Joyce's Achievement in Dubliners

In the 13 June 2014 article "James Joyce's 'Dubliners' still worth celebrating 100 years later" in the Milwaukee Journal Sentinel, the author notes:

Joyce used his collection's 15 stories to piteously examine how life in his native city — provincial, intolerant, hypocritical and awash in drink — had deformed its politically frustrated, economically backward and spiritually bankrupt residents.

This captures well the sense I got from re-reading the full collection of Joyce's short stories.

Dante and Human Contentment in Paradiso

What expresses the fulfillment of the highest hope for human existence?  One way to answer this question is to examine conceptions of blessedness such as heaven or nirvana.  Both are, traditionally conceived, dimensions in which there is no more striving, in which there is true contentment. In Paradiso 3.63-66, Dante observes that there is a hierarchy in heaven, and he asks Piccarda Donati whether she longs to be higher in heaven than she is and closer to the blazon light of the empyrean, God:

But tell me, do you, who are here content,

Desire to achieve a higher place, where you

Might still see more and make yourself more dear?

          (Paradiso 3.63-66; trans. Hollander)

Her response tells us, who might wonder about real joy in our lives, something about where true joy might be found, not only in heaven but also here and now.

Dante and Forgiveness in Purgatorio

Is forgiveness, for Dante, the most radical form of freedom and the fullest expression of love? I believe that it is, although not precisely as some readers of Dante sometimes argue.  I have in mind in particular the overstatement of forgiveness in terms of the existentialist reading that I perceive permeates some contemporary readings of the Commedia.

Emotions & Morals, pt. 5a: Reflections -- British Sense Theorists

Since introducing this short series of posts on the interplay between emotions and morals, I have taken a brief look at how the major British moral sense theorists -- Francis Hutcheson, David Hume, and Adam Smith -- addressed that question. It is now time for some reflections, which I will break up into two parts.

Each of the moral theories of these thinkers is subject to critique.  It is worthwhile to mention some limitations.  For the most part, however, I want to focus on what I think is perceptive and valuable in these theories and to note some areas that I think deserve additional consideration both in their own right and in their potential application to life.

Emotions & Morals, pt. 4: Adam Smith -- British Sense Theorists

Adam Smith is the last of the three major British moral sense theorists that we will examine in this series.  Smith was a friend of David Hume's, whom we discussed last time. Smith, much like Hume before him, saw himself engaged in moral science, the empirical description of how we as humans think about morals, how we make moral judgments, and how we assess the motivations, words, and actions of others.

Emotions & Morals, pt. 3: David Hume -- British Sense Theorists

Francis Hutcheson importantly influenced fellow Scot David Hume, although Hume would argue against Hutcheson's particular view of benevolent affections (see prior post on Hutcheson here). Before analyzing closely some places where Hume's moral theory differs from that of his mentor Hutcheson, what, first, is the main area of agreement between them?

Dante and Virgil: Learning from Others

To what degree can, or should, we learn from others different from ourselves? Particularly, how much can, or should, we learn about the path that we believe we must take from those who have chosen a different path?  This is a question as much about social relations and integrated thinking as it is about personal identity and self-discovery.

In Dante’s Inferno, Canto 1, Dante affirms that Virgil is his guide and teacher:

'You are my teacher and my author. 

You are the one from whom alone I took 

the noble style that has brought me honor. 

     (Inferno, 1.85-87; all references to Hollander trans.)

Here Dante refers to his prior poetic writings.  The implication is that Dante will also inform the current poetic enterprise with its subject matter. This is somewhat curious because also in the first canto we read that Virgil will not be Dante’s guide in the last stage of his journey upward to “His city” (l. 126).  The reason Virgil gives is that he is not worthy to guide Dante through paradiso to God, and the reason for his unworthiness is that Virgil himself strayed from the righteous path that Dante seeks to find:

'Should you desire to ascend to these, 

 you'll find a soul more fit to lead than I: 

 I'll leave you in her care when I depart. 

 'For the Emperor who has His seat on high 

 wills not, because I was a rebel to His law, 

 that I should make my way into His city. 

(Inferno, 1.121-126)

Despite Virgil’s spiritual state as a reprobate, as a rebel, as someone in other words who did not bend his will to God and who did not follow his righteous path, Virgil himself asserts that he is, however, fit to instruct and lead Dante through hell:

'Therefore, for your sake, I think it wise 

you follow me: I will be your guide 

(Inferno, 1.112-13)

Yes, we learn later in the Inferno that God had commissioned Virgil for this task.  In Inferno canto 2, we learn that this commission came through three heavenly ladies, but the point is that Virgil bears God’s authority when interacting with inhabitants of hell at various stages. 

My own reflections about my current identity development and self-discovery prompted these thoughts as I recently read Dante’s Inferno:  Virgil the pagan poet is authoritatively permitted, commissioned, to instruct Dante in his pursuit of light and righteousness.  Virgil may have been opposite to God but yet still may be a reliable guide -- in fact, a heaven-sent guide.  The pagan poet acts as pedagogue to the spiritual pilgrim. 

So again, the particular related struggle or question:  What and how can I learn about the path I must take from those who have chosen a different path?

This question strikes me as one of universal concern.  It assumes that we are all wrestling with the question of self, of our own respective identities, while at the same time locating ourselves in connection with (and distinction from) others, even others not of our “circle.”  Or we are negotiating ever expanding circles.  What is the proper relationship?  How close is too close?  Will I be influenced overly by their decisions rather than finding the proper balance between their ideas and my own?

Dante and Virgil, rendered by Botticelli

In my own life, I am currently near that midpoint, just as Dante was, the nel mezzo.  I am trying to ask from familiar and unfamiliar points of view big questions about God (nature, revealed truth), about God’s relations to humans (of what sort is it?), about human nature and the relation of the mind to both the brain (is there really anything that is a “mind”? Is it somehow distinct from the physical brain and chemical reactions?), and about the nature of morality in general and its relationship to God in particular (what is the precise connection? Is there a necessary foundation?).

In asking these and other questions, I find that I must necessarily do at least two things. (1) I must reevaluate what I believe by taking stock first of what I actually think (perhaps with greater precision than I hitherto have or have in some while, a valuable enterprise itself).  And (2) I must weigh that review against the ideas of others who have followed paths that I have not before trodden. Is it better? If not, why is it worse? What to pursue, what to avoid?  What to retain, what to reject?

Of late in my own life have been wondering how modern neuroscientific conceptions of the brain bear on questions of human sinfulness, ethical behavior and responsibility, and the need for salvation at all. Physiologically, what goes into cognition and moral judgment?  What implications might there be, if any, on various religious belief if philosophical and psychological theories about the modular mind and the lack of anything like a singular “self” prove to be true?  What of the question of chemical explanations for innate ideas of transcendence and the divine?

The upshot, and the connection between Dante’s poem and my own external context (and perhaps one of universal concern) is the extent to which I can learn from guides or teachers not within my circle and yet continue to follow the righteous, God-approved path.  Dante altered his path, and in so doing also altered his conception of himself -- at least expanding it.  For Dante in the dark wood of the mid point of his life, it was not a matter of interacting with things like ancient Chinese thought or neuroscience.  But on his path he was surprised to find Virgil as his guide through the Inferno, a guide limited to a portion of the journey, but reliable nevertheless and divinely commissioned however different from Dante he may have been.  But Dante the poet was also relieved and encouraged to find his guide to be Virgil, the Roman poet par excellence.  And it may be that certain connections are more important than differences to initiate our exploration of both.

How may I learn from Virgil without befalling his fate?  That is perhaps one of Dante’s questions, and it is, metaphorically, mine and, in one way or another, also all of ours.

The Loving Tensions of Peter Singer

In reading a conversation between Peter Singer and Alex Voorhoeve, I was struck by a central tension in Prof. Singer's explanation of his ethical views.  It is this.  On the one hand, the Princeton University professor insists that human persons share equal respective value and should be both considered and treated on radically equal terms.  On the other hand, he acknowledges that meaningfulness in human relationships stems from considering and treating human persons on fundamentally different terms. How do we reconcile these ideas and senses?

The Transformation of Sir Gawain’s Greenness

As a narrative poem Sir Gawain and the Green Knight imaginatively creates moral suspense -- real suspense around the strength of bravery, integrity, and virtue.  It does so for a community and individuals who might often seem exemplars of honor:  King Arthur and the knights and ladies of his Round Table.  I find this of interest now years after I first read works like Malory’s Le Morte d’Arthur, White’s The Once and Future King, and Tennyson’s Idylls of the King, because of the personal and communal transformation that occurs in Sir Gawain.

When I was a lad, I was most impressed by the ability of Arthur and Lancelot and Galahad and the like to defeat their enemies and achieve success.  Sure, I was aware of some shortcomings in the characters.  But it was their larger-than-lifeness that then captured my readerly fancy.  Now as an adult, I appreciate most the depiction of Arthur and Gawain and the like as simultaneously virtuous and flawed characters who, nevertheless, press on with a sense of duty and fidelity to themselves and to their communities.  At least this is my reaction after recently reading Merwin’s translation of Sir Gawain and the Green Knight and after reflecting on the symbolic transformation of the green belt at its ending.

Empathy in Kafka and in Life

Franz Kafka’s fantastic stories of “The Metamorphosis” and “A Country Doctor” present a narrative world that not only assumes the reader’s suspension of disbelief but also requires it.  The stories require it in order to generate in readers appropriate empathy with the characters. These two acts -- (1) the willingness to engage in the narrative world and (2) the resulting emotional engagement with the characters in their relational contexts -- enable literature to foster empathy with others in a way that transcends the constraints imposed by relational life outside of literature. “The Metamorphosis” in particular facilitates in the reader a transformation of understanding by narrating Gregor Samsa’s transformation of being.

"As It Used To Be": Children's Relationships in Vesaas

In Tarjei Vesaas’s The Ice Palace, the narrated interaction between eleven-year-olds Siss and Unn reveals the complex depths of the relationships that adolescents create. Through this innocent complexity, the Norwegian Vesaas illuminates an important dimension of what Arnold Weinstein calls the fiction of relationship.  Vesaas does so, both in his fictional story about the friendship of two young girls and in the relationship that they actively construct.

Most basically, the connection between Siss and Unn reminds readers that children’s relationships are far from simple or rudimentary merely because the participants are not adults.  Children, too, both long for relational intimacy and fashion their individual and social identity through their personal connections. It may be tempting for adults to look condescendingly on these early forays into friendship.  Vesaas challenges us not to do so.

The Fiction of Sexual Violence, pt. 3: Coetzee

In the previous two installments of this series on the fiction of sexual violence, I reflected, first, on the disabling dehumanization that is pictured in Toni Morrison's Beloved.  Next, I traced how sexual aggression creates dysfunctional and disfigured relationships in William Faulkner's Light in August.  In this post, I want to make some initial soundings into one instance of potential sexual assault in J. M. Coetzee's Disgrace.

This novel is the most complex of the three in its representations of sexual violence, and this is the reason I say "initial soundings."  I cannot here say everything I would like to say -- and that the novel invites, and deserves, to be said.

And I say "potential sexual assault," because the brilliance of Coetzee's narrative is the way in which he adroitly, and realistically, captures the ambiguities that attend instances of alleged date rape on college campuses.  Of course, David Lurie is Melanie Isaacs' professor, which adds moral entanglements to this coupling.

By focusing on a scene early in the story, I suggest that Coetzee narrates a fiction of sexual violence:  one the one hand, a story about a questionable rape; on the other hand, the alleged assault also creates deathly distance between the characters.  The relationship between Lurie and Melanie is not a given; it is made.  It is, in this sense, a fiction.  Of what the relationship is made is precisely the question that carries through a major strain of the story's conflict.

The Fiction of Sexual Violence, pt. 2: Faulkner

In the first part of this series on the fiction of sexual violence, I briefly explained the twin aspects of "fiction" according to which I will explore this theme.  I began with Toni Morrison's Beloved and a reading of the effects of Ella's experience as a sex slave (quite literally as a slave in the Antebellum South).  And I suggested that we see in her trauma how sexual violence both disables a person's capacity for love (both loving and being loved) and dehumanizes the person in the process.  In Faulkner’s Light in August, the sexual violence between Joe Christmas and Joanna Burden is different.

The Fiction of Sexual Violence, pt. 1: Morrison

This summer I (re)read a number of novels.  And I had some separate conversations about the nature and forms of sexual violence, particularly its less perspicuous manifestations in common settings.  I would like to draft some soundings -- initial probings, investigations, short essays -- on the connections between these two matters. And I hope to do so by drawing upon three novels in particular:  Toni Morrison's Beloved, William Faulkner's Light in August, and J. M. Coetzee's Disgrace.

In a series of posts, then, I plan to explore the fiction of sexual violence.  I consciously borrow the phrase from Arnold Weinstein's critical study The Fiction of Relationship.  For him, there are "two fundamental notions" that the wording of his title expresses:  "(1) the narrative literature of relationship, and (2) the view that relationship may be a fiction, something made rather than given, built out of belief, not fact" (Weinstein, 3).  What interests me here is the intersection between stories about relationships, the ways in which those relationships are constructed, and the effects of varieties of unwanted sexual aggression.

Each post may stand on its own, but I anticipate that the each piece will contribute to a larger mosaic that both deepens and broadens our (or at least my) understanding of what is or is perceived as sexual violence, its effect on individuals discretely and collectively, and what all of this suggests about the narratives in which they occur and about the relational fictions of which they are constitutive.  I begin with Morrison's Beloved. 

Moral Ambiguities in Prévost, pt. 2: Autonomy and Empathy

In my previous post on moral ambiguities in Prévost's Manon Lescaut, I observed how, even when characters and stories are explicitly said to be moral examples, the precise nature of the moral instruction may not be clear.  In particular, I asked of the ethical lesson reflected in the Chevalier des Grieux's interactions with others, "Is one to avoid (being duped into) compromising one’s moral judgment because of compassion, or, positively, to pity a libertine and lighten punishment?  Is one to recognize that pity is a virtue but that manipulating it for self-gain and moral license, as Des Grieux does, is a vice?"  In this post, I simply want to mention a couple of ways in which these questions are as alive for us today as they were for Abbé Prévost in the 1700s:  the relationship between autonomy and empathy in moral evaluation.

Narcissism on the Rise: Notable and Quotable

From D. G. Myers, Social Psychology (11^th ed.; New York:  McGraw-Hill, 2012), 54.

After tracking self-importance across the past several decades, psychologist Jean Twenge (2006; Twenge and others, 2008) reports that today’s young generation – Generation Me, she calls it -- express more narcissism (by agreeing with statements such as “If I ruled the world, it would be a better place” or “I think I am a special person”).  Narcissism scores rose over time on college campuses from Alabama to Maryland to California (Stewart & Bernhardt, 2010; Twenge & Foster, 2008, 2010).  Narcissism correlates with materialism, the desire to be famous, inflated expectations, fewer committed relationships and more “hooking up,” more gambling, and more cheating, all of which have also risen as narcissism has increased.  Narcissism is also linked to a lack of empathy -- the ability to take someone else’s perspective and be concerned about their [sic] problems -- and empathy has dropped precipitously among college students (Konrath & others, 2011).  The researchers speculate that today’s generation may be so wrapped up in online interaction that their in-person interaction skills have atrophied.  Or, they say, empathy might have declined because young people today are “feeling too busy on their paths to success,” single-mindedly concentrating on their own achievement because the world is now so competitive.  Yet, ironically, those high in narcissism and low in empathy are less -- not more – successful in the long run, making lower grades in college and performing poorly at work (Judge & others, 2006; Robins & Beer, 2001).

But what about a different version of that last ironic phenomenon (high narcissists with low empathy who are lower performing academically and professionally but nevertheless are long-term successful)?  That phenomenon which is familiar to many of us in our everyday experience has a technical explanation attached to it:  promote the jerk and make him someone else’s problem.

There actually is a social scientific explanation more nuanced than the (accurate) one that I just gave.  It is that “even if overconfidence produces subpar results, others still perceive it positively.” Therefore, a jerk, sub-par performer is elevated in an attempt to pair appropriately his status with his perceived attitude.  The thought might be something like, “Well, I find him gratingly obnoxious, but he must be the type of person who gets ahead, because he displays similar traits of authority, power, and exceptionality.” 

We may not be able to control the behavior of narcissistic jerks, but we can be more mindful not to perceive them as better than they are.  And we can take more self-conscious care to check our first psychological impression and not put them on a pedestal.

Of course, sometimes narcissists are at the top simply because they own the place.

Freud and Woolf on Art

In Civilization and Its Discontents (1929), Sigmund Freud argues that “[l]ife as we find it, is too hard for us; it brings us too many pains, disappointments, and impossible tasks. In order to bear it we cannot dispense with palliative measures” (CD 23). Art is one such “palliative,” one that features prominently in Virginia Woolf’s To the Lighthouse (1927). Whereas for Freud art is merely one means of substituting pleasure for the pain of reality by escaping reality, in Woolf’s novel art also has a palliative function, but it intersects with and merges with reality to induce pleasure, satisfaction, and intimacy within it.

Hookup Culture and Same-Sex Marriage

A fascinating book review appears in today's Wall Street Journal.  The review is by Emily Esfahani Smith of a new book by Donna Freitas called The End of Sex:  How Hookup Culture Is Leaving a Generation Unhappy, Sexually Unfulfilled, and Confused About Intimacy.

The review includes an interesting suggestion, which I had not seen before but makes perfect sense.  It is that there is a high positive correlation between the increased use of technological devices among youth -- which replaces, removes, or corrupts traditional human interaction (a la Sherry Turkle, Nicholas Carr, and many others) -- and the rise of hookup culture on college campuses. (Previous posts here and here provide a summary of Prof. Turkle's ideas.)

Something else worth pondering is a point that Prof. Freitas makes about the culture of sex on college campuses, here summarized by Ms. Smith:

In other words, many college students, who in philosophy class would surely recognize the ethical imperative not to use other people as means to an end, do so every night in their dorms. This selfishness is why, as Ms. Freitas argues, the hookup culture is intimately related to sexual assault. In both, one person uses another to satisfy a sexual or social desire without any regard for what that other person wants, needs or feels. 

Now, one might counter that the sex is consensual and so there is no assault. But the idea underlying the claim of selfish sexual use that disregards what another person "wants, needs, and feels" goes deeper than this.  It is more holistic.  The assumption seems to be that this sexual activity is done in the absence of thinking about what sex is, what it does relationally, and what it is part of holistically.   And absent these fundamental considerations, hookup sex is personally utilitarian to the extreme and, at bottom, immoral.

Professor Freitas may not go so far as I just put it (i.e., say that hookup sex is immoral), but that is apparently her instinct.  And there is something to that notion.

This discussion of campus sexuality is revealing, it seems to me, for the contours surrounding, and the connections to, the same-sex marriage debate that is now current.  Proponents of same-sex marriage tend to defend it on the basis of a "rights" argument, that it is an individual and civil right to be able to marry whomever one may wish.  But this line of argumentation, while it needs to be considered, may be similar to the hookup sex culture in this way:  it tends to assume something about the fundamental issue of what marriage is, and perhaps like hookup sex culture it misses the point.

Arguing for same-sex marriage may not always include explicitly a definition of what marriage is, but there is certainly an assumed definition, which is really a re-definition.  Redefining marriage from the conjugal view to include same-sex partners turns on the idea that marriage is simply a relationally satisfying forum, one that exists for the pursuit of the happiness, or the fulfillment of desires, of those persons involved.  One full expression of this revisionist view is given by S. Girgis, R. George, and R. Anderson:

Marriage is the union of two people (whether of the same sex or of opposite sexes) who commit to romantically loving and caring for each other and to sharing the burdens and benefits of domestic life. It is essentially a union of hearts and minds, enhanced by whatever forms of sexual intimacy both partners find agreeable. (my emphasis)

What if sexual intimacy according to whatever form that partners find agreeable turns out to be deleterious and misguided, as Prof. Freitas argues about hookup culture?  What if the potential form that sexual intimacy takes in marriage is in fact constitutive of marriage itself properly practiced?

I don't know Prof. Freitas's view of the same-sex marriage question, and I am not suggesting that she would support a conjugal view of it.  Based on the review, I doubt she would.

My main contention is simply that if one is going to discuss the merits or legitimacy of different forms of sexuality -- hookup culture on college campuses and marriage itself (because sexuality has been viewed as intrinsic to marriage) -- one needs to be candid about this:  the fact that the discussion is about, or should really be about, what sex or marriage is most basically.  And everyone in the conversation needs to be willing to engage substantively in that discussion.

The preoccupation with a supposed individual right of same-sex persons to marry obscures the logically prior and necessary question of the basic definition of marriage upon which the exercise of any right depends.  Moreover, if someone is confused about what something is and what it is a part of, as in the case of hookup culture, then the doing of that thing will have deleterious and misguided results.

To adapt the subtitle of Prof. Freitas's book, what if same-sex marriage ends up leaving a generation and its posterity confused about intimacy and what marriage really is?

Ancient Greek Tragedies and Our Own

I have been rereading some ancient Greek tragedies, and I am impressed by how relevant their themes remain, especially for our struggles in families and societies.

Of Rage and the Man

While reflecting in a recent post on the relationship between emotions and moral character, I noted that our culture, it seems, still privileges reason over emotion.  Often this occurs to the denigration or exclusion of  emotion.  It is true:  sometimes human passions can be so powerful as to result in miscalculation and excesses that are contrary to the balance inherent in a virtuous life.  But that is not necessarily the case, as I was reminded while rereading Homer's epic poems.