Showing posts with label Noble Lie. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Noble Lie. Show all posts

Friday, June 1, 2018

Plato’s Noble Lie and the Psyche of the Philosophical Man



~by David Aiken~

Many and sundry have been the attempts to “get a handle on” a deceptive idea that has its origins in Plato’s Republic—the idea of the Noble Lie. The Noble Lie was never intended to be an element of political theory—this is only the shallow storyline, the theatrical mask that Plato lends to his narrative to throw the profane reader off the track of the sacred richness of his philosophical teaching. In matter of fact, Plato’s Noble Lie is a very clear rational mechanism of Plato’s fully human and fully philosophical ontology; it is not some device to be used for political or state enablement, but rather, it is a constructive philosophical mechanism that enables the 'golden' part of the individual, the rational mind, to construct the individual as a philosophical whole!

One recent transmogrification of the Platonic idea of the Noble Lie was in the 2008 Batman film, The Dark Knight.
At the heart of this dark comic book, cinematographic narrative is the pattern of the black & white, yin & yang quality that defines Everyman. We are none of us entirely white, the Harvey Dent cum White Knights of the world who dare to oppose Evil in the open light of day; nor are we entirely black, the unproblematic embodiments of the unpredictable Joker, the modern Johnny Appleseed of pain and loss, of random suffering and harm.  Rather, Everyman is both of these in differing and mixed degrees. In perhaps our best incarnations we are actually all of us, individually, both the tormented Black Knight, the man-bat, the creature who comes out of the night to drag bad actors and their actions into the light of day, and that complex human creature who, on a much more personal level, is consumed by his personal struggle to make sure that, at least most of the time, the enlightened goodness in his soul that reaches out for justice, overshadows the gnawing, inky hunger of the psychic demon that urges him, almost irresistibly, to punish and to avenge.
            On this telling Harvey Dent fails to live up to one side of his persona by embodying only the White Knight of Justice, and the darkness of his obscured yin overawes the lightness of his aggressive yang. In his high-handed hubris Harvey Dent fails the task of being Everyman; unlike the unusual man-bat who manages, somehow, to balance delicately in the nether regions of his humanity the vital forces of his yin in the light of his yang. In an additional and interesting move, the narrative flow of the film demands that the lead players mask the imperfections of the man under the “persona” of a social Story, behind a myth, a noble lie: that Harvey Dent died heroically in the line of duty, fighting for justice, and in the service of the community. For the “brassy” commoners of the city must not learn that the “golden” man, Harvey Dent, failed; that he turned; that he became mostly lost in the dark. For the sake of the people the Cover Story must not fail; and even if the man behind the mask/myth/Story fails, the Narrative of Justice must not fail; it must remain eternal.
            When all is said and done, this filmic “read” is actually a faithful reflection and reworking of the idea of Plato’s noble lie as it has come down to us in the western thought traditions of philosophy and political theory. And that is unfortunate.

At the risk of sounding adamant, let us just say it right out in the open: Plato’s Republic, one of the perennial great works in the corpus of world literature, which has resided for centuries in the intellectual domain of political philosophers and theorists, is not really about a republic, ideal or otherwise. In the same way that war movies are not about war, i.e., their Subject is not “war,” but rather about Men’s Character and Human Action framed situationally around the thematic of war, so also, when Plato dramatizes a conversation with Socrates around a political thematic, it does not mean that the Subject of the work is political in nature or even anything that is remotely concerned with political thinking. Plato’s Republic is framed around the idea of the City; the City, in turn, is built in the image of Human Ontology, and seeks to answer the question – what is a man? How should a man act? What role does right education play in the evolution of the human mind and soul? In this Platonic metaphor for the philosophical life, as the soul goes, so goes the City.
            If we fail to grasp this distinction between the subject of a work and its opportunistic framing or narrative thematic, then with works such as Plato’s Republic or Machiavelli’s The Prince, once they are construed as politically or philosophically earnest texts, we hermeneuts who come after in the thought tradition are obliged to construct interpretations that correct other interpretations, and in so doing, by committing ourselves to reading literally and failing to read metaphorically, we inadvertently create a whole new set of interpretative problems.
Dr. Frankenstein creating his monster
            For example, by committing to a political interpretation of Plato’s Republic, we also necessarily create as an interpretative by-product an antique Frankenstein in the person of the great Socrates, thereby “disappearing” this irreplaceable thinker behind a political interpretative persona. This tradition’s earnestly-political “read” of the Republic includes almost all the great thinkers, except Augustine, from Aristotle to Machiavelli, and, in the contemporary political philosophical arena, from Karl Popper to Leo Strauss. And, yet, this telling also transforms the story’s hero, the Socrates of the history of philosophy, into the much more well-known Franken-Socrates, once-upon-a-time master teacher of the life of the Just Man, who seems, all irony aside and in great seriousness, to be making the case for Justice and the Just Man by promoting the practice of euthanasia, social classism based on racial purity, selective breeding, and telling noble lies to motivate leaders to act well in the City. Really?!
            This philosophical transmogrification of Socrates is simply too implausible, though, and so the tradition ends up speaking dismissively, or not speaking at all, of the Franken-Socrates it has created, because he is simply too Hitlerian to retain any “street credibility,” philosophically speaking.  This interpretative process is precisely what a sin against Thinking looks like.
            With transmogrifying interpretations such as this, at the end of the day we end up dismissing the work not only because it portrays for us a Socrates qua Machiavellian prince, which violates our politically correct sensibilities, but also because we do not find other cases made in the Republic, such as the case for an ideal state, to be politically persuasive in general. So, the thought tradition that wanders down this interpretative Holtzweg succeeds only in creating an unacceptable political theory and an anti-Socrates—but then, this might have been the intention all along. And perhaps there is some masked man yet “out there” who will come along, some man-bat or Lone Ranger of philosophy, to help us out of the intellectual quagmire created by such a mishmash of non-thinking and pseudo-interpreting on this question of noble lies… Quien sabe, Kemosabe?
             
So, what sense is there to be made of a Socratic statement such as Plato places in of Resp. 377c: "it is imperative for the rulers of the city to supervise the makers of tales," and of the idea of the Noble Lie that follows? In Resp. 414c we begin to learn about this γενναῖον ψεῦδος (gennaion pseudos), which better translates as a false (lying, untrue, mendacious, fraudulent) genealogy (family history). So, our adopted family history, “according” to Socrates, would actually have two parameters. The first is that the citizens of the “Socratic” republic are earth-born, which is to say that we are all inter-related and therefore interconnected. This is a straightforward idea borrowed from the Stoic philosophers. The second parameter is that, as with all that is earth-born, we each contain elements from our Earth-Mother, but not necessarily all the same elements. Some of us are born out of gold metal, some from silver, and others out of bronze and iron. The metal core of the individual will determine his worth and role in the city.
               At face value, at least for politically minded thinkers, the Noble Lie is essential for the political apparatus to maintain stable social structures; it is a lie, in the sense of an “opiate for the masses,” which is force-fed to the masses to subdue them, to keep them happily at their stations in the structures of state. If this argument is teased out literally, we arrive at the conclusion that Socrates promotes, in an ideal kind of way, the practice of euthanasia, social classism, racial purity and separation, selective breeding, and the telling of “lies” to motivate people to behave themselves in their social environment.  
               Yet, this simply cannot be the case, unless, like Mark Anthony before us, we philosophers-turned-Philistines also come to bury Socrates, not to praise him; for it will be true of this Franken-Socrates, as with the many others who have shared similar controlling, manipulating, and authoritarian ideas, that “The evil that men do lives after them.”

However, what if we tease out this argument metaphorically, rather than literally? What if we seek to praise Socrates rather than to bury him? Most philosophers would agree, generally, that there are two ideas that must remain consistent and valid for interpretations of Plato to be plausible. First, Plato the philosopher was clearly a dualist who thought that unchanging truth was possible. Conjecture and Belief, thought Plato, are forms of knowledge linked to the changing world; True Knowledge (or “Seeing”) and Wisdom, on the other hand, are linked to things that are by their nature eternal and unchanging, such as the Forms or Ideas. In this respect Plato shows that he was influenced by the 5th century philosopher from Elea (Southern Greece), Parmenides.
            In his poem, On Nature, which is by and large the most significant fragment still existing from Parmenides, he tells the story of the Young Man who, in his quest for virtue, which is the philosophical or just life of True Knowledge, sees all things (ln. 3) with the same eternal and unblinking Gaze as the Goddess (Muse) (stanza 25-30).  
Meet it is that thou shouldst learn all things, as well
the unshaken heart of persuasive truth, as the opinions of
[30] mortals in which is no true belief at all.

Χρεὼ δέ σε πάντα πυθέσθαι
ἠμέν Ἀληθείης εὐκυκλέος aτρεμὲς ἦτορ
[30] ἠδὲ βροτῶν δόξας, ταῖς οὐκ ἔνι πίστις aληθής.

Where Parmenides speaks in his poem of “opinions” (δόξας), this idea will translate into Plato’s thought as “Belief,” a type of knowing reserved for transient things instead of permanent things; and as this lower form of knowing is juxtaposed over and against True Belief (πίστις aληθής) in Parmenides, so it is as well in Plato, where “Seeing” will be the knowing of eternal truths, of things that are not subject to change because they are transcendental, hence unchanging and permanent.

The second concept that must remain consistent and valid for any interpretation of Plato’s philosophy to be plausible, is that he was enormously impressed by his teacher, Socrates, who was not so much a teacher of Justice, but rather a teacher of the Just Man. Ironically, it is precisely this distinction that allows one to begin unraveling Platonic thought and separating it from Socratic thought. A Platonic Socrates, for example, would typically be expected to articulate some clear teaching on Justice as a permanent and eternal value; this would be consistent with Plato and his love of the Idea/Definition of things. However, this does not seem to be the case in most of the Platonic dialogues involving Socrates, especially the so-called aporetic dialogues. These dialogues are problematic, aporetic, precisely because, in a decidedly un-Platonic move, Socrates does not provide us or leave us with any definition of the virtue desired, such as Piety (Euthyphro) or Justice (The Republic). Instead, the historical Socrates actually argues against such an Eternal Definition of the virtue in question, by showing that any such argument must necessarily contradict itself; and he leaves us understanding and valuing the perception that, as he might well have said behind the scenes of history, we may not be able to find a full-proof definition for Justice, but we can recognize a Just Man from a mile away.

So, in fact, it will actually be the Socrates of history who shows us that Noble Lies, however this idea might be variously interpreted in aftertimes, will have no effect upon the man whose character is not naturally virtuous. A myth or belief of any sort, genealogical, religious, or nationalistic, even though we might be born into it and know nothing else our entire life, will ultimately be for naught if the individual man fails to act out of a fundamental sense of his own character’s virtue. According to Socrates, failure of individual character necessarily trumps any mythological or metaphysical prop; because virtue does not derive from some Belief or other, but rather from individuals who act out of Reasoned Seeing.

So how does this little reflective journey inform those of us who, worlds away from the Greece of antiquity, live in an existential no-man’s land where, possibly for the first time in human history, there is an opportunity for true and authentic individual freedom (for better and for worse) in a land where ancient philosophico-religious mythologies yet still hold sway, and where every variety of nationalism scorches the earth of our souls?

Is truth possible? Plato thinks so, as does Socrates; although their conceptions of truth were quite distinct—Plato’s being framed by an other-worldliness, and Socrates’ by a this-worldliness. Yet either conceptualization of truth would have the effect of bringing like-minded (philosophical) men together, of unifying those who seek to live out the virtuous life. This is one of the true teachings of Plato’s Republic. This philosophical truth stands in obvious contrast to the idea of binding differently-minded men together through any variety of Noble Lie, viz., genealogical, religious, or nationalistic, thus seeking to enslave their emotions rather than to persuade their reasoning minds.

WWNS? What Would Nietzsche Say, perhaps, or a Nietzsche inspired philosopher, about this meandering reflection on noble lies and failures of character?  In the unappeased craving for the freedom to think thoughts that are truly one’s own, and in light of the fact that we are so obviously wandering around lost in the undefined fields of human existential history, Nietzsche might encourage us to break free of all of the noble lies that surround us, or at least as many as we become aware of. A State’s noble lies certainly have no supremacy when measured against the truths of our philosophical wanderings; and the role of a free-thinking res cogitans is, precisely, not to allow itself to be duped by a state’s myths about foundations or origins—beliefs and myths such as patriotism, father- or mother-land, God & Country, among all the others.
           
In The Dance Song, a discourse found in Part II of Nietzsche’s Thus Spoke Zarathustra, Nietzsche helps his reader “feel” the nostalgia that permeates the life lived outside the comforting confines of the foundational myths that surround us, those myths by means of which we construct our very personal identity, and without which we are the ultimate Stranger: at once native, and yet oh so very foreign in this our native land.
An unknown presence is about me, and gazeth thoughtfully. What! Thou livest still, Zarathustra?
Why? Wherefore? Whereby? Whither? Where? How? Is it not folly still to live?—
Ah, my friends; the evening is it which thus interrogateth in me. Forgive me my sadness!
Evening hath come on: forgive me that evening hath come on!"
Thus sang Zarathustra.

Ein Unbekanntes ist um mich und blickt nachdenklich. Was! Du lebst noch, Zarathustra?
Warum? Wofür? Wodurch? Wohin? Wo? Wie? Ist es nicht Torheit, noch zu leben? –
Ach, meine Freunde, der Abend ist es, der so aus mir fragt. Vergebt mir meine Traurigkeit!
Abend ward es: vergebt mir, daß es Abend ward!«

Also sprach Zarathustra.

And what would an individual’s life outside the foundation Stories and Myths look like? How do we recognize the life of the man who is free? The freedom of one’s mind does not necessarily reflect through the life of the individual, although it certainly may; so, frankly, no one really knows.  Nietzsche simply tells us that this transformation of the way our minds think will make of us children again—New Beginnings who are free to explore to our heart’s content. “Innocence,” he writes in The Three Metamorphoses, “is the child, and forgetfulness, a new beginning, a game, a self-rolling wheel, a first movement, a holy Yea (Unschuld ist das Kind und Vergessen, ein Neubeginnen, ein Spiel, ein aus sich rollendes Rad, eine erste Bewegung, ein heiliges Ja-sagen.).” Nietzsche does not seek to validate any particular code of moral behavior; any moral/ethical construct will do the job, including the heroic and virtue ethics, religious ethics and deontology, and all the various incarnations of utilitarian calculations.

As a suggestion, though—perhaps we might adopt as philosophically and ethically unproblematic in this new life of the child, that we may assume the general rightness or propriety of courtesy toward the Other, and kindness, and consideration. This is the stock-in-trade of the Just Man.
            If there are Dissenters from this idea-axiom, then they may abstain from reading further, as they have already clearly abstained, by dissenting from this fundamental valuation of Self in the form of the Other, from thinking humanely about their fellow humans. As they progress along their dissenting path, we may await any and all conduct/thought… for the failure of character, the lack of the will to virtue, is already evident.

There is certainly a dilemma here, though, as we try to imagine a thought-life outside of our Stories; and one can absolutely see why Wittgenstein did not write much in his life. Imagine: here we all are, sitting around at the foot of Wittgenstein’s Mauer des Schweigens, the wall of silence beyond which knowledge is impossible, and so silence becomes the byword… And yet that very silence is equivocal—it has two voices. Because just as the “word” cannot embrace the transcendental “thing,” the thing on the other side of that Mauer of silence, which is by its very definition “no-thing,” nor can a “word” rightly encompass the immanent “thing” on this side of that Mauer. If the word is not the thing, then all it can do is reach up toward whatever inchoate obscurity it is trying to grasp in an attempt to get us, approximately, to some kind of meaning.   At the end of the day, Wittgenstein’s thinking succeeds in reminding us that we are isolated in the time capsule of ourselves, in the closed loop of our own reasoning processes. Pace Wittgenstein, though; for Lady Philosophy still has her role to play in sorting out the noble truths that will help ground the Historical Animal who is slowly descending into the quagmire of fleeting time.

Perhaps, after all, it is for the best that Wittgenstein did not write much.

(reworked from an essay published 1 June, 2014)

Further Phrontisterion readings around the theme of ‘becoming’:

Tuesday, May 1, 2018

Self-Images & Self-Creation_redux


~by David Aiken~  

By Leighton 1847
Right at the outset of one of his essays (literally on page 1 of the Parerga und Paralipomena), Schopenhauer makes a distinction between two types of philosophy: 1) that which is taught as a heave-to discipline in the University, which is the handmaiden of the State and subject to its interests and influences; and then 2) the type of philosophy that stands ready to cast off “full steam ahead” in the service of Nature and Humanity, philosophy as the “unhindered quest for truth.” We are meant to conclude, of course, that folks like the then very-popular young Hegel are the university teachers-of-philosophy (the Kathederphilosophen), academic philosophers who are maintained in an intellectually upright position by their state-financed pulpit or lectern, who are duty-bound (career oblige!) to service a State-sanctioned vision in and of philosophy, which will fairly reliably represent the intellectual statu quo or unilluminated mediocrity of thought. Nietzsche might have called this a glorification and codification of the herd Instinct, rather than Thought! So, Kathederphilosophen are really quite distinct animals from those philosophers, presumably like Schopenhauer himself, who “do” the true questing and journeying work of philosophy.
In many ways universities remain true to the spirit of Schopenhauer’s rather grumpy tendency to make Disobliging Distinctions; and while I am in fact absolutely sympathetic with this particular D-D with respect to philosophy, this month’s reflection is actually about a different application of the D-Distinction—the one that Departments of Languages and Literatures have so often made among types of literature. First there is Academic Literature, all the wonderful stuff that has been hallowed, originally by the 17th century’s Battle of the Books in England, then by the 20th century’s “canon wars.” Then there is All-the-other-stuff that is thought unworthy of ivory-tower classrooms.

The D-Distinction between Reading and Merely Reading can already be anticipated by looking at the types of authors one used to read at American universities. According to an updated 2000 survey (pdf here) by the National Association of Scholars, there was a time when English classes would spend their semesters pouring over many of the inhabitants of Encyclopedia Britannica’s Great Books of the Western World reading the famously and classically dead (the notably notable “dead white European male” society!)—immortal names like Homer, Shakespeare, Milton, Chaucer, Dryden, Pope, and T.S. Eliot could be readily heard echoing sanctimoniously in the corridors of Academe. A few scant decades after the original 1964 survey, and many of the immortals have bitten the academic dust; for while one could still occasionally catch the dulcet tones of Shakespeare, Milton, and Chaucer lingering like an afterthought in the air, Other Sounds as well, New Sounds, were “unleashed upon ‘the learned world’” (as Harold Bloom writes in The Western Canon), distinctly less mellifluous echoes, less illustrious, less classical, and profoundly less masculine: Jane Austen, George Eliot, Virginia Woolf, Alice Walker, Toni Morrison.
It is a truism of literature in general (both academic + airport reading combined) that we are hooked on a book when the action of the story seduces us into exchanging our here-and-now version of reality (e.g., I am waiting at the airport….) for the fast-paced activity of Storybook (e.g., I am being hounded by the bad guys across roofs and through the back gardens of innocent and unaware citizens whom I am trying to save from horrible destruction at the hands of some Jabberwocky, and the inevitable clock is ticking in the background…). Similarly, we can become hooked when we see ourselves, some(mysteriously)how, reflected back to us in the eyes of Storybook in-dwellers.
            To the degree that either of these intuitions is accurate about our adventures in Reading and Merely Reading, I would argue that the academic Disobliging Distinction between them is fundamentally irrelevant, and therefore no better than bluster, swagger, and general, all-‘round censoriousness—because we have become involved in, transformed, and transported by the Literature of our Lives. We are Kidnapped.

Extended sojourns in Academe’s hallowed halls permit one to listen, sometimes attentively, to all of the above “dulcet tones” of the world’s authors, some truly great, some less, liking some more than others. These experiences allow each one of us to put ourselves personally into all the visions and adventures of the various worlds that have unfolded before us through the hidden passages of their pages. And I have to admit that I still get caught up by a good Hero’s Tale – from Hektor to Reacher by way of Luigi Natoli’s Sicilian hero, Blasco da Castiglione—for me every hero is a good hero. So, whether in the Reading world of the Academy or the Merely Reading world of everyone else, the Heroic Story is the secret passage at the back of the wardrobe for me to pass from my here-and-now into the not-here-and-not-now of Narnia, which can become my here-and-now if I choose to make it so.

We seldom if ever read O’Henry in our hallowed halls of higher learning. Yet O’Henry created some of the most significant collaborators of my life, teachers all, who continue to show me how my life can be if I choose to make it so. In a story called The Last Leaf, O’Henry introduces us to a proud, but humble old immigrant painter, Behrman, who, believing he will never create a work of art that people will buy thereby making him rich and famous, yet creates one single work of life-giving art, but which goes (almost) unnoticed—(because you and I notice!). This unsung and lowly artist-hero created a single painted ivy-leaf clinging to an alleyway wall in the face of winter’s onslaught, a willful leaf that saved the life of a young woman, lying in bed behind the opposite window, whose despair was driving her into death’s arms. The old artist died that night from the cold; but the young woman took heart in the morning and lived… she decided that if one single ivy leaf could resist winter’s icy fingers plucking it to its doom, then she could also resist death as well. In The Gift of the Magi the same O’Henry shows us how the Spirit of Christmas can be real in our lives as a Love Story – that we can each sacrifice our “pearl of great worth” for the Beloved, and, in the Love Story, it would go without saying that the Beloved would sacrifice her “pearl of great worth” for her Lover. O’Henry’s story makes us value and want to experience this Love; so, like the story’s hero we make this type of love the Adventure of our life.
            Tarzan was perhaps the earliest of my heroes. I so much preferred the Tarzan of Edgar Rice Burroughs to the Weismuller-esque Tarzans of cinema. Instead of Hollywood’s pseudo-buffed strongman swimmer, Me-Tarzan-You-Jane type of monosyllabic troglodyte, Burroughs gave me the vision of a polyglot and exquisitely educated Tarzan-Lord Greystoke whose first language was that of the Great Apes, and whose first man-language was French (albeit of a Belgian sort, bien sûr!). It was Lord Greystoke, the English aristocrat reared in the wilds of “darkest Africa,” who rose up through battle with his peers to be the white King of the Mangani, the tribe of Great Apes, and who later, in his persona of Lord Greystoke, would bring to the world of human injustices in the cities of Europe, the savage justice of the animals, the justice of the strong individual committed decisively to right action, in which context his “tribe” would remain whole and secure.
            It was James Fennimore Cooper who introduced me to Deerslayer, the hero of his Leather-Stocking Tales. This was the natural man who could have been the model for Nietzsche’s Zarathustra, a white man in the savage world of the early American frontier, who uses all of his natural gifts, those inherited from his “whiteness” as well as those learned from his long frequentation of the native wild-places and their inhabitants, to become the exceptional man in both environs.
            Another of my heroes is Mozart’s Papageno, the sidekick-to-the-hero of Die Zauberflöte. I think, though, that Papageno is important to me for different reasons; he is more a type or model-of-man that I have chosen to carry around with me so that I remember what has become important in this modern world of ours. But let me be painfully realistic about this particular hero-model: Classism continues to exist in these supposedly class-free democracies of ours; and my experiences have taught me that I am a class hybrid. I do not fully belong, either by birth or by sentiment, to the privileged (moneyed) classes or to the normal working classes. Were I to have been alive during the French Revolution and the Terror, I would have been guillotined—that is clear to me; for even though the principle occupants of my porte-monnaie are nearly always only dust-bunnies, my education places me socially in a privileged (albeit not moneyed) class, in an inter-class ni chèvre, ni chou. I experienced this in-betweenness throughout my adult working life, before the Academy, because most of the jobs that sustained me during my education were of the laboring sort. I did not mind the labor then and I still do not; but those laboring around me and at my side were often made uncomfortable by me because it seemed apparent to them that my life was not exactly like theirs. My education was changing the very nature of my social reality; following in the footsteps of Odysseus, the in-between course on the map of my life was already being charted, and was leading me to very different destinations, both short-term and long-term, from my companions.
            So Papageno sings to me the joy of the authentic common man, which is a testimony to Mozart’s genius. In a high-minded society whose courtly values and expressions were dominated by Verdi and Italian opera, with the creation of this Bird-Man character Mozart seemed to have understood how, and then dared, to translate the heart of a normal, socially powerless “simple man” into a language and for an audience that would only ever attend the Volksoper, whose joy was to share in the life and miseries of a bawling and grousing, but faithful and good hearted volks-hero-sidekick whose highest lament, in the German language of the people, is his lost-love (lyrics in German and English here; YouTube aria here). Mozart’s creation of this type of hero is significant, in part, because it anticipates the “rise of the masses,” which defines in many ways the 19th century. This is also most certainly why romantic lyrics, such as those of the famous Donizetti aria, Una Furtiva Lagrima, [Pavarotti], from his operatic melodrama, L'elisir d'amore, [1830s] continue to move us all, of all classes—because they validate our individual experience of the post-19th century world, and especially of that experience we all most seek out—Love.
            I read Hermann Hesse’s Narcissus & Goldmund for the first of many times when I was an undergraduate student of religion, only to realize that, in very fundamental ways that I could not remedy in myself, I was both Narcissus and Goldmund. I was a walking contradiction; but I also began to understand why the life of a seminarian was not going to be for me. I have also “felt” the anguish of Flaubert’s Emma Bovary as she broke through the wall of 19th century French morality, which threatened to suffocate her. Her break-through (1856), which makes her the heroic prequel of Nietzsche’s Zarathustra (1883), also transforms her into a spiritual and social pariah unto her death. And yet I, also, had felt along with Emma Bovary both the boredom of the mundane routines that await the “normal” life, as well as that intoxicating moment when we realize that we each hold our own destiny, our fate, in our own two hands. She made her choices, I mine.
            I am thrilled, and moved, each time I read through Milton’s Paradise Lost. After Satan and his legions have been cast out of the heavens and into the deepest regions of hell—Satan picks himself up, shakes himself off, sees laying stunned around him his myriad warriors, and, not ever one to give himself up as beaten, this prodigious angel shouts out to them in a great, virile voice: “Awake! Arise, or be for ever fall’n! (Book I).” And how much have I learned about the world’s truth when, in Book II at the war council of the fallen gods, I hear the poet sing of Belial:
in act more graceful and humane:
A fairer person lost not Heavn’n! He seemed
For dignity composed and high explóit,
But all was false and hollow though his tongue
Dropped manna…;

or when Moloch, “the strongest and the fiercest spirit/That fought in Heav’n, now fiercer by despair”— in response to the deceptive and cowardly words of Belial, spoke words of absolute clarity and frankness: “My sentence is for open war…” And then there is Milton’s Satan, an exquisite creation if ever there was. Intent on wreaking havoc at the heart of his Enemy’s creation, Satan penetrates into Eden to seek out Eve and lead her into temptation. In this encounter (Book IX, 455ff) Milton reconstructs for us one of the most interesting experiences in all of the worlds, literary and real-life: Satan meeting Beauty, and Malice is struck dumb! This is the original Beauty meeting the Beast.

She most, and in her look sums all delight:
Such pleasure took the Serpent to behold
This flowery plat, the sweet recess of Eve
Thus early, thus alone: Her heavenly form
Angelick, but more soft, and feminine,
Her graceful innocence, her every air
Of gesture, or least action, overawed
His malice, and with rapine sweet bereaved
His fierceness of the fierce intent it brought:
That space the Evil-one abstracted stood
From his own evil, and for the time remained
Stupidly good; of enmity disarmed,
Of guile, of hate, of envy, of revenge:

All of these books are standing on my shelves—lovely sets covering the walls from floor to ceiling. And yet, in the interests of transparency, I do also have to admit that while I own copies of others, as well, I have not yet been successful in wading through Thomas Mann’s The Magic Mountain (Der Zauberberg), which is of a density that defies the laws of physics; and, frankly, I have to also admit that I would rather die or suffer serious dismemberment before plunging into the interminable 7-volume wasteland of Proust’s In Search of Lost Time (A la recherche du temps perdu). My wife loved Proust… but, call me silly.

All of those whom I have met in these collective pages—these guides, continue to roam through the corridors of my life, my own private herd (flock? gaggle? school?) of Daimoni; and unlike the single and limited Daimon of Socrates, whose only job was to point out to Socrates the way he should not go, my myriad of Daimoni continue to illuminate my path in all the varied and sundried circumstances of my life. They are the sign-posters who attend me and illuminate the dark places on the path of how I should go. In our broken and fragmented world where lessons and rituals are being forgotten as quickly as computer passwords, how else are we supposed to learn how to “do” real-world living and dying?
            In my life I have followed Horatio’s example in the face of loss—saying farewell to a friend: Good night, Sweet prince… and Shakespeare’s words actually expressed truly what I was experiencing in that moment of my own grief and loss. Horatio’s words taught me what to say in my own real-life pain, and they gave me comfort worthy of my feelings. This is the phenomenology, the lived space, of the Reading Life. Our lives are a flash in the pan, here today gone tomorrow, gone in the twinkling of an eye, ashes to ashes, dust to dust… all truthful sayings that have been, and are used in real situations by real people experiencing real grief.

“I” am a handy Fiction upon which to hang the story of my life… the cohesion that links the passage of my days into an historical continuity, into the narrative continuum of Me, into my Noble Lie. I will be many things in my life. Or, perhaps more philosophically, there will be many pieces of me, many facets, that reflect the various ideas I will value as I pass through these worlds of mine.

(Modified from an original essay published November, 2012)

Further reading: