And, So It Begins...Thoughts on Reason and Passion

...Reason and Passion...

Notice the devilishly mis-leading use of the supposedly non-contrasting co-ordinating conjunction 'and'...Is this proof that grammarians are the minions of Satan..? Or, is it a case of my blog's namesake at work..?

Above, for example, I can provide a simple hyper-link to 'reason', but for 'passion', at the very least, I must distinguish between passion as emotion and passion as a philosophical concept.

A quick perusal of these two terms and we're immediately plunged into worlds of contrasts and dichotomies; sometimes in violent opposition, but almost exclusively polarized into camps.

I think it safe to say that not only do we come by polarizing honestly, but that it serves us to do so. To understand the world around us as well as our place within it--and amongst one another--we need to separate things, to name and identify them, so as to then understand the relationships between these things.

We learn by analogy, by referring one thing to another; by simile, metaphor, and allegory...even, by stereotype.

And, this has, for the most part, served us well; this heuristic approach.

Where it appears to fails us (ah, personification) occurs when we forget to put the artificially--however necessarily--parts back together again. The heuristic has not failed us, we have failed to fully and properly used the heuristic.

Sometimes the effect of this error--when we take something apart and forget to put it back together again--ends in one of the things becomes an Other.

Out of this, great suffering and harm has been inflicted by ourselves upon ourselves. But, let's not throw the proverbial baby out with the bath-water. Discarding an ill-used device only ignores the part we have played in it, and, ironically, this causes further harm. In so doing, we not only deny ourselves the device but also the opportunity to see into ourselves, to learn from our errors, to grow. By mis-placing the blame we enslave ourselves.

Furthermore, discarding an otherwise powerful device for a lesser one is also a colossal waste of time. At the danger of sounding like Mr. Spock: "It is inefficient. It is ill-logical." More to the point: it is digressive, if not regressive.

If one fails to read a compass properly, throwing away the compass is more than ill-advised.

Dichotomies, as such, are commonplace: 'good and evil', 'night and day', 'friends and foes', 'male and female', 'black and white', 'freedom and slavery'...'beginning and end'...

In a journey (cliches aside)--any journey--one need know where one is to know where one wishes to begin before knowing where one desires to end; however, it is only the most timid explorer whose 'journey' is seen only through the lines on a map; who myopically sees the 'start' and 'end' through longitudes and latitudes; who measures success through confirmation of place as determined via triangulation.

Here, there is no 'journey' at all. Remember: "All work and no play [made] Jack a dull boy..."

Yet a journey without preparation or goal is, equally, no journey at all. If one has no idea of where one is going, nor plan as to how to get there, he or she cannot lay claim to have found anything nor arrived anywhere, rather to have merely stumbled upon. "Second star to the right and straight on 'til morning" opens the journey of Peter and his companions to Neverland. It should also be remembered that Peter made this up to impress Wendy, and they only found Neverland because Neverland was looking for them....

Somewhere in between lies balance: somewhere between 'purpose and purposelessness'.

'Reason' and 'Passion' then are perhaps best seen as symbolic of something much larger than the sum of their parts, and certainly best understood far beyond their dictionary definitions. Individually, they are dissected only to be better understood.

We could call this 'exploratory surgery', I suppose.

We separate these two ideas so as to better understand them. We then move--converge--to re-assemble them. Out of this we hope to know--to have learned--something greater than that which we started with.

E.O Wilson referred to this as 'emergence'; and in history it is akin to conjuncture. Joyce simply called it 'epiphany'. It is the moment when we realize that, once reassembled, the thing is more than we had known, and more than we could ever have imagined. The whole is now greater.

Here, I am reminded of T.S. Eliot from Little Gidding: "We shall never cease from exploration/ And the end of all our exploring/Will be to arrive where we started/And know the place for the first time."

Yet, read the fine print: there will be struggle and tension in this project.  

It is the very tension between the 'known' and the 'unknown', the need to dissect tethered to the struggle to reassemble, and the necessity of not leaving well enough alone, where treasure hides: "Here there be dragons."

So: 'reason and passion', the Odd Couple, perhaps, but at least together again.

In re-assembling the two, and keeping the symbolic nature of each in mind, I found myself reminded of several images that, in coming to understand them, I also came to understand 'reason' and 'passion' a little better.

First, there is the Taoist symbol for the concept of Taiji (yin and yang), called the Taijitu:

The purpose of this symbol is to represent contrasting, yet inter-connected and inter-dependent, forces within the universe and, thus, within ourselves.

It is important to avoid the trap of seeing this symbol two-dimensionally and statically. It is better to imagine it as fluid, dynamic, ever-changing...even elusive.

By elusive I imagine myself trying to touch a point within the taijitu as akin to my attempt to understanding a concept, yet, when you are about to make physical contact the thing moves. It is still present, you can still see it, and you can certainly reach for it, but you can never fully make contact with it.

This isn't futile--quite the opposite. In inter-acting with it you come to connect with it, to engage it, to develop a relationship with it. This is, then, similar to relationships. As you get to know another person, you connect with them, you engage with them, you're developing a relationship with them--yet, you will never fully understand them, let alone become them. But, no one would see this dynamic as futile.

Clearly, this most common version of the symbol is neither the property of a specific worldview or religion anymore than it is to be understood and engaged with in such a static manner:

And, such adaptation and re-investigation, is no less meaningful than the so-called original.

Art is, after all, taking the commonplace and re-presenting it uncommonly--even shockingly--to force us into engaging with what we have forgotten or have taken for granted (my definition of art).


The second symbol is M.C Escher's "Humanity":

In this print we're presented with two all too common dichotomies: woman and man. The tension and contradiction of the Odd Couple pales in comparison! Yet, when you follow the 'rinds' in the hopes of finding the 'end' there is none: they are as inter-connected (notice the rind on their fore-head), as they are inter-dependent (one rind) upon one another.

Wrap them together and you have a whole; a complete being (I would like to believe that Escher would, if he were alive today, have absolutely no difficulty in presenting another version representing same-sex unions and marriages).

At the same time--viewed as they are disconnected--we can fill in the gaps to discern a complete individual yet, paradoxically, cannot do so without realizing that there are gaps. These 'gaps' are, perhaps, simply the recognition that even though we can identify ourselves, we can never completely identify ourselves.

Again, like the taijitu, we need to see this at once static and dynamic to understand my previous comment. When we stop time and see this as static and two-dimensional, we see the aforementioned inter-connectivity, inter-dependency, and incompleteness.

If we see this as dynamic (also), we see that not only can we never know ourselves completely (that is, in regards to the picture, see it without gaps), but that to do so is as impossible as it would be inadvisable. That is to say, we would have reached an 'end-game', or 'zero-sum' point. We'd cease to develop...I believe we call this death.

Seeing ourselves as 'complete' as such we'd have nowhere to go to. We must keep an eye on the past, yet not be prisoners to it; we must look to the future, yet not forget the past. If we exist too much in one or the other we're living a lie as it were--our identity, our perception of ourselves, would be false, or at least oblique and obscured.

The final symbolic image I am reminded of is also from Escher. It's called the Mobius Band, and it has many incarnations (and for good reason); it is also an excellent segue from the previous image:

And, so we emerge.

In Escher's pictures the concept of time is a paradox. It is sublime in "Humanity," but it is at the forefront in the Mobius Band.

Here, time is a double paradox. On one level, as a static picture, the picture--and time--are impossible. The picture represents movement, yet there is no movement. It also represents, two dimensionally, a paradoxically three-dimensional situation--equally impossible. Yet, there it is. The ants, painted upon a two-dimensional canvas, are above and below one another. They're going forward, but nowhere. They're doing so ad infinitum without ever actually moving.

Yet, the second level, we the viewers are the third dimension--possible and yet impossible. We, by our very engagement, are existing in an impossible situation. We're giving dimension, movement, and time to that which cannot posses any of these qualities, and yet it does.

Perhaps then not so much impossible, as improbable..?

Here, although in as much danger of going cross-eyed as Austin Powers was when faced with the potential of visiting himself when time-travelling, I hear Sherlock Holmes whispering into my consciousness: "How often have I said to you that when you have eliminated the impossible, whatever remains, however improbable, must be the truth?"

...Reason and Passion...night and day....good and evil....woman and man....things of little meaning alone.

But, combined, representative of unimaginable struggle highlighted by epiphanies unknown yet wonderous on a journey never-ending.

If we accept this, if we adjust it to reflect these perspectives, and if we remove the non-contrasting, co-ordinating conjunction, do we emerge with a new and more meaningful way of expressing what the paradoxical  inter-section of 'reason' and 'passion' is?

Or, do we already have a phrase for it?

Is this not a 'terrible beauty'..?

Why Did Orwell Focus So Intensely On Language? A Case Study.

Recently Andrew Sullivan posted a reader's response on his column, The Dish, on the internet website, The Daily Beast. The reader was responding to an article written by Reza Aslan, in The Washington Post, entitled "Harris, Hitchens, Dawkins, Dennett: Evangelical Atheists?"

Although the posted response on The Dish is, in fact, a good response, it allows two significant, albeit understandable, rhetorical errors to go unattested.

First, the reader's response perpetuates Aslan's conscious use of the loaded word: 'evangelical'; and, second, it misses the fact that Aslan presents these New Atheists not as they are, or as they speak for themselves elsewhere (clearly and prolifically), but rather as he sees fit. A logical fallacy known as the straw man.

In his original article Aslan indirectly suggested that these four noted (and, perhaps, notorious) atheist spokesmen were possibly being 'evangelical' in their approach to theism. In his response to Alsan's article, the reader (Sullivan provides no name) continues to use  the word 'evangelical'. 

Why should reader's care about this? 

Well, it must be understood that Reza Aslan’s original use of ‘evangelical’, referring to Richard Dawkins and the so-called ‘New Atheists’,  is not only unsound it is disingenuous. Further to this I would argue that the reader, in framing their response using Aslan's choice of words, is unwittingly giving him tacit approval of this otherwise unsubstantiated perspective.

Why do I say this?

The word, ‘evangelical’, almost singularly pertains, and refers, to Christianity, Christian—fundamentalist—doctrines, and, historically, to Lutheranism and Protestantism. I will qualify my use of ‘almost’ in a moment.

But first, I would suggest that the more accurate and honest word to use--from Aslan’s perspective, not my own--would be 'zealous'.

Now before someone jumps and cries "hypocrit," and points to the 'fact' that the root of the word ‘zealous’ stems from the religious ‘Zealots’, please be aware that the common belief that 'zealous' is of religious origin is actually--at least historically and etymologically—incorrect. The root of the word ‘zealous’ comes from the Greek and refers to jealousy (zēlos) and those who act on jealousy or are jealous (zēloō). The 'Zealots' came later, in the 1st Century. Their name--in its proper noun form--comes from the word zelotes,

So, if one looks up the term 'zealous' in any dictionary, encyclopedia, etc., they'll find the religious use of the word appears amongst the last entries, if they are present AT ALL.

Why does the place of the entry matter? 

Well, it matters because entries are presented beginning with the most common usage of the word to the least common (sometimes archaic) usage.

So, if we compare the entries for ‘zealous’ to the entry on 'evangelical' it becomes quickly apparent that the religious aspects (both denotative and connotative) of the word ‘evangelical’ is prominent and dominant whereas it is last, if present at all, for the entry for ‘zealous’.

And, to be clear, in looking at the entry via a dictionary or an encyclopedia we’re not ascribing to a 'prescriptive' grammar, rather, its ‘descriptive’ use in the English language. That is to say, by referring to the dictionary or encyclopedia I’m doing so out of convenience and reference. Even the conservative Oxford English Dictionary has moved from being prescriptive (the dictionary as authority) to descriptive (dictionary as a reflection of living languages).

Why is this relevant? What is, to paraphrase Shakespeare, after all  in a word?

Simply this: understanding the common usages of terms that have been consciously chosen and crafted provides insight into the motivations of those who crafted them. This is the realm of formal rhetoric. And, I think it safe to say that the motivation behind Aslan's original choice and use of ‘evangelical’ is simply to present Dawkins and the ‘New Atheists’ as being hypocritical or their position as being internally contradictory. In essence, Aslan has created a very sophisticated ‘straw man’. A straw man being  a rhetorical device where opponent ‘A’ presents a weak version of the position of ‘B’ so as to then attack ‘B’s’ position. Note, however, that ‘B’ hasn’t presented his or her argument at all. This, then, is also an example of what the linguist George Lakoff calls ‘framing’.

And, although this is a rhetorical trick and is disingenuous, it is also very effective--especially if left unaddressed (in the previous example, by ‘B’).

I believe this is exactly the situation that the reader has unwittingly stepped into in their response to Reza Aslan.

Aslan has framed the arguments and, in so doing, presents Dawkins and the ‘New Atheists’ not as they are, rather as he sees them and, perhaps, simply as he wishes the reader's to see them. That is to say, he presents these ‘New Atheists’ as straw men. Here Aslan, a theologian, is framing not only the language or the argument, but also the position of the ‘New Atheists’ themselves. He is, then, setting the parameters of the debate to highlight only that which suits his purposes. Consequently, by using Aslan's 'evangelical', the reader is unwittingly promoting Aslan’s—and Aslan’s alone-- perspective of Dawkins and the New Atheists.

The effect of this, and what makes it such a powerful—however disingenuous—tactic, is that it sets the limits of not only what will be included in the ‘debate’ but such a tactic also allows him to construct what casual observers will take away from the debate.

This is exactly Orwell's thesis in his seminal "Politics and theEnglish Language." Orwell's observation were based not on theory, but from his first-hand and real world experiences, as well as their tragic applications in the hands of Hitler and Goebbels. This is the concept known as the 'Big Lie'. [I've written at length about this here: http://evidencebasedteacher.blogspot.com/2010/08/2-2​-5.html]

 
To be fair, I’m not trying to compare Aslan to either Hitler or Goebbels!

More recently, we've witnessed the success of these tactics in the Republicans sound thrashing of the Democrats at the hands George W. Bush, and then, the Democrats failure to make head-way during the run-up to Dubiya's second term (the Democrats, by the way, brought in George Lakoff to help their campaign approach).

So, to return to the point, let's be 100% clear: what Aslan is doing is both an example of framing and creating a straw man of the so-called New Atheists.

So, what could the reader have done?

Well, he or she could consider quoting Dawkins or  any of the New Atheists directly, or he or she could choose less loaded—more representative—words to refer to their approach. 

This is, of course, an issue of editorial or authorial choice. And, as such, there are options readily available to writers as to how to do this while maintaining a specific tone or attitude toward your topic. 

For example, if the reader wished to present the New Atheists more neutrally, then choosing words like ardent, fervent, enthusiastic, or passionate would more accurately and genuinely reflect that neutrality. 

If, however, the writer believes that these New Atheists are too ardent--perhaps overzealous..?--in their approach yet wishes maintain fairness and balance, then a word like zealous is fine.

The only way to defeat such an approach is simply to be aware of, and thereby not allow yourself to fall prey to, such tactics.

This, of course, is much easier said than done!

---

Inspiration and the Internet

Recently I was perusing, as I often do, Corey Doctrow's website, boingboing, when I came across this new video and internet community collaboration project hosted by Google Chrome.

Called "The Wilderness Downtown," it is an interactive film written and directed by Chris Milk (using Arcade Fire's "We Used To Wait"). It stands as an amazing example of the addition to the definition of what "community" is as explored on the internet.

I was both emotionally engaged and inspired by this project: I was moved by it.

This isn't the first time, but where this is a blog that I'm using to try and understand the intersection between narrative, mythology, and humanity, I find myself thinking a bit--for me--more clearly about the why.

I cannot recall the first time I was moved, inspired, and felt a sense of connectedness via projects on the web, but I thought I'd list a few here to give you a sense of what I mean...they're in no order...I'd suggest you take the time to actually watch or re-watch them before reading on:


MadV: his original video challenge in "One World" grew into YouTubes most responded to videos...EVER, spawing:  "The Message" and "You Are Not Alone" Which, in turn, inspired many honest replicas, responses, and compilations in tribute to the idea. One World is now--and has been for some time--a Facebook site from the creator of MadV

"There are more things in heaven and earth, Horatio, than are dreamt of in your philosophy."

This quote  is often too narrowly understood as meaning (and only meaning) that Horatio, upon seeing the ghost of Hamlet's father, has his educated world turned on its head. Out of this, then, skeptics often have to endure this quote from woo-ers, as if it is either relevant to, or made a point within, an anti-woo argument.

First things first, quoting someone else is, then, some one else's point and not your own; so, if you're going to use some one else's work then at least be sure it is (a) in, not out of, context and (b) being presented faithfully to the point at hand.

In the case of Shakespeare's Hamlet and the woo/anti-woo conversation, often neither (a) nor (b) is met.

It is rarely the case that this quote is used in context. First, Shakespeare is fiction. And, unless you live under a rock, or are a fanatical determinist or positivist, yes, fiction is often meaningful, just as a metaphor is meaningful in explaining, or making, a point. However, presenting a metaphor--figurative language--as literal is wrong. Figurative language--beyond the beauty and music of language--is a heuristic, or rhetorical (beyond my discussion here), device. That is to say, it is a means to an ends, not an ends itself.

The world of fiction is, indeed, important and meaningful to human beings--it is also often complementary to science and critical thinking, not in competition with them. The world of fiction is, obviously, the world of indirect, figurative meanings; a 'world', technically speaking, where truth is secondary to verisimilitude, or believability.

For example, no one sane sees anything real (literal) in Tolkien's Lord of the Rings. Sadly (perhaps, or perhaps not) there are no Hobbits, Wizards, or elves and, thankfully no Uruk-hai, Balrogs, or cave trolls. Yet, to say that there is not something meaningful in his epic is equally erroneous. Simply put, the LotR is about relationships, friendships, self-sacrifice, and overcoming adversity. That is, the world of morals, virtues, and ideals.

Stories, like Tolkien's, allow us to engage with such ideas because such ideas are not simply, or easily, understood only through reasoning (it would, in fact, be a very dull world if it were). But, they are mis-judged when they are judged through the lens of 'truth' (epistemologically speaking--warts and all). They are equally mis-read when taken as literal.

So, to return to Shakespeare, when we use Hamlet's comment to Horatio as evidence (the literal world of truth-seeking) we are using it out of context.

As an important aside, it should also be noted that, because this is fiction, the actual purpose of this whole scene, within which this is just one quote, speaks not only to the continuity of dialogue for this scene but, much more importantly, is part of the larger plot--that is, it is a dramatic, not factual (even to the world of the characters) device. This is to say, the purpose of the quote was not an instance of Shakespeare slyly staking out his attitude toward ghosts (anachronistic reading aside), rather to propel the plot forward while uniting it with events past. It is, actually, a rather crude (even for then) deus ex machina device.

In this last sense then, a simple response to the woo-er using it is simply to say they are missing the forest through the trees in analyzing a single, relatively unimportant, quote at the expense of the larger, much more important, plot point and foreshadowing. In a phrase, they're mis-reading the scene.

Second, often the speakers meaning when using this quote is too declarative in meaning and too narrow in definition. Certainly, a person would not be wrong if they analyzed this quote and said that it is a reflection of Hamlet (equally educated and reasonable, if slightly depressed, a person as Horatio), who has the advantage of already seeing and inter-acting with his father's ghost previously (and before Horatio), as now one who accepts that there are ghosts and, perhaps, an other-world.

But this is only one of several ways to read this quote (and, as is the sign of any great literature or art, there are a myriad of ways of interpreting their works--granted, there are also limitations).

For one, as Frank Kermode has explained, the use of "your" in Middle English is more akin to our use of the word as 'the', or the more vulgar 'yer'. Therefore, knowing/accepting this, Hamlet's use of "your" can be equally understood as recognizing Horatio's (and, possibly, his own)  limits of logic in understanding what they see, but not at the expense of what they know (remember, Hamlet has already explained to Horatio what he thinks vis-a-vis the murder of his father). That is to say, it could equally be read as Hamlet saying, after Horatio's clear surprise in 'seeing' a ghost: "Whoa, dude, chill. Reason can probably explain this, but for right now let's just move the plot forward."

For another, if we read this a bit more psycho-analytically, this event is easily seen as a manifestation of group projection. That is, every one in Hamlet's circle knows who's guilty, but is equally aware of the complexity of the solution and, more drastic, the consequences. The ghost of Hamlet's father is symbolic; a manifestation of the collective consciousness, if you will--much in the same way that young men and women willfully go to war to possibly die and/or be maimed for 'a cause' as represented by the flag, your regiment's cap badge/honour, for freedom, etc. You cannot see honour, but many a Patricia has died to keep the ric-a-dam-doo from falling into enemy hands (as did Napoleon's soldiers to keep the eagle). Everyone knows it's just a flag, but it is imbued, and represents, much more because we need it to. This does not make it anymore than a flag, or more (or less) 'real'.

Overall, some one using this quote--or this kind of quote--is, on the one hand, comparing apples and oranges at the expense of the apples and oranges. If you want to make a point about apples--which every one understands as an apple--then compare it to apples, a metaphor or allegory to explain your point is just, and simply, unnecessarily obfuscating, and confusing, the point at hand. On the other hand, by literally interpreting the figurative you are gutting  the power (not too mention beauty) of the latter. Figurative language is about wonder and complexity that is the human condition; it is equally about attempting to understand that which is both experienced by all of us, yet understood only individually (if it is to have meaning). Therefore, it is a starting point,not an end point. It is, at least to a point, malleable and dynamic not rigidly defined and static.

When you analyze art you open a beautiful can o' worms. And you'll only fully understand it one day after the day you die (that's a joke, not a tip o' the hat to John Edwards et al). This is to say, it is something that, in engaging, discussing, and agreeing and disagreeing about ideas, you come to understand not the thing, rather yourself (and those around you) a little better.

If, however, you use art to find the 'answer', you won't and you never will.

Let science and critical thinking engage with the physical world and art the meta-physical (I use this term in a popular not technical way). Critical thinking, for example, requires, and is a compliment to, creative thinking. Humans also need and desire methods to understand the details of how a thing works (science and critical thinking) as well as a reason or method in understanding why we're here and what we're to do while here.

These approaches are complimentary ways of understanding our world, our-selves, each other, and our individual and shared experiences with and in it.

Science can tell you something about the stars, just as science fiction can tell you something about why we're so enthralled by, and motivated toward, them. One chose one over the other at the expense of both..?

The crucial importance of being aware of wonder.

I watched an interesting video on BoingBoing today about a mother chimpanzee's reaction to finding her 16 month old baby had died.

Its poignant and heart-wrenching to watch, of course, but it also made me think of how we use language. It should come as no shock that language is an extension and representation of both our rational (reasoning) and irrational (emotional) selves.

I separate these artificially and simply for heuristic reasons--I am not being reductionist; and, although I am dualistic, I am doing so consciously for the sake of illustrating a point.

From one perspective, I think this video illustrates how we err when we take figures of speech like metaphors, personification, and anthropormorphizations too literally. What I mean by this is simply, if we refer back to the video, most viewers would describe her responses using terms like 'grief', ' a sense of loss', 'pain, and so on; however, if we attribute the actions of the chimpanzee mother as such some would say that we're anthropomorphizing.

Which, since primate research done by the likes of Dianne Fossey, Jane Goodall, and Biruté Galdikas, is not necessarily inaccurate. As Dutch Primatologist Frans de Waal noted: "To endow animals with human emotions has long been a scientific taboo. But if we do not, we risk missing something fundamental, about both animals and us."

This being said, we certainly can--and often do--take such figurative devices too far, and, in doing so, do commit an error. This can be seen, for example, when we give animals names and expect them to respond to them (although they may respond to the sound).

Anthropomorphizing also serves distinct literary purposes as seen in Mark Twain's, "A Dog's Tale" (no doubt also a conscious homonymic pun knowing Twain); or, Geroge Orwell's Animal Farm. Where very often anthropmorphzing is relegated to children's (didactic) tales and so-called serious literature that utilizes the same approach is given the more serious title of 'allegory'; yet, both of these examples anthropomorphise none-the-less.










In art, we can see such aspects of visual anthropmorphizing in the satirical representation (above) of Diego Velázquez's Las Meninas (below).












We may also go too far the other way when we deny the benefits of anthropomorphizing as a heroic extension of empathy. Again, if we return to the video of the mourning chimpanzee mother, we would, I believe, do ourselves a disservice if we imagine that emotion is reserved only for our species.

Equally so, personification. In today's society material things are often imbued with such importance so as to be placed above others within our species; when we judge the 'worth' of an individual in economic terms; or, justify denying tools to alleviate suffering based on an abstract (thereby artificial) financial matrix in the form of socio-economic indicators.

Furthermore, we can develop an unhealthy nostalgia for objects, especially when these objects are in the form of symbols. We can see this in even the seemingly most benign patriotism where we hold nations as being analogous to families or individual's, sometimes in need of self-defence in the form of war; or, when we describe foreign relations in the terms of relationships, especially if we wish to 'divorce'.

However, if we swing too far to the other side; if we deny meaning and emotion can imbued upon things we are in danger of cutting ourselves off from memories via things owned or cherished by those whom we've loved, yet lost.

This reminds me of a passage from Jo Walton's novel, Among Others. In one scene the protagonist, Morwenna (Mori) is contemplating the nature of things--those things not ours, and the effect of not having 'our' things may have upon us:

"...we don't have our own plates, or own knives or forks or cups. Like most of what we use, they're communal. they're handed out at random. There's no chance for anything to become imbued, to come alive through fondness. Nothing here is aware, no chair, no cup. Nobody can get fond of anything.
At Home I walked through a haze of belongings that knew, at least vaguely, who they belonged to. Grampar's chair resented anyone else sitting on it as much as he did himself. Gramma's shirts and jumpers adjusted themselves to hide her missing breast. My mother's shoes positively vibrated with consciousness. Our toys looked out for us. There was a potato knife in the kitchen that Gramma couldn't use. It was an ordinary enough brown-handled thing, but she'd cut herself with it once, and ever after it wanted more of her blood. If I rummaged through the kitchen drawer, I could feel it brooding. After she died, that faded. Then there were the coffee spoons, rarely used, tiny, a wedding present. They were made of silver, and they knew themselves superior to everything else and special.
None of these things did anything. The coffee spoons didn't stir the coffee without being held or anything. They didn't have conversations with the sugar tongs about who was most cherished. (We always felt they might at any moment.) I suppose what they really did was psychological. They confirmed the past, they connected everything, they were threads in the tapestry. Here there is no tapestry, we jangle about separately" (p. 56).

Which brings me to the crux of my point: that to live full and meaningful lives we must be prepared to balance between the reasoning and rational world without losing sight of the emotional and irrational world; for one without the other is impossible.

This is, I believe, the subtle and deeper lesson in Carl Sagan's advice that we "be aware of wonder." The world around us is physical and follows the rules (guidelines if you like) of the physical; whereas we, who inhabit the world, who exist within the physical, are not prisoners to it because we are meta-physical creatures--the Yin, to the physical's Yang, if you will. In fact, we are both at once.

Therefore, it would seem that we are necessarily incomplete when we swing too far literal or too far figurative; when what we need is a balance between to the two.

So, we do ourselves a benefit--we exercise our meta-physical capacity--when we see the chimpanzee mother suffering, grieving. Just as we do ourselves a benefit by, as Mori indicated, we personify things because "[t]hey confirm the past, they connected everything, they [are the] threads in the tapestry," and if we fail to do so, if we are too literal, we leave ourselves a little more barren.

In other words, we must strive to be Menschliches, Allzumenschliches ("human, all too human").

I think we need to add to our lexicon of fallacies several new ones: the metaphorical fallacy: believing 'A' actually is 'B'; the personification fallacy: on the one hand, believing the object--a 'thing'--is a subject and, on the other, failing to see the importance of these 'things' within our "tapestry"; and, the anthropomorphization fallacy: the error in believing that our species alone can suffer, feel pain at loss, and grieve.

I think the danger in failing to see the imbued--the magical--diminishes us; and, in so doing, allows us to diminish each other.

I also believe that to do so is to accept plurality: the holding of two--potentially contradictory--thoughts in our minds at once. This is our strength, not our weakness. To give prominence to the literal over the figurative (or vice versa) is too unnaturally sever the whole at the expense of that whole. That is: to see wonder in the literal as well as in the figurative; to believe in the importance of stories--the meta-physical--as equally important to science--the physical, so we may see the world for the beautiful--often paradoxical--mystery that it holds.

Are things as bad as we tend to think...

I may be an optimist, but I'm hardly naive. I believe optimism is the only tenable attitude toward life: pessimism is naive and unfounded; cynicism is apathetic bordering on cowardly. Being optimistic isn't seeing the world through the proverbial rose coloured glasses, but it is a correction to the myopia and hidden privilege that comes in, for example, forms of privilege via post-modernism and the naivety of cultural relativism.

I've seen more of the world than most people, and when it was at its worst. I've seen nature's disasters, but more human crafted ones. I've seen great human cruelty, but I've also seen great human courage (which rarely looks like we expect it to look). Once, upon returning from the madness that was the ethnic cleansing, murder, and abysmal acts of human cruelty that was the former-Yugoslavia (c. 1993) my father--a former fire-rescue fire fighter--asked me how I could retain my 'positive' outlook. My response, an epiphany even to me, was simply: "In the worst of human suffering you will see the best of the human spirit."

And, many years later, I still hold to this as a truth.

As I said, I'm not naive. I know things are horrible in the world, but one of the things I've realized in studying history and, more importantly, from actually being to these places, is that the world is better off now even for the worst off of us, than it was for many of the best off several hundred years ago (and much, much better  than 500+ years ago).

History clearly indicates this, but now statistics does too. This video, from BBC Four, titled "200 Countries, 200 Years, In Four Minutes," drives this point home.

As a final note, this isn't suggesting there isn't great wrongs to be righted, injustices to be fought, nor improvements to be made--in fact, saying such things is really a kinda of "No shit, Sherlock" moment than a meaningful or insightful point.

This video simply highlights that pessimism, cynicism, and such are, as I said, as untenable as they are unhelpful.

Inherent Problems With Dualistic Narratives

"Either you are with us, or you are with the terrorists."

                                                                George W. Bush
                                                                

Of course, former U.S. President, George W. Bush was not the first person (nor will he be the last) to include such black and white statements within a national narrative. Such 'false dichotomies' have been part of the public discourse for as long as language and rhetoric have been a part of the human capacity. 

Such examples are just simply cases of logical fallacies, they are also instances of what linguist George Lakoff terms 'framing'. When one frames a statement or question the speaker is setting the parameters within which the listener exists. If listeners are not cognizant of such rhetorical tactics it is easy for us to find ourselves with, in this case, only the two choices we are presented: help us; or, if you don't, you're helping the terrorists. 

Upon reflection, listeners may come to realize that the situation is far more complicated than the 'either/or' in which it was framed...unfortunately, it is often too late to temper the effect of the narratives.

In most complex situations and circumstances the simple answer is rarely the best--or only--answer, however much we may wish it was. Truth be told, most complex situations are best described as shades of grey: they are plural.
  
Simply put, plurality is the ability to hold two or more--possibly contradictory--thoughts in our minds at once. Plurality then is a recognition of several tings: the complexity of the world-at-large; the complexity of the situations and circumstances humans often exist within in-the-world; and, the combined fact that there is usually more than one perspective as well as more than one or two possible solutions.

Therefore, we have a better chance of understanding the world, and our place in it, if we accept it as a murky grey instead of black and white. It is also worth noting that the latter rarely provides meaningful, equitable, or sustainable solutions, nor does it it address root causes to current situations. It is, in a phrase, an overly simplistic observation of the world.

Problems framed within a dualistic (black and white) narrative tend toward a competitive (neo-liberal) and hierarchical (religion based) view of human nature. On the one side, there is the neo-liberal model that privileges 'free markets' and 'private enterprises'. A competitive model is one that promotes an 'us' versus 'them' mentality over a more collaborative or community oriented one. This is also sometimes referred to as 'social Darwinsim'; a 'survival of the fittest narrative. Here is where we often see survival metaphors. On the other side, is some form of what is called the Puritan, or Protestant, Work Ethic. This belief holds that a persons 'success' is determined singularly through the hard work they devote to it. Just such a conflict existed in the competing narratives surrounding work and success in Victorian literature as seen in, for example, Charles Dickens' Hard Times, or Samuel Butler's, The Way of All Flesh.

When situations and circumstances are viewed from such a competitive model (and, by extensions the 'them' who exist in those situations and circumstances) then 'we' frame the solutions as a narrative where there are 'winners' and 'losers'; and, so, we also return to the survival metaphors when we hold that this is 'just the way the world works' (again, a form of social Darwinism...however unfair and inaccurate to Darwin). The danger gere, as should be obvious, is that the metaphors are seen as literal, or true.

Therefore, if we accept this framed narrative, and its ready-made (read: framed) solutions, we are more likely to accept that, in life, some will 'win' and some will 'lose'. Thereby, supporting whatever drastic responses deemed fit so as to sustain our survival over 'theirs' as, sadly and tragically, necessary. We then will go our merry way believing equilibrium has been restored, the problems have been 'solved' while creating a sub-narrative that allows us to ignore the (often un-necessary) suffering caused to 'them' in the process. 

In the worst case scenarios--often situations where we perceive ourselves to be in dire circumstances--we will see the actions against 'them' as necessary in this 'dog eat dog' world. It may be tragic, but we console ourselves in narratives that suggest: "it is the way of things..;" or, "they had it coming..;"or, "they should have known better..,"; or, "what do you expect from those people..."

 Often those who cannot stomach such a position or attitude will go too far into the realm of some form of relativism or subjectivism. In the case of the former, such people will treat all cultures or approaches as having equal merit or rights as any other irrespective of what egregious wrongs are being committed; as if there are no universal rights or ethics. Therefore, for example, the sentence of stoning a person to death for adultery should be considered relative to that context: who are 'we' to determine what is right and wrong. A position that should be untenable (and unpalatable) on face value to most people.

In the latter sense, that of subjectivism, which is an extension of relativism, we see people question whether there can even be 'right' and 'wrong'. These positions are as ill-advised as they are ill-informed. Such moral subjectivity can--and often does, in fact--lead to terrible cruelty and suffering going on unabated to the most vulnerable and marginalized of a society. Furthermore, they are positions that are capitalized upon by those who would hide such cruelty and suffering under nomenclature like 'relativism', 'subjectivity', or 'sovereignty'.

There is, however, a middle ground: that of pluralism.

To understand pluralism we must first recognize what 'relativism' is, and is not. Relativism in social sciences does not allow for obvious and egregious wrongs to be accepted, rather it is an observational stand point one takes in attempting to understand the attitude toward, and approach to, certain cultural practices and traditions. This is to say, for example, that an anthropologist will, when observing a culture, do his or her best to observe the norms and practices of a culture within that culture's own contexts; and, often, only for the purpose of clarity. As a corollary, if our anthropological observer insinuates his or her own cultural norms and practices--of, say, law or justice--onto their observations of another culture, then those observations are, by definition, corrupted, inaccurate, and--mot likely--worthless.

It is not, however, the case that our anthropologist must then leave that culture's practices as they are--granted how he or she would go about dealing with, say, human rights abuses (think: female genital mutilation) must be done in ways that are educational, meaningful (versus authoritarian or militaristic), and sustainable to that culture. That is to say, if that culture's narrative is to be changed the change must make sense to that culture--and this takes time, to say the least. Changes must also be, and be seen as, fair, reasonable, and balanced...certainly no easy task.

Take, for example, the issue of same sex marriage. By allowing groups with clear ideological or doctrinal agendas to frame the debate we have to accept that (a) there is a right and wrong (i.e. black and white) version of marriage, and that (b) we, the masses, must choose only between the options presented to us (and, often, are we really even given much of a choice?). This is done so that normalcy, dignity, and society is 'saved' from those who would 'attack our way of life'.

Again, note the underlying competitive model: choices are either 'right' or 'wrong'. There is also an implicit (if not explicit) hierarchy at work here, let alone an overly simplistic view of, in this case, human emotions (for what's really at the core here is who it is that one can properly--or naturally--'love').

However, if we view the species from a more humble perspective (because, let's be honest, those who view it from a black and white--or conservative--perspective see themselves as having all the answers. This is because they believe there are right and wrong answers, usually as stated in a religious doctrine or text) then we come to realize that 'our' perspective is not the only perspective; that is to say, 'our' view is not necessarily a complete one. 

It is better then to see the world as a large pie-chart where, say, 1000 years ago only a few pieces of the pie were known (or even thought about); then, 500 years ago we added a few more pieces, but there were still many 'blank' spots in the overall pie dish, if you will. Today we can say that we've filled in more pieces than there were, say, 500 or 1000 thousand years ago (this isn't suggesting we're 'better' by the way); however, there are still blank spots even in our pie dish as anyone would expect when viewing a dynamic process.

Such a perspective allows for us to see practices and traditions as acceptable or non-acceptable. For example, perhaps 1000 years ago having a 12 year old bride was not only acceptable, but necessary relative to the conditions of the time. This should not be a surprise when we consider that the average life span of any individual was about 40-45 years. Furthermore, the sooner one had a larger family, the sooner one had labour and thus increased the likelihood of survival.

These may have been the circumstances then, but they are not the circumstances now (and, even if they are, this solution is not a viable one), so judgment upon them is irrelevant (but not without use). In fact, to judge then by now is to participate in the historical and logical fallacy of anachronism. The goal of history is to create a narrative that corresponds to evidence so as to best understand practices and behavior of the past; to understand the past, not to recreate it (thus the danger of nostalgia, or 'the good ole days' belief).

So, today, we should not see ourselves as better, smarter, or more ethical than those of the past, although we can certainly see life as 'better', but this is relative. 

Advances in health-care, jurisprudence, society, and a myriad of other factors--obvious and not--have allowed us, for example, to have a life span that doubles that of our kin from 1000 years ago. Therefore, the pressure of survival does not apply to us today if, say, one wants a 12 year old bride. Furthermore, research into child development have illustrated to us that heaping on such responsibilities, both physical and mental, is, at best, counter-productive--not only to the child, but to society at-large. Finally, advances in technology have allowed longer growing seasons, and longer growing seasons in otherwise hostile terrain, greater agrarian yields, significant reductions in disease--to crops and to humans--among many other advances. So, the weight of survival--for most of the world (believe it or not)--is not as exigent as it once was. Therefore, the practices and traditions (and narratives) of the past do not suit the conditions of today.

All in all then, the need for (or even simply practice of) child brides is, literally, a thing of the past. So, if one observes such practices in another culture today--however relative to that culture--one certainly can (and should) determine said practices as being unsuitable to today, if not downright unacceptable.

The same situation can be applied to same-sex marriage. In this day and age one does not have to agree with two people of the same sex being 'married', but we do have to allow for it if we are to hold to our beliefs in the rights of others: live and let live, so the saying goes. Certainly a better position will be one where people understand that 'love knows no bounds', but we are in a state of changing the narrative (a paradigm shift) as we speak. Such an enlightened narrative is a thing to come...hopefully, that is.

Also, we need not accept the frame that, on the one hand, supports the dated notion that such a union is un-natural and/or un-holy; neither should we have to accept that 'we' are, by virtue of allowing such un-holy or un-natural unions, undermining the 'institution of marriage' or of the 'family'. To hold to such notions is to hold to a historical and ideologically bound narrative; that is to say: a stagnant one. In fact, if we do hold to either institutions as defined by such notions we are relegating ourselves to the past.

There isn't a 'correct' definition of marriage--although there may be acceptable and no-acceptable versions (same-sex does not fall into this category)--rather, there is a new addition to our pie-chart...this is, whether one wishes to accept it nor not, what we mean when we speak of progress.

We must understand that by accepting the frustration, instability, and murkiness of plurality we are accepting that (a) we don't know everything and (b) we can accept change without (c) destroying 'our' values by demeaning 'theirs'...in essence, when we add to the empty pieces in the pie dish we're acting both ethically, humanely, and accepting that change occurs...again, whether we like it or not. 

This is the nature of the word 'dynamic'; a word that cannot abide by the static nature of dualism.
 
We also have to be on guard--as it were--for these circumstances in the literature of the past. 

Just as the anthropologist we discussed observes a culture's practices in an honestly relative way, so to must we read the narratives of literature equally honestly and critically. Northrop Frye speaks to just this when, in The Great Code: The Bible and Literature, he notes that to read the Bible literally is to read it (a) out of context, and then (b) to misread it (and, thus, misunderstand its worth) as a whole. 

The same is to be said of contemporary readings of any cosmogonic myths. We are mis-reading them if we read them as having something to say--specifically and literally--to today's sciences. This is a condition we see often in alternative medicine's language of 'ancient wisdom'. 

Not only is this, then, a misreading, but it does a disservice to, on the one hand, the purpose of the texts to the audiences of the past (and how they read, understood, used, and made it meaningful), but also, on the other hand, to the advances, knowledge, and uses of today's sciences. In this latter sense, certainly ancient texts have both purpose and meaning, but that meaning is relegated to the realm of the metaphorical and, thus, meta-physical.

We read ancient texts and narratives literally at our peril and at the expense of the knowledge they contain when we read it literally. In essence, we diminish the authors and audience of the past, and, in turn, deny ourselves the pertinent meaning within their narratives.

 

 

From Humble Beginnings...

Illustration by Theodor von Holst from the frontispiece of the 1831 edition of the novel, Frankenstein, The Modern Prometheus, by Mary Shelley

Recently, I've been reading  Susan Tyler Hitchcock's Frankenstein: A Cultural History. It's a fascinating look into the many manifestations and interpretations of Mary Shelley's creation. Beginning with the literary roots of the novel in the ancient stories of Prometheus (as evident in the novel's sub-title) to its historical roots in that oft mythologized meeting at Lake Geneva during "The Year Without a Summer"...the summer at Villa Diodati has, perhaps, gone through more interpretations, exaggerations, and hyperbole than Shelley's story.

This being said, one should not overlook the magnitude of the creations that sprung from this rather inauspicious summer get-a-way. Out of this gathering came two of the western worlds most innovative, curious, and culturally influential 'monsters': Frankenstein and Dracula. It is interesting to note, too, that Stoker was present at the Villa Diodati during that same summer that inspired Mary Shelley, although Stoker would not write his novel until 1897.

Without playing favorites, my interest here is in the creation of Dr. Frankenstein and his 'monster' through Mary Shelley. As much as I admire--and often return to--the concept of the Vampire, the more I realize that this creature has really not evolved. It is today much akin to Bram Stoker's Dracula. Stoker's story was built on earlier versions as seen in Sheridan le Fanu's, Carmilla; James Rhymer's, Varney; and, Pollidori's Vampyre. I find it curious that there is no ancient Greek predecessor to Dracula, or the Vampire. The roots of  Stoker's creature rest in legend more than mythology. The roots of this stem from his 'research' into Emily Gerard's 1885 Transylvannia Superstitions. The name of his creature, Dracula, comes from the name the 13th Century Duke, Vlad II, of Wallachia who, upon entering the 'Order of the Dragon', took the name Dracul--interestingly enough, Vlad the Impaler was his son and not, as Coppola's film holds, himself.

Shelley's Frankenstein creation has roots in the mythological not the legendary, and here I must take a moment to express the difference between the two as I see it.

At the core of a legend there is some truth, granted it is not necessarily the truth we would wish.

Case in point: Bigfoot, or the Sasquatch. Basically unknown to the western world until the Patterson-Gimlin film (1967), Bigfoot grew from a local legend stemming from footprints to a wider audience once the film was 'discovered'. This film spurred, for example, Hollywood's own The Legend of Boggy Creek (1972). Titled a 'docu-drama' capitalizing on the popularity of the Patterson film (as it became known). The trailer for the film can be seen here: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=E9V44D9xZ70.

Because of the creatures popularity people began seeking out the background to this creautre and, out of this, came many other stories (Sasquatch, for example, is from the Salish peoples) and connections to other cultures manifestations, as in the Himilayan's Yeti. The 'truth' of this legend stems from one Ray Wallace who, in 1958, made the first tracks and subsequently capitalized on the popularity by helping to grow the 'sightings'. He did this by creating his own films, photos, and foot castings (He, himself, was not in the suit that Patterson caught on the film. He did, however, say he knew who was in it).

So, at the core of the Bigfoot legend is a truth: some guy (or girl, seeing as Mrs. Wallace is on record saying she wore a suit for husband Ray's films on occasion, just not for the Patterson film) in a suit....but it's not the 'truth' many believers would want (or accept, seeing as people still believe in the big B).

Myths, on the other hand, do not have a 'truth' at their core. That being said, it is erroneous to see them as lies or falsehoods, as they are often presented in contemporary parlance. Myths are very real in the sense that they are collective knowledge, or 'lessons learned', lessons learned sometimes at great expense (e.g. some one else's life). These very real lessons are then passed on to others in the form of the most long-lived and common form of pedagogy: metaphorical and didactic stories. Thus, even today, we have Prometheus--modern or classical. It should be noted that Prometheus' name, in ancient Greek, means 'forethought'. So, at least in part, his story is the story--the lesson--is of thinking before acting irrespective of how noble the act (e.g. stealing fire for humans). Today, we could say that you should 'think before you act'. So, Prometheus' lesson is an important one and it is in our nature to recast it in a contemporary narrative for a contemporary audience. Prometheus didn't exist literally, yet his importance is undeniable--even today. But only if we (re-)interpret metaphorically. Herein lies the problem of those, for example, who hold to the inerrancy of the Bible. Although the lessons and the knowledge of this text are, I believe (as an atheist) are undeniable, they're meant to be read figuratively--metaphorically--not literally, or, worse, as evidence or proof. As a historical text, the bible fails even the most casual rigor of evidence; as literature, however, it is a wealth of knowledge (as seen in Northrup Frye's The Great Code: The Bible As Literature ; a 'required' read by anyone interested in this topic).

In literature we refers to stories as having not 'truth' rather verisimilitude; that is we ask the question: is it believable, for this is what holds us to a narrative (and allows us to 'suspend disbelief'). So, for example, Tolkien's The Lord of the Rings cannot, by any sane person, be seen as holding 'truth' (unless we use truth metaphorically, a pitfall of those who hold to the inerrancy of the Bible, for example). Yet, read as an allegory it has much to tell us--and richly--of the bond between friends, for example. In this sense, it is a great tale, but a tale retold as seen in its roots, for exampe, in the Epic of Gilgamesh or the Song of Roland. Yet, there really are no Orcs, Hobbits, dragons, or Wizards...sadly, perhaps. That being sad, and like the great tales it borrowed from, and was built upon, there is much to be learned in "those quiet watches of the night" when reading them.

And, so, we return to Frankenstein, as a myth not a legend.

Shelley's creation has gone through several manifestations and, perhaps sadly, distillations. In some instances it has stagnated since Karloff's wonderful portrayal, although Karloff can hardly be held responsible. In other instances, it, like any great myth, has been recast to suit the times the tale was told (and as a reflection of the times it was told in, for monster tales are always expressions of our unconscious fears and, so, sometimes they transcend time, and other times they are tied to it.). And, in regards to this latter point, I think one of the most interesting of these interpretations comes in Karel Capek's play, R.U.R.(Rossum's Universal Robots). It is, in fact, Capek's play that gave us the term 'robot'.

During the latter half of the 19th Century Frankenstein made a re-appearance and gained immense popularity on stage. It was used as a metaphor, for example, for things as seemingly un-connected as the growth of the corporation (as a creation of man run out of control). Capek's play was also influenced by the Frankenstein creations, yet he manifest the story--the lesson to be learned--in a different form, a form to suit the fears and challenges of the times: the automation of work. Today we have forgotten the impact automation had upon society, although I think we still have some of the same fears of being made 'redundant'. Robots have gone through a recent revival based, in no small part, on the actual advances of robotics. But we still see them as mostly mechanical creations.

However, Capek saw the creations as chemically created entities, entities that would reach their pinnacle when they attained a soul; that is: consciousness. This, as should come as no surprise by now, was due to the advances and claims (sometimes wild) made in biology, chemistry which gave birth to a entirely new field: biochemistry. Sciences that were claiming--in some truth--to be reaching for the 'essence' of life. We we're becoming much more god-like than anyone before had realized. In this sense, and like the Jewish story of The Golem, Frankestein is a creation of man through science. Although the Golem is more a creation of magic, but here the narratives of science and myth cross-over in the 'science' of alchemy, something which bio-chemistry, to many observers--even scientists' themselves--appeared. This interpretation of the myth as a threat to the very existence of man is seen as an extension of man's creation. This can be seen in other mediums re-telling the story: Edison's 1910 Frankenstein and the characters of Maria in Fritz Lang's 1927 Metropolis. Both of these films take their cue from the late 18th Century concern of science and technology  replacing humans and the effect this would have. This shouldn't be surprising seeing as the advances of sciences, into hereto unheard territory, were occurring at break-neck speeds, speeds well beyond the capacity of the average person to comprehend and for the scientists' to see where they might go. Hubris, indeed.

Then, in 1931, Whale and Karloff brought their version of the creature to film, granted in a rather reductionist and overly simplistic (albeit the most popular and iconic!) version. This interpretation--great for its time--certainly does little justice to the mythological aspect. We see this in the static nature of the creature since that time. That is to say that many of the re-creations since this film have taken their cue directly from the Whale/Karloff 'monster', yet have not adapted it 'to the times' they present it in.

However, because the story is a mythological one, other manifestations have cropped up based on the underlying message, the message of hubris. However, I would add that the message is not simply one of hubris; rather, many new interpretations also draw attention to the more subtle thoughts about the effects of a lack of forethought, remembering the ancient meaning of the name Prometheus. Now, what I mean by this is simply that, although there certainly is the lesson of hubris, there is also the accompanying shock and realization of the responsibility the creators have to that creation once said creation is alive. In essence, what happens after the famous: "It's alive....ALIVE!!"

So, here we see new interpretations of the message in such stories that, at first glance, my not seem directly influenced by Shelley's creation. For example, in Asimov's robot series (seen quite clearly in the 'character' of Sonny in the Will Smith version). Also, Asmiov's Three Laws of Robotics speak directly to this post-hubris realization. Other examples include: the replicants (including Deckard) in Bladerunner; Data in Star Trek: The Next Generation episode, The Measure of a Man (or, for that matter, just Data in general); or David in A.I.: Artificial Intelligence, from Brian Aldiss', "Super-Toys Last All Summer Long."

I think this is also a testament to the fact that science fiction has picked up the dead end left by the static version of the Whale/Karloff's Frankenstein. Sci-Fi--especially in its dystopian traditions (as seen in Phillip K. Dick's, Do Android's Dream of Electric Sheep, the source of Ridley Scott's, Bladerunner)--evolves the messages in the traditional myth making them relevant to today's audiences, yet the lesson is still present as we would expect. Perhaps this is why Kenneth Branagh's attempt to return to the traditional--accurate--version of Shelley's story failed so miserably (bad acting, editing, and directing aside).


The message in the Frankenstein myth--that which resonantes Prometheus--is alive and well in the concept of how our modern day science may be on the verge of actually creating living human beings. We've done so as clones to sheep, as in the (in)famous, Dolly; and, we know it is possible to clone higher life forms. We have, in a round about way, already done so in in vitro fertilization. How long then before we have the capacity to create another human-like being? Therefore, the lesson of forethought, of hubris, of thinking ahead are all still present just as we would expect in a mythical tale.



The message of hubris is one, we could say, that we're actively aware of and are at least trying to deal as seen in the areas of law and ethics that deal with these issues both reactively and proactively. However, are we ready for the responsibility that will come when--not if--we create such a being..? In essence, have we learned the lessons from previous expeditions into this realm..?

Where, in essence, is evidence of our forethought..? Or, will we find ourselves, metaphorically, all alone on a desolate ice flow searching for the creature we created with an aim to destroying it due to our lack of forethought and, in so doing, destroy 'the monster, ourselves'..?