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:

Sunday, April 1, 2018

Boredom


~by David Aiken~  

Boredom is not a phenomenon from the world. It is an echo from an inert mind.

In his novel Le Rouge et le Noir, which was published in 1830, Stendhal writes of his protagonist, Julien Sorel, that he frightens his youthful peers because of his excessive ‘energy’.  
Just to introduce the character briefly, Julien Sorel is a bourgeois clerk librarian who is employed by a wealthy peer of the French aristocracy. Sorel is poor, a country bumpkin from ‘lesser’ France (i.e., the provinces), and has the (mis-)fortune to be transplanted from the hinterlands of France into the brilliant and complex aristocratic ecosystem which is at the core of 19th century Parisian society (i.e., the enriched, the endowed, the entitled, and the ennobled). Although he is not yet a member of the clergy, Julien Sorel is educated in the tradition of poor humanist priests; regrettably, however, he is also socially ambitious in a world where the social classes can never successfully mix. The plot in The Red and the Black hinges precisely on this “caste” tension, where the irresistible force of a socially humble man’s individual merit and ambition is pitted against the immovable rock of society’s lethargically enshrined rules of inherited rank.
            Because of Julien Sorel’s education and personal intellectual merit and efforts, as well as a little pushing from his priestly teachers, once our budding Tartuffe becomes established in his clerical employ in Paris, he discovers that his learning and his reflective habits of mind intimidate the indolent but aristocratic young people in his entourage—those who have inherited their merits and their high-society positions from their wealthy families and connections. From this strain between Julien and his social milieu shall unfold more complexity in the plot intrigue, of course; and so, writes Stendhal about this bourgeois arriviste Julien, “Dans ce siècle, où toute énergie est morte, son énergie leur fair peur.”

So, the first characteristic in this story for our consideration is énergie, which it seems should be understood as being something like intellectual daring, emotional drive, or just simply commitment to an idea that inspires and moves our hero to action. In the context of this description Stendhal creates an additional tension between ridicule, which serves to oppress and enthrall Parisian society in general, and an intriguing notion of personal vitality, which renders certain individuals social mis-fits who seem always to be crusading for some greater fairness in or amelioration of the social context.
To be exact, Stendhal’s narrative reasoning suggests that the fear of ridicule had long since died in his 19th century, leaving behind a particular hardened ‘moral’ shell for the coming generations of society; and this moral shell of codified and inflexible opinion both dominates individuals and transforms them into a homogeneous flock. This staid mass, in turn, demands from its younger constituent elements that each should conform to inherited ideas and usages, and it uses ridicule and mockery to subdue and beat the wayward down into submission. The idea, by way of metaphor, is that as we grow up we are enculturated through a cookie-cutter mold, which in turn comforts the previous generations of our society because the elders can then rest assured that one young pressed cookie will look just like another and that all cookies will look just alike for the foreseeable future. The promise of success in such a world lies in conformity—like peas in a pod, everyone is and acts like everyone else. [By way of a comparable albeit more explicitly philosophical excursus: in his 1689 “A Letter about Toleration” §4 The limits on toleration, John Locke writes about precisely the same type of cookie-making zealotry that accompanies the imposed and imposing conformity in the Christian religious communities of his day.]

The second characteristic to which Stendhal draws our attention in his novel is to the adhesive that unites the herd, this society, into one homogeneous group. The binding glue for this particular 19th century Parisian society, which is so tightly girdled and entrapped inside the mold of its received ideas, opinions, manners, etc., is ridicule. The vital piece of information here is that the younger generations are not even bothered by the fear of ridicule, because they have simply slipped into the dead, but actively constraining cookie mold as inheritors of a previous generation’s battle of words and ideas. The young themselves have no intellectual or emotional investment in the mold that is imposed on them, and which they unwittingly adopt. They are taught the “proper” way of doing things, and their world asks of them not that they should have their own ideas and battles, but only that they should conform to what they have received from those who have gone before. The intellectual battles for ideological terrain are long past; theirs is now simply to continue to change the dressings on the metaphorical and never-healing wounds. 
            In his chronicling of 19th century France, Stendhal minutely observes and dissects the phenomenon of cultural transmission. There is an inherently dialectical and dialogical tension among and between generations. One generation fights for its manners, usages, and beliefs, and then passes that acquired ‘body’ of beliefs and actions onto the children and the children’s children, who receive and believe because they respect or fear their parents and their elders. In the best of cases, from the point of view of a Nietzschean philosopher anyway, as the child becomes the adult of the new generation he will challenge the teachings he has received, fighting his own battles and winning through to his own understanding of the world. In most cases, though, this struggle will not occur (so also says Nietzsche!); and the succeeding generation, aimless, will meekly ramble around until individuals of a same class come together into a free-ranging herd, conforming to and obeying the cookie-press precepts and “truths” they received through the mother-milk.

This brings us to the third characteristic that interests Stendhal in Le Rouge et le Noir ennui, or boredom. Cookies, per our metaphorical usage, are uniformly jaded. They are not encouraged to challenge their shape, nor the color of their sprinkles, nor their position on the serving plate; they are simply pressed out and expected to sit patiently, in all the glory of their cookie-ness, waiting until whatever in the world is going to happen inevitably happens. And so, goes proverbial wisdom, it should be with every generation’s children. In such a metaphor, coming-into-adulthood, except on the rare occasion, is not marked by the cookie-individual personally doing battle with the dragons that live in the hidden places of our minds, dragons that have snuck in through the education we have received and that have tucked themselves away in the corners of our imagination, dragons that have carefully secreted themselves in our most shadowy places and there patiently await the Dawning-of-Their-Day. (—The image of dragons is from the first discourse in Nietzsche’s Zarathustra; Immanuel Kant would have very properly called such ‘mind-critters’, Verstandeswesen).
            In the social construct that Stendhal is opening up to us, the typical coming-into-adulthood tends to be marked by acceptance of and conformity to the teachings and traditions received from the hands of the Elders. This means that the excitement of discovery for self, the heuristic call of the wild and of engaging in one’s own personal and private ‘heroic’ tussles against the demons that attend us and stalk us, is not only not an outcome desired by the Elders of our societies (including our educational institutions), but it is aggressively discouraged, indeed excluded from those individual right-of-passage experiences that are considered, at least by Nietzschean philosophers, to be healthy and good. So it would seem that we may tentatively conclude that it is therefore ‘the way of things’ in human society that we should be profoundly bored.
           Like Nietzsche after him with his ideas about the world’s Great Men and of social evolution through their Will to Power, Stendhal seemed to understand that each generation is automatically the hero of its own stories. However, while this may be true of generations, most individuals probably will not ever become authentically heroic, precisely because they are being pressed and molded into the societal cookie patterns (teachings and traditions) that require no individual thought or action, but only obedience to the principles of conformity and a passive mind. This irrepressible ennui at the heart of Stendhal’s vision of 19th century France, whose controlling mechanism is ridicule, is directly translatable today by our alpha-state inducing relationship to education, to work, and to technology, which first lures our eyes to the screen, then dulls our brains and senses.
Ennui – the emotional flat-line of the Nietzschean masses. This is the defining characteristic of the Merseaults (…remember Camus’ L’Etranger) of our world, of the “outsider” who does not remember whether his mother died today, yesterday, or whether she is still sitting at home right now having her afternoon tea and crumpets.

However, we must not become complacent, believing that all is completely undone for the thinking imagination. The world become existential and therefore ultimately unpredictable, still invites the individual to dare. To dare to rebel; to dare to listen to the sound of the different drummer; and to dare to follow the path toward the sound of that new drumbeat by taking the high road of our own thoughts and dreams and visions, that most solitary and desert way which so titillated and so seduced Stendhal’s Julien Sorel and Mlle de la Mole, and which so profoundly enthused Nietzsche’s Zarathustra. To be sure, the terminus of this journey is seldom, if ever, specific happiness. But then how could it be? Are we not, after all, daring to break the pressed cookie mold, and thereby necessarily drawing down upon ourselves the disapprobation, indeed the wrath, of the Elder generations of cookie-makers? But while this journey’s end may not be happiness in the most traditional sense of social contentment, Nietzsche has argued that we will finally find at the end of that road freedom in the truest philosophical sense.
            And what will these new cookies-sans-molds look like? Some will make great contributions to the world of men; some will wreak great havoc. Some will become admired; some reviled. All will be Rebels in courage. Thinkers of thoughts independent. Ayn-Randian-type Architects of their own realities. New-world Iconoclasts. The Ridiculed. The Isolated and Insular. The Street Fighters of the world.  The Alive. And finally –the Dead.

(Modified from an original essay published August 29, 2012)

Further reading: Roland Barthe’s essay, “Toys”.

Thursday, March 1, 2018

Who is That Masked Man?



~by David Aiken~


We are often told, or perhaps it is just that we hear it so very often said, that we should really just try to be ourselves, that this is what is truly important in Life. But then this injunction seems, in turn, to park us high-and-dry on the horns of another dilemma, which is: What precisely is this self that is supposed to be the true me, which everyone says ‘I’ should really just try to be? And how do I find it? And how can I know for sure that this is the real me?

§ Private Man and Public Man. It is an obvious entry into our reflection to consider the possibility that, generally speaking, there are two of me wandering around the world. (Good Grief! As if one of me were not more than enough…). Anyway… to the great dismay of many, there seem to actually be two meandering MEs kicking around the universe. There is the me that fusses around the house fixing reluctantly (un)-flushing toilets, and using rather colorful language to encourage the reluctance away; the me that sings silly and even completely inane ditties to the dog and the wife (— but certainly not to universal acclamation, although the dog does not seem to mind overly much); the me that wanders around the house, bewhiskered and hair hirsute, wearing long-out-of-fashion clogs and clad in warm flannel-y house pants with black & white polar bears on them … thinking about some book in hand or muttering about things I have forgotten to do. This is the me at home, the me that is not for public consumption, the Private Man-me.
Then there is the me that stands in front of the classroom correctly shoed (for the most part anyway) and trousered (the polar-bear pants become a wishful and wistful Distant Thought…); the shaved version of me that has generally managed to put some orderliness to hair; that uses more careful language to convey more formal concepts to rapt audiences of youthful disciples of philosophy (—actually, this may in fact be the me-in-a-dream variation of me); this is the me that saves the silly ditties for the more appropriate private and therefore captive audiences at home. This is the Civic Me, the me for public consumption, the Public Man-me.
So, at the very least, there is one same individuum, which is me, but this individuum wears at least two distinct masks, it acts out at least two personae.

§ Self (le soi/moi, das Selbst). Amidst this growing collection of apparent selves, I am mindful that I
have somewhere [in “Hermeneia. An Anatomy of History and Ab-Wesenheit (1996)”] asked the rhetorical question: “What is man if not himself a nexus drifting toward forgetfulness, if not himself an elusive apparition in the time continuum… a junction of converging life-currents?” So for the sheer playfulness of it, let us pretend for one Heraclitan moment that behind the masks, both Public and Private, I am/have no fixed self, no immutable and stable ‘thing’ that is just simply me, no real core ‘thing’ or ‘essence’ that corresponds to the idea of Who, when I am asked to respond to the philosophically stroppy question, ‘Who do you think you are?”
In reality, this last question is rather tricky to answer. Because it does not seem quite correct to say anymore, as we used to confidently assert in my more youthful days of Nietzsche-inspired hippyism, that I am trying to find my ‘center’ or that I am trying to get centered —the (conceptual) center does not hold here in this Heraclitan articulation of my-Self. So, it is neither truly nor even metaphorically possible for me to get ‘centered’. Nor is it necessarily correct for me to say that I am the sum and totality of my days—the clear end-time of my own personal History; but rather, it seems that each fleeting day is making its own particular little contribution to each of my preceding days in a deceptive layering effect. And yet there does not seem to be any fixed or permanent underpinning to me that collects and stockpiles all my accumulating days together in just one place at any given time, no bottom layer in the layer cake; but it seems rather that there is just a flowing transience that is the me-locus (location, geography) where events happen, for a very brief while, in terms of this body-version of me. And while it is undeniably true that there is this Body-locus, which right now lives and teaches philosophy in this place, it seems equally accurate to affirm that “I” am not exactly equal to the simple material presence of my body parts in this time and in this space.
There is also another element of me, which lives together with this body and which seems to loom out from behind its apertures—a rather mysterious and complex Mental Persona, yet a third mask, a psychological vitality that one tends to call Mind. This Mind-me is the interpreter of the world that is rushing into Body-me, non-stop, through the data-collecting tools that are my Skin, Eyes, Ears, Nose, and Mouth; it is the Mind-me that endlessly organizes the information collected by my body, that shows me ways of making sense of my passage through space and time and the continuum of the World of Men, and that translates and thus transforms inchoate and muddled body-information into choate Mind-meaning.

For the most part, it is certainly true to say that an infant begins its life as a rather passive ‘knowledge-gathering animal’, accepting all the randomness of information that comes its way. This is the way learning happens for the very young and the young. However, as the child grows in knowledge and understanding, discernment and judgment follow on the heels of information; and then the child begins to learn how to separate out (aus-legen for readers of German hermeneutics) among the pieces of the world and among the shards of interpretation that have been fed to him – the child begins to grow into an awareness of the shifting and transient ‘edges’ of a self/not-self sort; it begins to lay out and knit together the first interlaces in its own personal tapestry. This marks the beginnings of the child’s move toward autonomy, independence, and personal freedom—toward it-self. In the process of child-becoming-adult, educators normally expect a certain degree of “seeing” to begin taking place – of a partial but ever-increasing understanding about where an individual’s personal weave can fit into the greater tapestry of the entire world that is given to us. The Oedipal ‘You “see,” don’t you?’ is really a loaded question. And Nietzsche was right to see in us, in the creation of self, the work of an artist over the course of a lifetime. So, in its most fulfilled and authentic form (existentially speaking), a human life is the creation of Self as Life-Art.

§ Nouns and Verbs. Continuing to reflect upon this murky idea originally suggested by the Greek philosopher Heraclitus, one of Nietzsche’s later contributions to the Great Conversation of Ideas is that individuals should continually strive, each and every day, to think themselves into creation. Now while it is accurate to say that we derive the initial contours of our-Self from the particular cultural soup into which we are plunged at birth, and which gives us the rudiments of language, relationships, and values, that soup does not determine finally who we ‘are’ nor who we ‘can be’ during and through our becoming. Who we can be in the world flows out of continual acts of our own willing and doing; and the Self we create is both measured by and limited by, the strength of our desire to sculpt our-Selves into an Image that we dream or envision. This is the psychological import of Nietzsche’s Will to Power – and this Willing lies at the heart of our own personal affirmation of our-Self. So it is more helpful as well as more accurate philosophically speaking, to understand our-Self not as Noun-idea, as some substantive, fixed ‘thing’ that is some-Thing in and of it-self, but rather to think it as Verb-process, as active and doing—as striving and struggling to be truly Quickened (a verbal idea, as in ‘the quick and the dead’) during all the minutes of our days, paying attention to create our-Selves dynamically beautiful during each of the days that attend us.
It is also Nietzsche’s clear notion, however, that in the individual’s creation of its personal weave pattern, there is no room to incorporate materially into our design the various tag-along Verstandes-creatures left-over from our Western mythological heritage, such as the Soul or the Un- or Sub-conscious, not because philosophers think to disprove their existence (some do, others do not), but rather because such creatures, and whether or not they truly exist, are finally irrelevant to the living-out of our days. Obviously, we may believe all the things we wish about things mythological and metaphysical; but all our beliefs do not change either the uncompromising reality concerning the fleeting seconds of our body-life, the sheer insubstantiality of each of the days through which we journey, or the absolute incumbency that rests with each individual to do the job of creating himself by himself. The reality surrounding our ‘situation’ is quite down-to-earth: if I do not create my-Self, then an interesting self at the heart of this fleeting shape of me will not be quickened into existence; and this haphazard and default version of me will never experience, or only in the most fleeting of instances, the flight of personal creation into the beauty of Life-Art. At the end of such a body-life, if I have neglected the labor of weaving a personal and therefore substantial and quickening history into a work of art, which could be hereafter called the-story-of-my-life, then there will truly be nothing more significant in my casket than a dead body that no longer geo-localizes for the World of Men. And the Greater Art-history of Mankind will be the poorer for it.
More is the pity.

§ Hide and Seek. Finally, in addition to de- and con-fining purposes, masks are also for hiding. In the study of ancient philosophy, for instance, Socrates is the de facto mask behind which Plato hides himself. This has created untold confusion in Plato studies, because Socrates is the protagonist that Plato puts on stage; and yet it is only with the greatest difficulty that philosophers try to make plausible arguments to separate Socrates the philosopher, and his individual thought, from Plato the philosopher and his individual thought. Or is Plato’s Socrates really just the vocal platform for Plato’s own ideas? Quite messy stuff all in all; but it makes all the more pertinent the high questions of philosophy: What is real about the world? And how do I fit into that picture?

(Modified from an original essay published in August 2012)

Further Phrontisterion reading around Heraclitus: