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:

"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.

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...

Mencius and Antigone

Again, just attempting to keep with chronology.

Will fill-in-the-blanks ASAP...famous last words...*sigh*

Euripides, Medea

Euripides, Medea            Seminar Overview to GLS

Stephen introduced a bit of the background and context surrounding Medea during the seminar, and it is widely available elsewhere (i.e. Wikipedia), so I won’t go over it again here for the sake of brevity .

Medea is a mythological character and would have been well known to the Ancient Greeks. She is also the main character in Euripides play. In Euripides play, the action begins once in Corinth. Euripides chooses to present Jason, the great hero, as a bit of a dupe; and Medea had killed her brother Aspyrtus. Euripides major alteration is in adding Medea’s killing of her children. There are wide and varied opinions as to why he did this. Otherwise the play opens, as mentioned, once Jason and Medea are in Corinth and ends when she flees after killing Jason’s new bride, Glauce; her father, the king, Creon; and, both their children. She flies away in the dragon driven chariot sent by her grand-father.

My introduction to the class.

                This play is interesting in that, on the one hand, it is about very extreme actions and reaction combined with primal emotions culminating in enough blood and gore to keep even the most devote George Romero fans glued. On the other, because it has been told and re-told well into our own era and across multiple media’s: from theatre, to opera, to dance, to film; and, across a wide variety of cultures.

                The play touches of issues of revenge and vengeance, justice and oaths (taking, making, and breaking); the Other (foreignness, exoticism, gender, etc); all within the malleable mythological form. 

In Euripides day, the characters and the story would have been well known, so why Euripides chose to make such provocative changes is intriguing. For my part, and beyond the questions I sent around, I was interested not just in what was said, but what the characters—especially Jason—seemed to want left un-said.

This reminded me a bit of how Aristophanes chose to present the god, Dionysus, in his comedic play, The Frogs—where Euripides and Aeschylus must ‘prove’ which of them is the most worthy tragedian, with Dionysus as the judge. In his play, Dionysus is presented, granted more light-heartedly, weaker than we would traditionally see him. He is a bit of a buffoon, and it is his slave-servant, Xanthias, who is presented as strong, just, wise, and honourable.

At one point, Euripides is presenting his case as to why he should be considered the greatest of tragedians. He argues that it is because he is more democratic than Aristophanes, having given voice to the otherwise voiceless: slaves and women.

Dionysus responds: “Leave that issue alone, my friend. That is not a direction in which I would take the discussion if I were you.” 

Dionysus’ stated appeal is ironic. Things which are supposedly best left unsaid should be, well, unsaid—unless, of course, your purpose is to do the opposite and draw attention to it (irony). I am reminded of the concept of ‘ironic processing theory’, introduced by the linguist Geroge Lakoff, and popularized in the play/film, Six Degrees of Separation (also, more recenlty, in Inception). At one point in the play, the characters are talking about events in a day when one, Flan, turns to the audience and says: “It’s like when people say ‘Don’t think about elephants’ and all you can think about is elephants.”

This drew me back to Eurpides, Medea. At least twice, when Jason is attempting to rationalize his decision to marry Glauce to Medea, he starts a line of ‘reasoning’ only to prematurely end it with: “I do not propose to go into all of the rest of it.”

Absence denotes presence.

As stated, Euripides version differs at several points from traditional retellings. I think he does so to create a situation where we are at times attracted to the characters (both Jason and Medea) and then repelled by them (usually, they’re polarized from one another in this, too). In so doing Euripides moves Medea from a relatively two-dimensional character to an incredibly complex character; a Medea  we ‘love to hate’.

I also believe that Euripides is presenting Medea (and Jason) as mirrors upon which to reflect the underbelly of Greece; the un-spoken things that exist between the myth and the reality that is Greece. The hypocrisy and paradox where, on the one hand, all the high and lofty ideals that ring through Greece—of knowledge, of justice, of bravery, and fidelity—are shown to be, at least in part, a façade; while, on the other hand, illustrating that no matter how far Grecians attempt to distance themselves from the ‘barbarians’, their actions illustrate that this distance between the civilized and the barbarian is uncomfortably close—especially in the face of Medea, a ‘barbarian’, whose presence and demeanor challenge these notions.

Certainly Medea is ‘the other’, but we can also go one step further and see here as another half; perhaps of the whole. Here, I am reminded of Aristophanes (again!) in the Symposium when he presents the story of humans as once being whole (what we would see as two people in one: four legs and arms, and two faces), but split in two by Zeus’ thunder bolts as punishment.  Aristophanes reminds us “[e]ach of us when separated is but the indenture of a man, having one side only like a flat fish, and he is always looking for his other half”

When the Greeks (and when we) look at her we are confronted with those things we may not wish to see in ourselves: “there, but for the grace of God,” goes the saying. 

Or, perhaps a more fitting, but far less comforting, thought: “We have seen the enemy, and he is us…”

Her mere presence challenges some, and shatters other, stereotypical images and paradigms that some Greeks would hold: as a woman, she is independent; as a wife, she is strong; and before we can simply admire her: as a mother, she commits filicide.

Medea’s presence illustrates that the line between Grecian ‘civilization’ and the barbarian is a line neither fixed nor impermeable. Euripides presentation of her heralds another doppelgangerwho will challenge where evil rests: Jekyll and Hyde.

Just as Stevenson’s creature challenges the reader to wonder which is which (and who are we), Euripides Medea brings us—and probably his Grecian audience—very close to uncomfortable truths.

Some of the comments from the class.

                The questions sent around were not discussed directly, although I do think the sentiments of many of them came up, were mulled over, and out of this came some interesting observations and, of course, more questions!

• Considering the reality that it would be unlikely that Medea’s children would be left alive irrespective of Jason’s (naïve?) efforts, how do we/would we consider Medea’s filicide in light of:

o   Killing a wounded fellow soldier out of compassion in the face of an advancing enemy?

o   The case of Robert Latimer and mercy killing?

• How do we think about Medea’s filicide in light of similar events occurring even quite recently (and for very similar reasons)?

• What effect was Euripides trying to evoke in the audience (if any) in his presentation of Jason as conniving, or as naïve, or as an example of hubris? What about Jason’s breaking of oaths in a culture where oath are tantamount?

o   Think of Aegeus’ comments to Medea regarding Jason’s actions stating “[s]urely he would not dare to do a thing like that” and, shortly after this, holding that he “cannot approve of this” (both speaking to Jason’s decision to take Glauce as a wife).

o   Interestingly, Aegeus, although at first shocked by Medea’s request to take an oath to support his promise to help her, does so—perhaps Aegeus is meant to be a stand-in for the ‘Jason’ most of the audience would know (an, perhaps, expect). In this sense, Aegeus is an ironic foil to Jason.

• What can we say about Medea when we consider that she follows a similar pattern in regards to marrying Aegeus, then trying to kill his son, Theseus? Is it simply another case of murderous intent? Or, is it a case of survival and a representation of the common plight of women in this time?

• Are Medea’s actions a case of justice or of revenge? Where is the line between the two..?

• Given Medea’s heavenly blood-line, and the fact that she’s mythological, should we interpret her actions more literally or more figuratively and/or symbolically? What are the different ramifications of each interpretation upon the ‘message’?

• Is Euripides asking whether or not the gods are worthy of devotion given, on the one hand, how they play with humans; and, on the other, how, being immortal, morality may not even come into this

o   Here I was reminded of an episode from Star Trek: The Next Generation, and the god-like creature known as Q. When Picard speaks to him of morals Q reminds him that morals are relevant only to creatures who are confined by mortality.

• In regards to ‘reason’: Medea certainly uses ‘reasons’ and ‘reasoning’. But she does so, more often than not, for ulterior ends. Jason, on the other hand, does more ‘rationalizing’ than ‘reasoning’. In the end, there appears to be little or no ‘critical reasoning’.

o   Interestingly, Jason in his attempts at compromise leaves himself compromised. He has, in this sense—wittingly or unwittingly—entered into a Faustian bargain;

o   Or, Proverbs: “Pride goeth before destruction, and a haughty spirit before the fall” (16:18). In the Proverbs sense, we can see Medea’s manipulation as a case of saying what others want to hear.

• I also found a little bit of Jason in the character Mr. Incredible, from the modern Pixar film, The Incredibles Both are characters trying to reclaim the ‘glory days’ and rebuild their (self)importance. This is also apparent in Bruce Springsteen’s song, Glory Days:

o   “Yeah, just sitting back trying to recapture
a little of the glory of, well time slips away
and leaves you with nothing mister but
boring stories of glory days.”

·          

And then, one day, out of the blue while you're lolly-gagging about, a log falls on your head: end game. There's irony for ya!

[...Sappho...]

Reading Sappho's poetry brought to mind, among other things, one of my favorite authors, Isak Dinesen. To me, Dinesen's prose reads like poetry. The beauty of her prose comes in its ability to shift between telling the stories to presenting the images accompanying them. Her descriptions of the people, the land, and the animals she encounters heavily emphasis sensory experiences. Some passages have a musical quality about them that when read aloud unveil hidden--almost visceral--responses that would be lost if read in silence, or simply as words on a page--as prose.

For example, in her novel, Out of Africa ("Natives and Verse"), she recounts her experience engaging the Swahili--who have a "who have a strong sense of rhythm, [yet] know nothing of verse--to her European experience of poetry. As the Natives became accustomed to her poetry with its own rhythmic qualities, they began to seek out opportunities to her more of it. On one occasion, an occasion that I think speaks to the sensuality of language irrespective of its form, the Natives ask her to "[s]peak again. Speak like the rain." Although Dinesen feigns ignorance at why the Natives would associate verse to rain--even going so far as to provide a merely practical reason why the Natives would do this in stating that "in Africa rain is always longed for and welcomed." However, when she responds that such a perspective must be "an expression of applause," she is illustrating that she is fully aware of this as being a sensory--and sensual--experience.

  

I have always been dubious about the idea that poetry is supreme in regards to its ability to convey sensory experiences better than prose. I find it simply different in form as to how it does so. Good writing, in any form, aims to evoke multiple senses in the reader. I find it difficult to imagine how anyone could reduce, for example, the very sensory and visceral experiences conveyed in the prose of Dashiel Hammet's and his 'mean streets'; or, in Chandler who conveys in his noir stories that 'smell of fear'...I cannot imagine anything more sensory (or poetic) than his image, in Trouble is my Business, that "the streets were dark with something more than night."

This isn't to suggest that poetry is better or worse, simply that I think such dichotomies are either pretentious or naive...or both. Poetry is perhaps seen as an approach more akin to the prose experiment of writer's, like Hemingway, who aimed to say the most with the least amount of words.

In this sense, I see much in common with the effects someone like Chandler was seeking to evoke beyond the words on the page, and the imagist project of poets like Ezra Pound:

In A Station Of The Metro

The apparition of these faces in the crowd;
Petals on a wet, black bough.

The imagist toying with the haiku was, like Hemingway, a means to bridging experiences without leading the reader by the proverbial nose. We can see such an approach from another perspective and via a different project by poets known as 'found poetry'. Here the project is to alter the form of prose pieces (non-literary) into the form of poetry. The sources tend to be either innocuous, like those from a textbook:

Hence no force, however great,

can stretch a cord, however fine,

into a horizontal line

which is accurately straight.

(William Whewell from 

"An Elementary Treatise on Mechanics")

Or, in the great tradition of poetry as subversion, the rearranging of speeches, or other similar documents, to re-arrange the implication from the original intent as to undermine (subvert) that intent. For example, the following is from a Department of Defense transcript quoting Donald Rumsfeld speaking on "The Unknown": 

As we know,

There are known knowns.

There are things we know we know.

We also know

There are known unknowns.

That is to say

We know there are some things

We do not know.

But there are also unknown unknowns

The ones we don't know

We don't know.

Another source of inspiration for found poetry comes from translations. Monty Python popularized this in their "Dirty Hungarian Phrasebook" skit. Where the intent, in the skit, is to say, "Can you direct me to the station?" The result translated is, "Please fondle my bum."

Some of the more memorable examples from this skit:

• "Do you want to come back to my place, bouncy bouncy?"
• "I am no longer infected."
• "Drop your panties, Sir William; I cannot wait until lunchtime!"

Folks can try this on their own, however, using Yahoo's 'Babelfish' translator and then finding a source in both a foregin and English version. Use the foreign language version and translate it in Babelfish and see what comes out. I tried this recently using the German news magazine Der Spiegel.

The English version reads: "Greece may make the headlines, but Chancellor Angela Merkel's coalition faces a greater danger: a tax cut battle between her CDU and its CSU sister party. CSU head Horst Seehofer is furious with Merkel over being sidelined in the debate -- to the point that some in his party would like to see him let the coalition collapse. By SPIEGEL Staff"

The translation from Babelfish is:

"Ran last nothing more in Merkels troop - nevertheless now has blackyellow some important decisions pleases: The taxpayers are relieved around six billion euros, the care money come, and for dementia patient it gives more assistance. It was a hard fight - around giving and taking." 

As it is, it is a little like the Python skit, somewhat humourous; however, by changing the form it doesn't take much imagination to see imagist and sensory aspects to this otherwise poor translation:

Ran last 

nothing more

in Merkels troop 

nevertheless now has blackyellow some important decisions 

pleases: 

The taxpayers are relieved 

around six billion 

euros, 

the care money come for dementia patients 

gives more assistance. 

It was a hard fight - 

around giving 

and taking.  

What I found evocative about Sappho's poetry was similar to much of this, if for different reasons. There is much to uncover beneath the surface of Isak Dinesen's prose if readers choose to 'read between the lines' or to read beyond the words seeking broader sensory images. Equally so, with translations, or with complete or whole documents much can be drawn out of them that is not, at first glance, within them to those who seek an adventure in reading. With Sappho's poetry much is lost or unknown of the original; so, where 'found poetry' takes something whole and edits and/or re-arranges it, Sappho's poems are missing pieces and, thus, read as fragments.

This is perhaps best captured in Anne Carson's following quote:

“I emphasize the distinction between brackets and no brackets because it will affect your reading experience, if you will allow it. Brackets are exciting. Even though you are approaching Sappho in translation, that is no reason you should miss the drama of trying to read a papyrus torn in half or riddled with holes or smaller than a postage stamp--brackets imply a free space of imaginal adventure.”

Anne Carson

[emphasis added]

If Not, Winter: Fragments of Sappho

I emphasized this last comment because it seems to highlight this adventure in reading which I previously spoke of; and, reading Sappho's poetry is, in this sense, certainly an adventure if we allow it to be so.

In addition to reading into these fragments there is the problem of translation. Although I said previously that I do not hold that poetry should reign supreme and alone in regards to its ability to create images and/or sensory experiences over prose, I would not be so naive as to suggest that, where ambiguity--especially semantic ambiguity--is a significant problem in the translation of prose, if we return to the idea that poetry is a project seeking to say the most with the least amount of words, certainly the issue of ambiguity and translation in poetry looms even larger.

Take, for example, the last lines of Sappho's "Fragment #31", as done by several different translators (NOTE: I have left the line breaks as they are in the original editions):

Anne Carson:

"But all is to be dared, because even a
person of poverty"

Stanley Lombardo:

"But I must bear it, since a poor"

Sasha Newborn:

I must feel all, since I am poor."

Ambrose Phillips (c. 1711):

"I feinted, sunk, and died away..."

John Hall (c. 1652):

"Yet, since I'm wretched must I dare..."


With each of these translations the resolution of the speakers experiences in altered--often radically--between one and another translation of the same Fragment 31. Take, for example, even the otherwise benign use of punctuation between that of Anne Carson's, containing no end punctuation, to that of Sasha Newborn's inclusion of the period making this a complete thought. In Carson's we know that "all is to be dared," but we not what comes next--we're left either with a grammatical sentence fragment, or a rhetorical device (ellipsis) leaving us hanging. Contrast this with Newborn's rendition which, as it is presented, is a declarative sentence ("I must") conveying a propositional attitude ("feel all...since...") in respect to the condition of the speaker (poor).

Between each translation we're presented with very different conditions for the speaker: from the "wretched" of Hall, to the fading of Phillips, to financial emphasis in Carson's "poverty", and the more broader ambiguous use of Newborn's "poor."

In the end, I believe that unless one wishes to read simply to finish--as though literature and art are to be simply consumed to have served their purpose--then we should aim to read more deeply into prose to tease out and engage other senses, or read varieties of translations to re-imagine different effects and perspectives. Otherwise we 're robbed of potentially great insight simply because an obstacle is placed in our path...

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!

---