil to us than either Dante or Christian.
One significant difference between our world and those of Dante and Bunyan is that, at least to some extent, we’ve harnessed our hubris. We've come to realize that the causes--as well as the solutions--are to be found inside of us: we need not seek salvation externally nor wait idly by until it comes to us; hoping for such salvation is no 'hope' at all. Our narratives—however perennial to the human condition—require more complex, dynamic, varied, and ambiguous narratives as well as solutions…That is, if solutions are forthcoming at all.
Today, more than any time in our past, we are more accepting of ambiguity, if we simply don't demand it Therefore, our allegories must reflect this ambiguity if they're to be both believable and meaningful to us.
Sunday, October 16, 2011
I Am Not...
"I Am Not..." is (well, at least so far) my favorite Rumi excerpt. I originally came across it quite a few years ago in a video production (Four Seasons) for 'poetry in motion'. The title of that excerpt was, "Only Breath," and was read by the American Rumi afficianado and poet, Coleman Barks.
It is so simply because, to me, it seems to fit in neatly with so many non-linear ways of seeing the world.
For example, the phrase 'I am not' is an instance of what is known as a 'strange loop', discussed in Douglas Hofstadter's book, Gödel, Escher, Bach: An Eternal Golden Braid.
This concept comes, in part, from Godel's 'Incompleteness Theorem'--especially in relation to what he terms 'undecidable statements.' Although this phrase is often used in describing problems in mathematics, it also applies to situations within human cognition and language.
In this sense, it is similar to the statement: "This statement is false." Which is true...a paradox.
There are also visual 'strange loops'. For example, in the work of Dutch artists, M.C. Escher.
The Waterfall:
Or, Ascending and Descending:
The most famous example of the visual 'strange loop' is probably August Ferdinand Möbius' the Mobius Strip (sometimes called the Mobius Band):
As an aside, in Ancient Greece there is a similar creation known as the Ouroboros. It is associated with the Mobius band here in that both represent infinity (in fact, lookl closely at the Mobius Band and you'll see the mathematical sign for 'infinity'):
...looks a lot like a zero, huh...
The Mobius Band has several famous incarnation, but my two favorite are from Escher:
And one on a similar theme simply called Rind:
Which reminds me a little of Aristophanes tale of how humans came to be two sexes in Plato's Symposium.
There's an interesting video that illustrates the paradoxes that emerge from within the paradox created by the 'strange loop' of the Mobius Band that's worth watching.
Finally, there is another visual much akin to the "this statement is false" sentence in the Belgian painter, René Magritte's, "The Treachery of Images":
The French translates to: "This is not a pipe"...which, of course, it isn't...it's an image of a pipe, but not the thing itself. A subtle derivation of Plato's 'theory of forms'.
In Music there's an example of the 'strange loop' in J.S. Bach's Crab Cannon. Here a musical score is played forward 'into' music, but can also be played backward into silence: again, a paradox.
And then there's the 'Shepard Tone.' If you listen to this you'll note that although the tone appears to be descending it is, in fact, staying the same. This is an example of an auditory illusion.
To return to language, the aforementioned sentence--"This statement is false"--is called the 'Liar's Paradox' in logic and represents a problem of binary (semantic) interpretation. More technically, it is a problem of bivalence, where any declarative statement under investigation is said to have only one truth value (indetermined as it may be): 'true' or 'false'. The Liar's Paradox illustrates possible paradoxical situations that may arise from holding this belief (in its epistemological sense, that is).
However, with language there are depths of meaning (semantics) beyond the binary. Take for example the following ambiguous sentence:
It is so simply because, to me, it seems to fit in neatly with so many non-linear ways of seeing the world.
For example, the phrase 'I am not' is an instance of what is known as a 'strange loop', discussed in Douglas Hofstadter's book, Gödel, Escher, Bach: An Eternal Golden Braid.
This concept comes, in part, from Godel's 'Incompleteness Theorem'--especially in relation to what he terms 'undecidable statements.' Although this phrase is often used in describing problems in mathematics, it also applies to situations within human cognition and language.
In this sense, it is similar to the statement: "This statement is false." Which is true...a paradox.
There are also visual 'strange loops'. For example, in the work of Dutch artists, M.C. Escher.
The Waterfall:
Or, Ascending and Descending:
The most famous example of the visual 'strange loop' is probably August Ferdinand Möbius' the Mobius Strip (sometimes called the Mobius Band):
As an aside, in Ancient Greece there is a similar creation known as the Ouroboros. It is associated with the Mobius band here in that both represent infinity (in fact, lookl closely at the Mobius Band and you'll see the mathematical sign for 'infinity'):
...looks a lot like a zero, huh...
The Mobius Band has several famous incarnation, but my two favorite are from Escher:
And one on a similar theme simply called Rind:
Which reminds me a little of Aristophanes tale of how humans came to be two sexes in Plato's Symposium.
There's an interesting video that illustrates the paradoxes that emerge from within the paradox created by the 'strange loop' of the Mobius Band that's worth watching.
Finally, there is another visual much akin to the "this statement is false" sentence in the Belgian painter, René Magritte's, "The Treachery of Images":
The French translates to: "This is not a pipe"...which, of course, it isn't...it's an image of a pipe, but not the thing itself. A subtle derivation of Plato's 'theory of forms'.
In Music there's an example of the 'strange loop' in J.S. Bach's Crab Cannon. Here a musical score is played forward 'into' music, but can also be played backward into silence: again, a paradox.
And then there's the 'Shepard Tone.' If you listen to this you'll note that although the tone appears to be descending it is, in fact, staying the same. This is an example of an auditory illusion.
To return to language, the aforementioned sentence--"This statement is false"--is called the 'Liar's Paradox' in logic and represents a problem of binary (semantic) interpretation. More technically, it is a problem of bivalence, where any declarative statement under investigation is said to have only one truth value (indetermined as it may be): 'true' or 'false'. The Liar's Paradox illustrates possible paradoxical situations that may arise from holding this belief (in its epistemological sense, that is).
However, with language there are depths of meaning (semantics) beyond the binary. Take for example the following ambiguous sentence:
"The boys are throwing rocks at the bank"
There are two types of ambiguity in this sentence: semantic and syntactic.
Semantically, we'd have to know what the speaker means by the noun 'bank': a river bank or the institution (i.e. Royal Bank). Each variant leads to a quite different possible interpretation. This is an example of Godel's 'undecidable statements.'
Further, if we look at the syntactic ambiguity in the dependent (prepositional) clause--"at the bank"--we face two more possible interpretations: the boys were 'at' (location) the river bank throwing rocks at something unknown; or, the boys were 'at' (location) the Royal Bank, again throwing rocks at something unknown.
Although we as listeners could deduce which statement is most likely to be correct (or, with enough added information, exactly which interpretation is correct) we're still faced with the fact that we cannot decide which of these interpretations is 'true' until we have that information. Furthermore, the possible interpretations move beyond the binary model.
To return to the Rumi excerpt, there is also the idea stemming from the 'strange loop' that the "I" is what is known as a 'narrative fiction'; that is, "I" doesn't really exist at birth but is, as part of our identity, something that emerges only after we've developed an 'ego', we've gained command of our native sign systems (language--spoken and written, etc), and have, then, developed this thing called the "I". It does not, however, actually exist 'in-the-world'.
This is a part of the 'absurdity' spoken of by existentialist philosopher's like Jean Paul Sartre.
In Rumi's excerpt, "Only Breath," I noticed the hint of this is the speakers conscious pause between "human" and "being"--versus the more common "human being." Here the term 'being' (as in 'to be') is emphasized/highlighted. That is to say, I believe--and akin to the existentialists preoccupation with that odd verb--our 'being, like our development of the "I", is not the same thing as our biology, as in 'human'. 'Being' is a construct to aid in determining the subjective and objective presence we hold--simultaneously--in the world; yet, it is integral to our identity and, therefore, as real as any thing.
In the excerpt, "I Am Not..," I believe Rumi is highlighting something very similar. By addressing that which is not he is drawing attention to that which is.
Here I am reminded of several--culturally diverse--similar expressions of the same sentiment.
In math, we have the concept of 'zero' (or 'nought'). A paradox because it cannot, in reality, exist. In regards to the zero, if we think of it as a circle (neither the numeral nor the letter) I think Rumi is drawing attention to the paradox of being in two states at once in his lines ("Only Breath"): "outer, inner." If we think of our being in such a predicament, we can see ourselves as existing at once 'in' and 'out'--which, by definition is, at worst, non-being; or, at best, existing in a liminal state.
In art, 'negative space' defines the space around which the object invades. It is, perhaps, better seen than defined. This is an example of both negative space and negative space as a paradox (two things--but neither--at once) designed by the Danish psychologist, Edgar Rubin, and known as the 'Rubin vase':
On the left, the 'positive' spaced object (vase); on the right, the negative space surrounding the vase is highlighted and, here, presents the paradox: are we looking at a vase? Or, at two people nose-to-nose? Or, neither and both at once..?
In the Japanese culutre there are the twin concepts of 'ma' and 'mu'.
'Ma' is the space--or gap, or pause--between the objects presented in art (akin, I think, to what is 'left out' in Saphho's poetry). We can see something similar to this in the use of 'white space' in publishing. That is, the space on the page of a book we'd commonly call the 'margins'; and, the space, for example, between the chapters of a book. I'd suggest it is also akin to Rumi's 'pause' between "human" and "being"...much exists in that pause that is us.
On the other hand, there's the concept of 'mu'. This, although similar to 'ma', differs n its emphasis on 'nothingness', 'non-existent', and 'non-being'. The 'not' in Rumi's "I Am Not..."
The purpose in these explorations is not, I believe, to create a cynicism or pessimism; rather, to remind us that we are 'not' simply one thing or another: we're not 'Christian or Jew, or Magian, or Muslim'; we're not 'of the west or of the east'; we're 'us'; we're 'all'.
We're the "[o]ne I seek, One I know/One I see, One I call."
In this I see as much 'reason' as there is 'passion'. It is, like much of what I've discussed before, and come more firmly to believe over time, syncretic.
I'd like to leave you with the following sentiment regarding my collective use of 'us' and 'all' as wonderfully presented by the late Carl Sagan, entitled "Pale Blue Dot."
Like Rumi's 'not' I think the recognition of things beyond our selves and that we're more than one or simply a few things is paramount to our survival and evolution. I am reminded of the time I spent deep in either the desert or the arctic. Here, there is a liberty, and freedom, that comes with the realization of one's own insignificance. This isn't pessimistic or devaluing; quite the contrary: it reminds us that what is 'real' is often intangible and what is really important is not necessarily what's right in front of us.
I'd like to leave you with the following sentiment regarding my collective use of 'us' and 'all' as wonderfully presented by the late Carl Sagan, entitled "Pale Blue Dot."
Like Rumi's 'not' I think the recognition of things beyond our selves and that we're more than one or simply a few things is paramount to our survival and evolution. I am reminded of the time I spent deep in either the desert or the arctic. Here, there is a liberty, and freedom, that comes with the realization of one's own insignificance. This isn't pessimistic or devaluing; quite the contrary: it reminds us that what is 'real' is often intangible and what is really important is not necessarily what's right in front of us.
Sunday, October 2, 2011
Lucretius
I was originally introduced to Lucretius', On the Nature of Things, in a philosophy of science course I took many years ago. Lucretius came up again when I was taking a graduate course in historiography. In both instances, Lucretius was presented as an example of the wonders and the dangers that await when we delve into the past.
The historian, David Lowenthal, provides the following preparatory advice to those embarking upon such excursions: "The past is a foreign country whose features are shaped by today's predilections, its strangeness domesticated by our own preservation of its vestiges" (p. xvii, The Past is a Foreign Country).
On our map of the past we need be wary of that mysterious spot that read: "Here, be anachronisms."
The potential treasures of the past are a compelling draw for us, but we must be aware of the very real dangers such inquires into the past present. On the one hand, there's anachronism: an instance where we read into the past something from the present which either simply isn't there, or which may be present as such, but not simply so. Again, Lowenthal warns us that the "past thus conjured up is, to be sure, largely an artifact of the present" (p. xvi).
On the other hand, there's nostalgia. Here we harken back to the past in search of a better period of time as evidence of how we should resolve issues in the present. However, much is lost (forgotten) in the journey from past into the present; and, much of these attributes not only do not fit within a contemporary context, but are often regressive.
Certainly no one would deny that there is much to gain and to learn from the past. However, history as evidence must be viewed very cautiously. Sifting through the past requires close and rigorous analysis. So, like archaeology and paleontology, from vast stretches of land are distilled only tiny fragments emerge. What emerges are artifacts.
Lowenthal's book is amongst the best explorations into historiography because of his interest in finding insight into the past without privileging a single form of evidence, something historians are often wont to do. As we've seen recently from readings of Aeschylus, Euripides, and Sophocles we can read between the lines to gain some insight into the audiences and, thus, the worlds, within which these authors existed. But, we must do so with caution and being well aware of the short-comings and pitfalls of doing so.
Science (natural philosophy) has been with us for millennia; however, the scientific method (natural science), and its successes, have been with us for only several centuries. Since the 16th and 17th century 'scientific revolution', our knowledge and command of knowledge has exploded and advanced at a break neck pace. So, much so one could say that science is a victim of its own success. It is perhaps because of its explosive growth and success that science is still often misunderstood.
Science has been castigated as hubris, while being exalted as genius. It has been condemned as harmful, while being lauded as panacea. It has been attacked as hypocritical, while moving to fill in the gaps of our knowledge.
Equally, science's adherents have presented science over-enthusiastically; as panacea. Scientific determinism, and its corollary in logical positivism, gave rise to nothing less than hyperbole resulting in: the derogation and denigration of the arts; an over-emphasis on certain forms of evidence, warrants, and thus, what constitutes knowledge (i.e. behaviourism); an arrogance that has seen us 'do' when we would have been best served by first asking 'should'.
In regards to this latter 'arrogance', I am reminded of Robert Oppenheimer's statement after witnessing the detonation of the first atomic bomb he helped develop: "I am become death, the Shatterer of Worlds" (quoting the Baghavad Gita).
That science is still controversial, reasonably or not, is indicative of its challenge to human understanding. Science is one way of seeing, and thus understanding, the world around us. It is more (and less) than simply a 'worldview', but it is often seen as a direct challenge to others' worldviews. As such, although science really is a method of pursuit, it would be naive to hold that its' results do not impact how we see the world.
Such as it is today, so it has been for most of human history as evident in that we remember the names of Plato and Aristotle, but have mostly forgotten Lucretius.
Lucretius' writings were part of the movement away from a more super-natural and super-stituous way of viewing the world toward a more natural--that is empirical--means of viewing the world. It is perhaps important to note that what Lucretius', et al, were doing in this period is better described as 'natural philosophy' than the more 16th century 'natural science'.
What we're witnessing in Lucretius' time is what would eventually become the division between scientific and religious ways of viewing the world that we struggle with today.
The world of Homer and Hesiod did not distinguish myths from reality. The cosmogony of this period was understood, for example, to be that as described in Hesiod's, Theogeny. A distinction between fact and fiction did not exists as we understand it today.
Between the 7th to 6th centuries there is a period of separation or differentiation. Here, we can find the early stages of the separation between fact and fiction, although we must be careful to not take this too far. One can see the evolving place of the gods in comparing the story of Medea in Hesiod's, Theogeny to that of Eurpides re-telling, for example.
During this period factual (what would become prose) information is becoming more discursive, while fiction becomes to been as pleasure (poetry). The distinction is only in its genesis here, and it would be some time before we would see this distinction clearly.
As such, poetry as a means of understanding the world begins to become less 'serious'. Mythic understanding is still central, but it has become the domain of the discursive and what we can call, with caution, theological. At the same time, natural philosophy is also gaining in prominence. As we enter the period (c. 5th BCE) between Socrates and Aristotle, we can also begin to see a distinction being made between this 'theology' and that of 'natural philosophy'.
What is occurring during this period also is that natural philosophy is taking a decidedly inward turn. That is, to understand the world we're best served by understanding it internally (abstraction) to find the 'rules' and then to apply these to the world around us; that is, at the expense of our senses. As such, the senses will come to be viewed with more and more suspicion well into our own time (i.e. behaviourism). Equally, the arts--bound as they are to the senses--are moving more and more into the realm of pleasure (leisure).
In Epicurus' time, natural 'philosophy' is beginning to become a kind of natural 'science' in its emphasis on materialism. however, we must be careful to not make this distinction complete, let alone hold that this is how they would have seen it then. Epicurus is attempting to return the external world of observations to the fold of internal, abstract reasoning. And, he is not alone in doing so.
It should also be stated that although superstition is being removed from the stage, as it were, this is not a form of either secularism or atheism. Where Epicureans did not believe in divine providence (intervention) they did not deny the existence of gods (as Lucretius would clarify in making the gods of atoms, there were still gods nonetheless). The Stoics, who held wisdom to be the highest ideal, did believe in divine providence. Sophocles, who pursued knowledge via poetry and who also believed strongly in the gods, did not appear to believe in divine providence. The salvation offered by the Stoics and the Epicureans was to be sought predominantly through attaining wisdom via reasoning, and reasoning of the natural philosophy cum science.
What this illustrates is simply that this period of differentiation and the development of what would become natural science was not formalized in this period. That, as Lowenthal warned, is an artifact of the present.
Lucretius certainly can be seen as a man ahead of his time. His efforts to compliment the internally focused, yet abstracted, reasoning of the Socratic schools with that of observation were, indeed, visionary. They did not, however, come out of the blue; they were not, to use Joyce's term, epiphany. In fact, these insights were 'in the works', directly, as far back as the pre-Socratic Thales (the 'father of science'), c. 7th BCE. His students were equally important (and pre-Socratic): Pythagoras and Leucippus (c. 5th BCE).
This is not to take away from Lucretius, merely to warn us to avoid idolatry, if you will. (the irony here being Lucretius' possible idolatry of Epicurus' as seen in Book V, On the Nature of Things).
Lucretius genius is twofold, in my opinion. On the one hand, he manages to fuse the two, now relatively distinct, worlds of the discursive (fact, prose, serious) with that of the poetic (fictional, pleasurable) while demonstrating the power of his observational (external locus) method and the weaknesses of the abstract reasoning (internal locus). On the other hand, he is addressing his observations of the world as a means of ameliorating people's fears of death (and the "dread of punishment"; Bk.1, L.110); and, in so doing, providing a viable alternative to the monopoly that superstition has had on this question and domain.
In essence, his approach is an aggregate; it is syncretic. Given that this is a culture in crisis, or existing at least in a period of tumult and change, this move toward a unifying goal shouldn't come as a surprise. In fact, we could, rather tongue-in-cheek way granted, see it as a very Canadian thing to do (a 'middle way'). That the Epicurean 'school' also allowed women and non-Greeks should only provide more evidence of this approach, this worldview, as syncretic.
Simply to provide an analogy to illustrate my point, a similar approach is also seen in teachings of Lin Zhaoen who attempted to harmonize the teachings of Buddhism, Taoism, and Confucianism (remember Mencius)during the equally tumultuous 14th to 17th Century CE, Ming Dynasty, China.
Lucretius' observations that "nothing can be made from nothing" (Bk.1, l. 155), "nothing can be reduced to nothing" (Bk.1, l.235), or that "things that seem to perish utterly, do not" (Bk.1, l.263), and that "[a]ll things decompose/Back into the elemental particles from which they rose" (Bk.1, l.248-49), although quite insightful, should in no way be confused with, or compared directly to, either the 19th Century Laws of Thermdynamic, nor seen as direct precursors to Newtons Laws.
Equally, his observations that "there are particles/Which are but which cannot be seen" (Bk.1, 268-69) is not a prediction, or a species, or quantum physics.
To believe that Lucretius' observation even represent a direct line to the physics of the modern world is to demonstrate a misunderstanding or an ignorance (however honest) of both the advances in method that occurred during the scientific revolution as well as what constitutes evidence (let alone the need to demonstrate that evidence).
When Lucretius demonstrates his point regarding these unseen particles by comparing observations of the wind to that of water he is demonstrating not the existence of that which is not seen, rather the reason why one could deduce the possibility of such unseen things existence. It is a logical argument, not scientific proof. In fact, even within logic, this approach, can equally easily result in the logical error known as a post hoc ergo propter hoc; that is a coincidental correlation fallacy (it isn't here, but such a line of reasoning can fail in this way).
What is missing (or is at least insufficiently developed) in Lucretius' time is a method. Lucretius, and others, certainly are demonstrating an important component of what would become the scientific method: hypothesis and observation; but, this should not be confused with scientific knowledge as we understand it (even as far back as the 17th Century). In fact, in regards to the scientific method, 'observation' is actually 'systematic' observation; something still in development in Lucretius' time (there wasn't a single agreed upon 'system' as is evident in the competing schools).
Again, we're simply seeing Lucretius in his time so as to see him clearly. In no way should we construe clarification as undermining the value, the insight, and the part which people like Lucretius have played in the development of knowledge. To do so would be equally erroneous.
Some of the motivation to seek into the past, we have to admit, is to avoid the present. The proverbial 'good old days'; nostalgia.
In the past things may have seemed much simpler, but this is simply because of our unfamiliarity with it. The more we know of the past, the more we realize that it is no less complex, sophisticated, or dynamic than our own time; but it is different.
Another reason people commit the error of nostalgia and anachronism is because understanding the world today, in detail that is, requires highly specialized knowledge and training. It appears that although we're asking the same questions that we, as a species, have always asked, understanding the answer is, well, like trying to understand what people are saying when you're in a foreign country, where people are speaking a foreign language, and much around you is alien.
We see the end result of this in, for example, the 'debate' between the new creationism (aka 'intelligent design') and evolution. The challenge evolution (via science) has presented reaches far beyond understanding 'natural selection', 'environmental pressures', 'genetics', 'adaptive competency', etc. Evolution presents a direct assault (however unintentionally) on the questions: 'how did we get here', 'what is our purpose here', and so on. Further to this, the means to understanding the answers evolution provides--the theories, research findings, or terminology--are daunting even to those who do not question its validity.
Understanding, for example, Genesis is far more simple and more easily accessible, and comforting, than is understanding evolution (if such a thing is even possible).
Tension arises when the world view attempts to 'prove' itself to the method. The evidence for evolution is overwhelming, in both senses of the word. It has also stood to the challenges, although creation has stood for a long period of time, it has failed to meet even the most basic challenges to its claims. Evidence for creationism, in whatever its current manifestation, is simply unsound, soundly disproven, internally incoherent, and non-reproducible; neither, on even cursory inspection, does it provide a meaningful means to understanding the world.
The problem isn't between these as competing worldviews (sometimes called 'teaching to the controversy'). Science is a method whose findings impact how we view the observable, physical world. Religion (faith) is a means to understanding not how the world works, rather it is a means for people to access to make sense of the subjective, meta-physical world--therefore, its real competitor is philosophy. There's a reason why every major western (and beyond) religion holds some variation of a 'leap of faith'.
One thing I strongly believe we can learn directly from Lucretius comes in his syncretic goal; his attempt to unify the poetic with the prose. We do see aspects of this today in inter-disciplinary approaches; however, I think we're still doing a poor, and thus inefficient, job of bringing these two necessary parts back into equilibrium as the whole from which they were so unnaturally and unnecessarily severed.
Lucretius, in his time, soundly demonstrated that fact and fiction, poetry and prose, the discursive and the pleasurable, not only could be a whole, but should be a whole. Where science, for example, teaches us the 'how' of the world, the arts present us with perspectives into the 'why'. Separate we're less, in much the same way as Aristophanes suggested in his description of humans before Zeus cleaved us in two.
In seeking to unify we can look to the past, but with caution; equally, we must closely examine current attempts at unification that really amount to a return to superstition as seen in the 'quantum mysticism' movements of Deepak Chopra; or, in the attempts of scientific theists to reconcile religion with science--the two are mutually exclusive and inherently incompatible by their very definitions.
These, however, represent potential dangers and pitfalls to avoid and be aware of. However, like Lucretius almost two millennia ago, these dangers and pitfalls are no reason to cease to explore...
The historian, David Lowenthal, provides the following preparatory advice to those embarking upon such excursions: "The past is a foreign country whose features are shaped by today's predilections, its strangeness domesticated by our own preservation of its vestiges" (p. xvii, The Past is a Foreign Country).
On our map of the past we need be wary of that mysterious spot that read: "Here, be anachronisms."
The potential treasures of the past are a compelling draw for us, but we must be aware of the very real dangers such inquires into the past present. On the one hand, there's anachronism: an instance where we read into the past something from the present which either simply isn't there, or which may be present as such, but not simply so. Again, Lowenthal warns us that the "past thus conjured up is, to be sure, largely an artifact of the present" (p. xvi).
On the other hand, there's nostalgia. Here we harken back to the past in search of a better period of time as evidence of how we should resolve issues in the present. However, much is lost (forgotten) in the journey from past into the present; and, much of these attributes not only do not fit within a contemporary context, but are often regressive.
Certainly no one would deny that there is much to gain and to learn from the past. However, history as evidence must be viewed very cautiously. Sifting through the past requires close and rigorous analysis. So, like archaeology and paleontology, from vast stretches of land are distilled only tiny fragments emerge. What emerges are artifacts.
Lowenthal's book is amongst the best explorations into historiography because of his interest in finding insight into the past without privileging a single form of evidence, something historians are often wont to do. As we've seen recently from readings of Aeschylus, Euripides, and Sophocles we can read between the lines to gain some insight into the audiences and, thus, the worlds, within which these authors existed. But, we must do so with caution and being well aware of the short-comings and pitfalls of doing so.
Science (natural philosophy) has been with us for millennia; however, the scientific method (natural science), and its successes, have been with us for only several centuries. Since the 16th and 17th century 'scientific revolution', our knowledge and command of knowledge has exploded and advanced at a break neck pace. So, much so one could say that science is a victim of its own success. It is perhaps because of its explosive growth and success that science is still often misunderstood.
Science has been castigated as hubris, while being exalted as genius. It has been condemned as harmful, while being lauded as panacea. It has been attacked as hypocritical, while moving to fill in the gaps of our knowledge.
Equally, science's adherents have presented science over-enthusiastically; as panacea. Scientific determinism, and its corollary in logical positivism, gave rise to nothing less than hyperbole resulting in: the derogation and denigration of the arts; an over-emphasis on certain forms of evidence, warrants, and thus, what constitutes knowledge (i.e. behaviourism); an arrogance that has seen us 'do' when we would have been best served by first asking 'should'.
In regards to this latter 'arrogance', I am reminded of Robert Oppenheimer's statement after witnessing the detonation of the first atomic bomb he helped develop: "I am become death, the Shatterer of Worlds" (quoting the Baghavad Gita).
That science is still controversial, reasonably or not, is indicative of its challenge to human understanding. Science is one way of seeing, and thus understanding, the world around us. It is more (and less) than simply a 'worldview', but it is often seen as a direct challenge to others' worldviews. As such, although science really is a method of pursuit, it would be naive to hold that its' results do not impact how we see the world.
Such as it is today, so it has been for most of human history as evident in that we remember the names of Plato and Aristotle, but have mostly forgotten Lucretius.
Lucretius' writings were part of the movement away from a more super-natural and super-stituous way of viewing the world toward a more natural--that is empirical--means of viewing the world. It is perhaps important to note that what Lucretius', et al, were doing in this period is better described as 'natural philosophy' than the more 16th century 'natural science'.
What we're witnessing in Lucretius' time is what would eventually become the division between scientific and religious ways of viewing the world that we struggle with today.
The world of Homer and Hesiod did not distinguish myths from reality. The cosmogony of this period was understood, for example, to be that as described in Hesiod's, Theogeny. A distinction between fact and fiction did not exists as we understand it today.
Between the 7th to 6th centuries there is a period of separation or differentiation. Here, we can find the early stages of the separation between fact and fiction, although we must be careful to not take this too far. One can see the evolving place of the gods in comparing the story of Medea in Hesiod's, Theogeny to that of Eurpides re-telling, for example.
During this period factual (what would become prose) information is becoming more discursive, while fiction becomes to been as pleasure (poetry). The distinction is only in its genesis here, and it would be some time before we would see this distinction clearly.
As such, poetry as a means of understanding the world begins to become less 'serious'. Mythic understanding is still central, but it has become the domain of the discursive and what we can call, with caution, theological. At the same time, natural philosophy is also gaining in prominence. As we enter the period (c. 5th BCE) between Socrates and Aristotle, we can also begin to see a distinction being made between this 'theology' and that of 'natural philosophy'.
What is occurring during this period also is that natural philosophy is taking a decidedly inward turn. That is, to understand the world we're best served by understanding it internally (abstraction) to find the 'rules' and then to apply these to the world around us; that is, at the expense of our senses. As such, the senses will come to be viewed with more and more suspicion well into our own time (i.e. behaviourism). Equally, the arts--bound as they are to the senses--are moving more and more into the realm of pleasure (leisure).
In Epicurus' time, natural 'philosophy' is beginning to become a kind of natural 'science' in its emphasis on materialism. however, we must be careful to not make this distinction complete, let alone hold that this is how they would have seen it then. Epicurus is attempting to return the external world of observations to the fold of internal, abstract reasoning. And, he is not alone in doing so.
It should also be stated that although superstition is being removed from the stage, as it were, this is not a form of either secularism or atheism. Where Epicureans did not believe in divine providence (intervention) they did not deny the existence of gods (as Lucretius would clarify in making the gods of atoms, there were still gods nonetheless). The Stoics, who held wisdom to be the highest ideal, did believe in divine providence. Sophocles, who pursued knowledge via poetry and who also believed strongly in the gods, did not appear to believe in divine providence. The salvation offered by the Stoics and the Epicureans was to be sought predominantly through attaining wisdom via reasoning, and reasoning of the natural philosophy cum science.
What this illustrates is simply that this period of differentiation and the development of what would become natural science was not formalized in this period. That, as Lowenthal warned, is an artifact of the present.
Lucretius certainly can be seen as a man ahead of his time. His efforts to compliment the internally focused, yet abstracted, reasoning of the Socratic schools with that of observation were, indeed, visionary. They did not, however, come out of the blue; they were not, to use Joyce's term, epiphany. In fact, these insights were 'in the works', directly, as far back as the pre-Socratic Thales (the 'father of science'), c. 7th BCE. His students were equally important (and pre-Socratic): Pythagoras and Leucippus (c. 5th BCE).
This is not to take away from Lucretius, merely to warn us to avoid idolatry, if you will. (the irony here being Lucretius' possible idolatry of Epicurus' as seen in Book V, On the Nature of Things).
Lucretius genius is twofold, in my opinion. On the one hand, he manages to fuse the two, now relatively distinct, worlds of the discursive (fact, prose, serious) with that of the poetic (fictional, pleasurable) while demonstrating the power of his observational (external locus) method and the weaknesses of the abstract reasoning (internal locus). On the other hand, he is addressing his observations of the world as a means of ameliorating people's fears of death (and the "dread of punishment"; Bk.1, L.110); and, in so doing, providing a viable alternative to the monopoly that superstition has had on this question and domain.
In essence, his approach is an aggregate; it is syncretic. Given that this is a culture in crisis, or existing at least in a period of tumult and change, this move toward a unifying goal shouldn't come as a surprise. In fact, we could, rather tongue-in-cheek way granted, see it as a very Canadian thing to do (a 'middle way'). That the Epicurean 'school' also allowed women and non-Greeks should only provide more evidence of this approach, this worldview, as syncretic.
Simply to provide an analogy to illustrate my point, a similar approach is also seen in teachings of Lin Zhaoen who attempted to harmonize the teachings of Buddhism, Taoism, and Confucianism (remember Mencius)during the equally tumultuous 14th to 17th Century CE, Ming Dynasty, China.
Lucretius' observations that "nothing can be made from nothing" (Bk.1, l. 155), "nothing can be reduced to nothing" (Bk.1, l.235), or that "things that seem to perish utterly, do not" (Bk.1, l.263), and that "[a]ll things decompose/Back into the elemental particles from which they rose" (Bk.1, l.248-49), although quite insightful, should in no way be confused with, or compared directly to, either the 19th Century Laws of Thermdynamic, nor seen as direct precursors to Newtons Laws.
Equally, his observations that "there are particles/Which are but which cannot be seen" (Bk.1, 268-69) is not a prediction, or a species, or quantum physics.
To believe that Lucretius' observation even represent a direct line to the physics of the modern world is to demonstrate a misunderstanding or an ignorance (however honest) of both the advances in method that occurred during the scientific revolution as well as what constitutes evidence (let alone the need to demonstrate that evidence).
When Lucretius demonstrates his point regarding these unseen particles by comparing observations of the wind to that of water he is demonstrating not the existence of that which is not seen, rather the reason why one could deduce the possibility of such unseen things existence. It is a logical argument, not scientific proof. In fact, even within logic, this approach, can equally easily result in the logical error known as a post hoc ergo propter hoc; that is a coincidental correlation fallacy (it isn't here, but such a line of reasoning can fail in this way).
What is missing (or is at least insufficiently developed) in Lucretius' time is a method. Lucretius, and others, certainly are demonstrating an important component of what would become the scientific method: hypothesis and observation; but, this should not be confused with scientific knowledge as we understand it (even as far back as the 17th Century). In fact, in regards to the scientific method, 'observation' is actually 'systematic' observation; something still in development in Lucretius' time (there wasn't a single agreed upon 'system' as is evident in the competing schools).
Again, we're simply seeing Lucretius in his time so as to see him clearly. In no way should we construe clarification as undermining the value, the insight, and the part which people like Lucretius have played in the development of knowledge. To do so would be equally erroneous.
Some of the motivation to seek into the past, we have to admit, is to avoid the present. The proverbial 'good old days'; nostalgia.
In the past things may have seemed much simpler, but this is simply because of our unfamiliarity with it. The more we know of the past, the more we realize that it is no less complex, sophisticated, or dynamic than our own time; but it is different.
Another reason people commit the error of nostalgia and anachronism is because understanding the world today, in detail that is, requires highly specialized knowledge and training. It appears that although we're asking the same questions that we, as a species, have always asked, understanding the answer is, well, like trying to understand what people are saying when you're in a foreign country, where people are speaking a foreign language, and much around you is alien.
We see the end result of this in, for example, the 'debate' between the new creationism (aka 'intelligent design') and evolution. The challenge evolution (via science) has presented reaches far beyond understanding 'natural selection', 'environmental pressures', 'genetics', 'adaptive competency', etc. Evolution presents a direct assault (however unintentionally) on the questions: 'how did we get here', 'what is our purpose here', and so on. Further to this, the means to understanding the answers evolution provides--the theories, research findings, or terminology--are daunting even to those who do not question its validity.
Understanding, for example, Genesis is far more simple and more easily accessible, and comforting, than is understanding evolution (if such a thing is even possible).
Tension arises when the world view attempts to 'prove' itself to the method. The evidence for evolution is overwhelming, in both senses of the word. It has also stood to the challenges, although creation has stood for a long period of time, it has failed to meet even the most basic challenges to its claims. Evidence for creationism, in whatever its current manifestation, is simply unsound, soundly disproven, internally incoherent, and non-reproducible; neither, on even cursory inspection, does it provide a meaningful means to understanding the world.
The problem isn't between these as competing worldviews (sometimes called 'teaching to the controversy'). Science is a method whose findings impact how we view the observable, physical world. Religion (faith) is a means to understanding not how the world works, rather it is a means for people to access to make sense of the subjective, meta-physical world--therefore, its real competitor is philosophy. There's a reason why every major western (and beyond) religion holds some variation of a 'leap of faith'.
One thing I strongly believe we can learn directly from Lucretius comes in his syncretic goal; his attempt to unify the poetic with the prose. We do see aspects of this today in inter-disciplinary approaches; however, I think we're still doing a poor, and thus inefficient, job of bringing these two necessary parts back into equilibrium as the whole from which they were so unnaturally and unnecessarily severed.
Lucretius, in his time, soundly demonstrated that fact and fiction, poetry and prose, the discursive and the pleasurable, not only could be a whole, but should be a whole. Where science, for example, teaches us the 'how' of the world, the arts present us with perspectives into the 'why'. Separate we're less, in much the same way as Aristophanes suggested in his description of humans before Zeus cleaved us in two.
In seeking to unify we can look to the past, but with caution; equally, we must closely examine current attempts at unification that really amount to a return to superstition as seen in the 'quantum mysticism' movements of Deepak Chopra; or, in the attempts of scientific theists to reconcile religion with science--the two are mutually exclusive and inherently incompatible by their very definitions.
These, however, represent potential dangers and pitfalls to avoid and be aware of. However, like Lucretius almost two millennia ago, these dangers and pitfalls are no reason to cease to explore...
Mencius and Antigone
Again, just attempting to keep with chronology.
Will fill-in-the-blanks ASAP...famous last words...*sigh*
Will fill-in-the-blanks ASAP...famous last words...*sigh*
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