The Day Philosophy Died?

The comment below is taken from an online encyclopedia I was reading during research for an essay on the artistic and intellectual achievements of the High Middle Ages. It is unrelated to my essay but I thought it was interesting. What good is a subject that only a select few can even understand?

“Prior to Abelard, philosophy in the Middle Ages had not been an exclusively academic affair. It had been addressed for the most part to any well educated reader interested in the topics being discussed. Boethius's Consolation, for instance, or almost any of Augustine's or Anselm's writings, could profitably be read by any literate person. Soon, however, this all changes. Philosophy becomes an increasingly specialized discipline, pursued by and for those whose livelihood is found only in educational institutions.”

Paul Vincent Spade. The Stanford Encyclopedia of Philosophy: “Medieval Philosophy.” http://plato.stanford.edu/entries/medieval-philosophy/)

The Selfishness of the Passions

My last post (from a very long time ago) was an egotistical complaint about not feeling qualified to write an essay about Jean-Jacques Rousseau, this post is an egotistical boast about what a good grade I got on my essay about Rousseau. As you will see from the transcribed essay below, I have condemned such egotism but have not yet learned to practice what I preach. Since I was so shocked to get a perfect score with lots of flattering comments from my Literature teacher I thought it would be a good idea to get a second opinion to bring me back to earth. So rip into it folks.

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A recurrent theme in life and literature is the conflict of control between our passions and our reason. On the one hand is the desire to gratify our wants and live in a constant state of satiety where every whim is instantly gratified. On the other is the sober analysis of the long term goal and the greatest ultimate happiness for life. There are obvious problems with the first mode of living: for one, it is not always possible to do what one feels like doing. In addition, the harmful effects of indulging every emotion can be catastrophic. While living according to a strict intellectual system also has its problems and has been criticized as a diminution of humanity, following the passions alone is a selfish, egotistical way to live. Jean Jacques Rousseau, as one of the great mouthpieces advocating for the passions, shows this in his autobiographical Confessions. We will investigate the inherent selfishness of Rousseau's embrace of the passions and its ultimate destructiveness by looking at the portrayal of this mode of living in Rousseau's Confessions and three stories from three different cultures.

To begin with, a definition of the terms passion and reason is in order. Passion is essentially the same as emotion. To be guided by passions is to allow feelings and hormones to direct what a person does. Reason, on the other hand, is the intellectual contemplation of a course of action: a weighing of the pros and cons; a cost/benefit analysis engaged in before making any move. The passionate person says: “I am hungry; give me a huge juicy cheeseburger.” The reasonable person says: “I am hungry, but I am already overweight so I will not eat this huge juicy cheeseburger today.”

Rousseau observes that the “common lot of humanity” is to feel before thinking (Rousseau 666). Truly, young children are known for not using reason. Their instinctive passions show just how selfish human beings are, even from birth. Augustine, in his own Confessions nearly 1500 years before Rousseau, recounts the selfishness and envy of a baby, “not yet able to talk, but it was pale and bitter in face as it looked at another child nursing at the same breast” (Augustine 49). In adults such envy and selfishness would be justly ridiculed because such angry passion directed at another's source of sustenance would be harmful if allowed to have its way. Everyone's passion operating against another--as would inevitably be the case in a world ruled exclusively by the passions and not by reason--would lead to terrible conflict. Passion against passion in a state of war. In the end, only the most passionate would survive and have their way.

Rousseau realized the danger of different passions coming into conflict. In order to avoid the inevitable confrontation of two people with opposing passions, Rousseau says: “I withdrew as far as it lay in my power, from situations which opposed my interests to those of others, and might, consequently, inspire me with a secret, though involuntary, desire of injuring them” (670). Maybe Rousseau had the selflessness to do this, and if so it is laudable, but the fact that he did is evidence that he thought something (peace, harmony, justice) of greater importance than indulging his own selfish passion.

The competing emphasis placed on passion or reason is not new to Rousseau's generation or our own. Even as far back as the Stoic and Epicurean schools of philosophy in ancient Greece they were wrestling with the same question. The Epicureans were the embodiment of the saying: “eat, drink, and be merry, for tomorrow we die.” This selfish enjoyment of whatever the body and emotions craved, they thought, was the way to happiness. The Stoics took a different line of thinking by asserting that the ultimate good—and therefore the ultimate happiness--was to be found in virtue. For them, the physical body with its passions was a hindrance to virtue and therefore, something to be subdued. The passions, far from setting them free as Rousseau claimed, actually chained them. As Epictetus, one of the Stoic philosophers said: "freedom is secured not by the fulfilling of men's desires, but by the removal of desire." (Epictetus 84).

This quote from a Greek philosopher is remarkably similar to Buddhist thought. For Buddhists too, Nirvana is found not by fulfilling desires but by removing desires. This is illustrated in the Chinese novel Monkey or Journey to the West by Wu Ch'Eng-en. The title character, Monkey, is a proud, impetuous creature who loses his temper easily and is always ready to rush off on a whim to gratify his own vanity and pride. The Dragon King of the Eastern Ocean says to Monkey: “you must learn to control yourself and submit to the will of others, if you are not to spoil all your chances” (Ch'Eng-en 22). Monkey's one desire is to follow his own passions. As he puts it, to “amuse myself as I pleas[e]” (Ch'Eng-en 27). The quest that Monkey and his master Tripitaka are on, however, is to find Buddhist scriptures in India, not amuse themselves as they please. The theme that figures large in the story is that there is a greater good (the “quest”) in pursuance of which, personal feelings (passions) must be ignored.

Rousseau in his Confessions, however, feels that the greatest good is to amuse himself as he pleases. It is in this unfettered “state of nature” that freedom and happiness are possible. Just like the early Monkey in Ch'Eng-en's story, Rousseau states: “I worship freedom; I abhor restraint, trouble, dependence” (Rousseau 669). Unlike Monkey, he does not learn that this attitude hinders his journey to enlightenment. Rousseau is a man who looks “upon plans, which need considerable time to carry out, as decoys for fools... the least trifling pleasure which is within my reach tempts me more than the joys of paradise” (Rousseau 672). In other words, he does not have the prudence to look ahead and pick the best longterm choices but instead does whatever his feelings dictate at that moment.

This aspect of the passions—that they are irresponsible—is a major theme of the Japanese short-story Bewitched. Written by author Ueda Akinari in the Eighteenth century, Bewitched (also called A Serpent's Lust), tells the story of a young man who falls in love with a devilish woman. A case of “love at first sight” only without the happy ending typical of such stories, the hapless hero Toyo-o is enticed into pledging his love to the she-devil. Giving in to his lustful and immature passion for a woman he knows nothing about rather than contemplating his action or seeking advise, Toyo-o brings horrifying consequences on himself and others. Ignoring the reality that he is, “still dependent on my parents. I have no property of my own except the hair on my head and the nails on my fingers. I have no power to earn my own living. How could I support you? I feel wretched in my present situation. But... how can I help but overlook my filial obligations and sacrifice myself for your sake?” (Akinari 636). Although reason tells him that he cannot support the strange woman and should learn a little more about her before making a rash promise, he does so anyway because of his passion rather than his reason. This selfishness on Toyo-o's part is destructive because it opens the door for himself and others to be harmed by the consequences of his passion.

Rousseau was aware of the harmful possibilities in his espoused philosophy. Rousseau says: “my passions have made me live, and my passions have killed me” (676). A tacit admission that, though in his view he has been able to experience human existence to its full, he also has been harmed in the process. Again he says that, “my soul was ever in a state of agitation; I was devoured alternately by desires and fears” (677). Who would wish to live constantly in this state of mind? The irresponsible nature of giving in totally to the passions is shown when Rousseau says: “while I am stirred by them nothing can equal my impetuosity; I forget all discretion, all feelings of respect, fear and decency; I am cynical, impudent, violent and fearless; no feeling of shame keeps me back, no danger frightens me; with the exception of the single object which occupies my thoughts, the universe is nothing to me” (Rousseau 669).

The emotionally devastating nature of selfishly followed passions is further illustrated in Anton Chekhov's short story: The Lady With the Dog. Adultery—one of the most selfish and stereotypical examples of passion--breaks Anna's spirit and leaves her “ever in a state of agitation.” Her passion overcomes her so that, “I could no longer control myself, nothing could hold me back” (1527). Rather than bringing her happiness, however, she comes to despise herself and lives constantly in remorse (1527). Remorse too is a passion but not one most people would like to live with. At the end of the story, when their relationship had brought them nothing but unhappiness, Anna silently asks herself: “was not their life a broken one?” (1534).

This is a good question to consider in a discussion of the passions. While some passions are harmless and some may even better the world, too often, as these three stories have shown, passions divorced from reason will bring pain and unhappiness into the world. We have seen that even Rousseau realized this to some degree, although he was not able--or willing perhaps--to mellow his passion with the exercise of reason. Of Rousseau we might ask: was not his life a broken one? Controlled by his passions like the characters in these stories, he brought harm to himself and--despite his naturally gentle disposition—who can doubt that others were hurt by his selfishness more than if he had considered the happiness of others rather than following his own passions.

Works Cited

Akinari, Ueda. Bewitched. The Norton Anthology of World Literature: 1650-1800: Volume D. Ed. Sarah Lawall and Maynard Mack. 2nd ed. W.W. Norton Company, 2002.

Augustine. The Confessions of St. Augustine. Trans. John K. Ryan. Image Books, Garden City, New York. 1960.

Chekhov, Anton. The Lady With the Dog. The Norton Anthology of World Literature: 1800-1900: Volume E. Ed. Sarah Lawall and Maynard Mack. 2nd ed. W.W. Norton Company, 2002.

Ch'Eng-en, Wu. Monkey. The Norton Anthology of World Literature: 1650-1800: Volume D. Ed. Sarah Lawall and Maynard Mack. 2nd ed. W.W. Norton Company, 2002.

Epictetus. Discourses: Books 3 and 4. Translated by Percy Ewing Matheson. Courier Dover Publications, 2004. http://books.google.com/books?id=1pDMSCUMNIgC&printsec=frontcover#PPA84,M1

Rousseau, Jean-Jacques. Confessions: The Norton Anthology of World Literature: 1800-1900: Volume E. Ed. Sarah Lawall and Maynard Mack. 2nd ed. W.W. Norton Company, 2002.

Writer's Block

I should be writing an essay right now. Needless to say, I'm not. The subject is Jean Jacques Rousseau's views on passion vs. reason. No, I don't have a clue how to write five to eight pages on this topic. I have begun by rereading some of his Confessions. What's this? It appears Rousseau himself struggled with putting words on paper. He admits, “My ideas arrange themselves in my head with almost incredible difficulty... Hence comes the extreme difficulty which I find in writing. My manuscripts, scratched, smeared, muddled and almost illegible, bear witness to the trouble they have cost me.” (671). Unable to sit down and write impromptu, he instead slowly mulled things over in his head, often for days. “I write in my brain; one may judge how slowly, especially in the case of a man utterly without verbal memory and who has never been able to learn six lines by heart in his life. Many of my periods have been turned and turned again five or six nights in my head before they were fit to be set down on paper” (672). Letters were even worse for Rousseau. He says that “such occupation is a perfect torture to me. I cannot write a letter on the most trifling subject, which does not cost me hours of fatigue” (672).

Well, I suppose I'm not alone after all. Still, if anyone has resources to recommend on Rousseau's flight from reason into the land of feelings, I still have a few more days before this paper is due. I'm tired of feeling like I can't write this and instead want a reason to hope I can write an intelligent essay.

Jean Jacques Rousseau, Confessions. The Norton Anthology of World Literature: 1650-1800: Volume D. Ed. Sarah Lawall and Maynard Mack. 2nd ed. W.W. Norton Company, 2002.

"An adventure is only an inconvenience rightly considered."

The '91 Chevy van has been just about everywhere in the time we've had it. But it is—in polite language—“over the hill” now. This was proved on our last little road trip. Gassing up in Ripon was where trouble first came knocking—literally. Accelerating away from the pump we were all startled to hear an ominous knocking sound coming from somewhere underneath the van. Despite fearful entreaties from the back seat not to get back on the freeway, we got back on the freeway. As we accelerated the knocking sound accelerated to a frantic staccato. Then, mysteriously, it stopped. Unfortunately, our knocking friend would come back with erratic constancy, like a blind beggar pounding the road after us with staff in hand, usually catching up with us at slow speeds or when we accelerated from a stop.

One theory propounded was that the passenger side trim around the wheel-wells and down the entire side of the van had somehow gotten loose and was flapping against the underside of the car. In fact, the trim had gotten loose and was feebly clinging in only a few places. But this did not account for the knocking sound; after jamming it back in place and continuing our drive: “tock... tock... tock, tock, tocktocktocktock."

At one point we parallel parked on a busy main-street and peered underneath the van (I say parked but, in fact, we watched and listened while moving the van back and forth between two empty spaces). Needless to say, this was a terrible place to diagnose a problem so we finally moved to an empty parking lot down the street to continue our investigation. We concluded it had something to do with the drive shaft. Since there was nothing to be done hundreds of miles from home we headed for I-5 once more. At the stoplight by the freeway on-ramp it became apparent that the fake chrome and rubber trim, loose since the beginning of the trip, had finally released its feeble hold for good and was trailing on the ground. Flicking out his Benchmade tactical folder, Matt leaped out into the intersection and slashed through the wayward appendage. He tossed the rubbery snake into the van and jumped in after it as the light turned green and we tocktocktocktocked through the intersection and onto the freeway.

All went well until our stop at Taco Bell some hours later. Here someone inadvertently pressed down on the passenger side window button while trying to lock the van. In most cars this is easily remedied but in a car where the window motor only goes one direction—namely down—this is more serious. Usually after waiting five or ten minutes it is possible to get it to go up a quarter inch and, with patience, eventually the window can be rolled up completely in this way. After about two hours, however, there was still a half inch crack blowing in cold night air.

We made it home in one piece. The journey over, we grabbed duffels, hopped out, and slammed doors. Wait, what's this? Why is the driver-side door rebounding open after being shut? Inviting us with sentient motion on another trip perhaps? Oh... I forgot: that door doesn't latch anymore.

Confessions of a Twentieth-Century Pilgrim

I finally found another one! What am I talking about? I'm talking about the Malcolm Muggeridge book that I found at the public library bookstore. I only buy used books, which is a good way of cultivating patience since the delay could be a few years (assuming I don't use Amazon, in which case the delay is only a few days). But the delayed gratification this time was worth it. I had never even heard of Muggeridge's Confessions of a Twentieth-Century Pilgrim before pulling it down in trembling excitement, my gasp of pleasure sounding loud among the silent shelves.

Muggeridge's autobiographical Confessions was at times merely a collection of quotes, at times a strangely impersonal narrative of his life, at other times a heartfelt cry of prayer. But at all times it was fascinating to read. Opening on the scene of his induction into the Catholic church at an advanced age, the author then turns a backwards glance on the stages of his life that had brought him to that moment. The boy, the teacher, the journalist, the soldier are some of the parts that the Englishman Muggeridge played on a variety of continents and in a variety of countries. While some could fault the almost desultory quotes from Augustine, Solzhenitsen, Simone Weil, among many, and Muggeridge's own philosophical reflections for breaking up the flow of the biography, they were my favorite part. I can't resist copying some of these reflections.

"the pursuit of knowledge without reference to truth which alone gives knowledge its validity" (51).

"The other true purpose of school studies--education--is to inculcate humility--not just a virtue, but the condition of virtue. From this point of view, it is perhaps even more useful to contemplate our stupidity than our sin." --Simone Weil (52).

"In great wealth, great poverty; in health sickness; in numbers, deception. Gorging, left hungry; sedated, left restless... So we press on through the valley of abundance that leads to the wasteland of satiety, passing through the gardens of fantasy; seeking happiness ever more ardently, and finding despair ever more surely" (64).

"Darwinian evolution, a very rickety hypothesis based on some old bones or a tooth discovered in Kenya or Nanking, and infiltrating all the different disciplines of learning, and making an ultimate nonsense of them all" (76).

"Of course, she enjoys the inestimable advantage of never looking at TV, listening to radio or reading the newspapers, and so has a clear notion of what is really going on in the world; the siren-voice of the consensus does not reach her" (136).

Why did Muggeridge become a Catholic? In part at least, "it was the Catholic Church's firm stand against contraception and abortion which finally made me decide to become a Catholic" (140).

Throughout his book there is one recurrent theme, somewhat contradictory to the idea of an autobiography: the theme of humility.

"He set a window in the tiny dark dungeon of the ego in which we all languish, letting in a light, providing a vista, and offering a way of release from the servitude of the flesh and the fury of the will into what St Paul called 'the glorious liberty of the children of God'" (131).

"God, humble my pride, extinguish the last stirrings of my Ego, obliterate whatever remains of worldly ambition and carnality, and help me to serve only Thy purposes, to speak and write only Thy words, to think only Thy thoughts, to have no other prayer than 'Thy will be done'" (75).

And that's a pretty good thought to end with.

Malcolm Muggeridge, Confessions of a Twentieth-Century Pilgrim. San Francisco, Harper and Row Publishers. 1988. Originally: Conversion, A Spiritual Journey

The Pride in Monkey

I am currently taking a world literature class. (Who would have guessed.) Anyway, I am. Despite my early fears that its primarily non-western selection of readings would make for a terrible class, I have been pleasantly surprised. We read a few chapters from a long Chinese novel. (At a few thousand pages, longer than a Russian novel even.) I don't think "novel" is even the best way to describe it; it is more like an epic or something. Journey to the West or Monkey as it is more often called, chronicles the journey of a Buddhist priest named Tripitaka from China who is commissioned to find "scriptures" in India. Along the way he picks up a number of helpers or "disciples" to assist him. The first and most important of these is the title character: Monkey.

The story is definitely fantastic (I mean like a fantasy, but it's pretty good too). Monkey really is a monkey, and along with him a whole host of other talking monsters make their appearance in the tale. My class is an on-line course so for this 16th century story by Wu Ch'eng-en we were asked to examine the flaws in Monkey's character. The thing that most struck me and that relates to my last post on C.S.Lewis is how Monkey is consumed by pride and a desire to show off. He says himself: “I only care for fame” (56). This leads him into conflict with supposed monsters rather than stating his mission as he was ordered. If he had done everything right, things would have gone better for the pilgrims but, of course, we also would not have much of a story to read.

Monkey's pride is his greatest fault. At the very beginning he wishes to elevate himself over all the other monkeys and be their king(12). It is a desire to “show off his own powers” that goads him to many of his actions, as the heavenly buddha Kuan-yin points out (27). It is his pride that makes him leave Tripitaka in a huff when rebuked for killing the robbers and for pursuing his own will in so many other episodes. But what shows this better than anything else is what Monkey calls himself: “The Great Sage Equal to Heaven.” The arrogance of this is stunning. Monkey is basically saying that he (remember, a monkey) is on the same footing as all the deities of heaven. Was not this the same over-weaning pride of Satan when he set himself up in opposition to God? For this sin, of which we only get a flashback of because it happens before the opening of the story, Monkey is imprisoned and later put on probation to learn humility under the care of Tripitaka, a common buddhist priest.

The fact that Monkey acknowledges Tripitaka as his “master” is a sign that Monkey is on the right path to learning humility. Before he “had no master and indeed refused obedience to any power in heaven or earth” (26). The examples above, however, along with many other illustrations of his actions, show that he still has a long way to go. The Dragon King admonishes: “You must learn to control yourself and submit to the will of others, if you are not to spoil all your chances (22). We only read a few chapter from the start of the tale so I only got to see an itty-bitty improvement in Monkey but supposedly by the end (and remember it's a long story) he does indeed learn to control his pride and, in Buddhist fashion, reach "enlightenment." There is a dual quest in Monkey that makes it worthwhile reading; the outward exciting journey to India for "scriptures" and the inward delineation of a character on a personal journey.

Wu Ch'eng-en. Monkey (Journey to the West). The Norton Anthology of World Literature: Volume D: 1650-1800. Ed. Sarah Lawall and Maynard Mack. New York: W.W.Norton and Co, 2002. 2nd ed.

Mere Christianity, Part 3: The Great Sin.

Normal pride.

“If I am a proud man, then, as long as there is one man in the whole world more powerful, or richer, or cleverer than I, he is my rival and my enemy” (123).

“Pride gets no pleasure out of having something, only out of having more of it than the next man. We say that people are proud of being rich, or clever, or good looking, but they are not. They are proud of being richer, or cleverer, or better looking than others. If everyone became equally rich, or clever, or good-looking there would be nothing to be proud about. It is the comparison that makes you proud: the pleasure of being above the rest” (122).

“Real thorough-going pride may act as a check on vanity; for, as I said a moment ago, the devil loves curing a small fault by giving you a great one. We must try not to be vain, but we must never call in our pride to cure our vanity” (126-27).

Spiritual pride.

“It is purely spiritual: consequently it is far more subtle and deadly” (125).

“Whenever we find that our religious life is making us feel that we are good—above all, that we are better than someone else—I think we may be sure that we are being acted on, not by God, but by the devil” (124-5).

“An individual Christian may see fit to give up all sorts of things for special reasons— marriage, or meat, or beer, or the cinema; but the moment he starts saying the things are bad in themselves, or looking down his nose at other people who do use them, he has taken the wrong turning” (78-79).

The real cure for both vanity and pride; normal and spiritual:

“To love and admire anything outside yourself is to take one step away from utter spiritual ruin; though we shall not be well so long as we love and admire anything more than we love and admire God” (127).

Lewis, C.S. Mere Christianity. HarperSanFrancisco, HarperCollins Publishers, 2001