Preliminary Thoughts on How a Person Chooses

From where do the criteria for choice come? The self, insofar as one is capable of knowing it. Does the self generate the criteria? No, not usually (although some syntheses are original for a given individual). Instead, one is made aware of criteria from some outside source (speech, text, etc.) and then assents to them (consciously or otherwise). It would be best, in order to increase authenticity, for a person to assent to the rules they use in choosing consciously. Then, through this process of reflective self-endorsement, the individual incorporates the criteria into himself. He says, "I recognize the validity of choosing thus, and so I will choose thus." Thereafter, whenever a specific criterion is operative, the action is authentic (i.e., owned by the person who performs it).

It is better for a person to grab hold of her life once the gift is given to her since she, by default, already holds it weakly (i.e., responsibility is already active).

The question for the living individual who wishes to take possession of her greatest gift is: to what or to whom ought I assent? Depersonalized propositions and personal proposals confront every individual. Some offer themselves directly as propositions to be believed. Others simply pose and it is up to the individual to offer it to herself. Together, they set the table of possible criteria of which the living individual is aware. A person consumes beliefs on the basis of the criteria she assents to. As one eats a salad with a salad fork, one consumes materialistic propositions with an empiricist's knife.

No sooner does one tuck in one's napkin under one's chin than does one run up to another problem. "How am I to choose how am I to choose?" The line of questioning continues ad infinitum. How can one stop it? Through passion.

A man looks at a smörgåsbord and some items make him salivate more than others. How does he get this taste for the salty or the sweet? From his desires. And his desires? From his past and what he's chosen to constitute as his past. "Ah, choice again? But how?" Here we meet with one of the reasons why people are ineffable: they do not know the sum of their contents and neither do their contemporaries.

Passion is a consequence of something unchosen and something chosen. The extent that events press upon us, arousing our emotions, is unchosen. We react beyond how we would have chosen to. The extent that we act upon our passions is chosen. Just as reflective self-endorsement makes the chosen more chosen by making it conscious and sober, self-knowledge makes the unchosen less so by creating an accurate system of expected reactions to events. We live more when we reflectively self-endorse more of what we believe and know who we are and why we believe as we do more.

On Habits

An existing individual is more likely to do something he has done before than something he has never done. The simple psychological fact is the mechanism of habit. A choice is easier to make when it has been made before. To make a single good choice has a multiplied benefit. Could there be any detriment done by habit?

A good woman does good actions without serious deliberation. She does them by second nature. What are we to think about such a lackadaisical handling of the good? Is it not more meritorious, as Kant observed, for a man of poor character to do something benevolent? In so doing, he fought against his own habits, pushed up the slope of his character, and to the surprise of his peers, overcame his deprivation.

(A funny thing about merit is that on Earth it is only of consequence when it is noticed by contemporaries. What is likely to be noticed by contemporaries of questionable character is more often that which surprises than that which is good. The contingency of public opinion is a reason to avoid incorporating it as a criterion.)

Given that habit can become less passionate and thereby less owned by the habit-holder, must it? Can one avoid it? Can one make the same choice over time and not make it less? If we were to watch a Muslim pray five times a day every day of his life since he reached religious maturity, what would we think of the quality of his prayers on his last day? There is no outward sign of an increase or decrease in devotion, so my judgment drawn from appearances alone would be empty conjecture. If you asked the man, "Do you love Allah more now or when you were twenty?" and the man responded, "I have always striven to love Allah as much as I can," would you believe him? Or, rather, knowing what you do about human psychology and our penchant for habit and habit's slant towards lifeless formalism, would you think him guilty of self-deception?

In a world where there is no chance for habit to be passionate, there is no chance for personal integrity.

A woman walks into her classroom early on the first day of the semester. All of the desks are options for her. She chooses the third one from the right in the second row because it was one of two left-handed desks and was nearest to the front. Everyone else fills in around her as the start of class draws near. The next class, she heads for the third desk from the right in the second row. She walks towards it and take her seat without hesitation.

What was a benefit of habit in the mundane realm (i.e., that it is something thoughtlessly chosen) is a hindrance in the lofty realm. When relating to objects of love, it would be despicable to do so thoughtlessly, without branding the moment with one's mark. To love God automatically is not to love God.

How can we persist in making the same choices without emaciating them in the lofty realm? How can a man pray the same prayer--consisting of words he did not write--without making it lifeless? Through concentration. Just as the woman scanning the room for the first time sees the empty desks as possibilities, so the man who prays in the awareness of what else he could be doing or saying--these individuals choose with vitality. Though it is not natural to sustain an awareness of the possible when the same situation has been considered before, it is not impossible. Through concentration, we ennoble the lofty realm saying, "I choose this and not that," despite this being chosen before. The person who knows he so chooses lives more. While nature tries to lull her asleep, she fights to stay awake.

Increase by Branding

Gifts begin by the giver; they are perpetuated by the recipient. Life is a gift; love is a gift; truth is a gift; the good is a gift; beauty is a gift. Gifts are a prompting to humility and gratitude because there is a giver that both has and shares what the recipient lack. One shows humility by declaring the previous privation. One shows gratitude by putting the gift to use.

I am born and thereby given the gift of my life. With all gifts, the recipient's appreciation is measured by how much she appropriates it. How does a person appropriate life? By living.

Is it possible for a person who is living to live more? Can life be increased beyond the basic amount supplied by normal bodily function? Often it is said during moments of intense sensation, "I feel so alive!" Does an increase of perception increase living? No, it only garners greater awareness of being alive. Life and consciousness are not the same thing, though the two are often found together. We want here to consider living specifically.

To be alive is a consequence of the body; to feel alive is a consequence of the mind; to live is a consequence of the will. In the existing individual, the three entities commingle and collaborate, but in thought each are distinguishable. To live is to act. Some actions are performed by the body, some by the mind, and some by the will. The act par excellence of the will is choosing. Does a person live more by choosing more?

If a man was placed before a palate, told to choose a color perpetually, and he chose only one color and adhered by his choice thereafter--did he choose less than a man who chose a different color constantly? No--they both always chose. The former man chose in integrate; the latter chose to dissipate.
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The greatest asset a person has is one's life. The greatest risk for a person is to squander one's life. Yet the conditions of life require one to toil and the circumstances of life require one to idle. A person is being drained through time.

Consider: We must sleep. We must eat. We must expend precious energy toiling and we must squander precious time in the tedium of life. We must relieve our bodies of what was once sustenance. How far from noble our lives can be! How it bucks our minds' aspirations!

"Yes, you may enjoy the scenic outlook--but sweat will seep through your pores and your body will ache."

"Yes, you may analyze the inputs of the world into pieces that will equip you for prediction--but you will yawn and your mind will wander."

"Yes, you may align yourself to the truth--but your nose will run and you will see ugliness."

"Yes, you may approach righteousness--but anger will rise up within you and your enthusiasm will wane."


We err when we disavow any truth, be they the truths of our limitations or our deep-seated yearnings. One wants greatness and is not great. What if a person was not complicit? What if a person persists in wanting? What if she accepted her finitude and yet railed against it? Here we find the appropriate response of a recipient: I know my life is tainted and draining, and still I fill myself up all the faster!

If one is depleted by the passing of time, how is one filled? By adding more time? No, that would only be more grist for the time-mill. Only by adding something timeless can one combat the loss of time. Time is a part of life, and so are the other gifts. Life is the bride between the mundane and the lofty. It begins in the circumsribed and ends--for those who believe--int the limitless. One moves along the bridge by opening the other gifts. Love is an act of opening. It requires exercise.

A person lives more by exercising her will more. In so doing, she takes greater responsibility for the aspects of her life within her control. Time and circumstance limit, but the will can replenish because it is in some ways unconditioned (i.e., to the extent that it is not predetermined). Every willful act is like an act of branding--the objects are defined by the owner. The brand remains definitive for the rest of the object's life. In a person's case, the object is her life, the brand is her character, and the owner is the whole person (i.e., the self). When we imagine ourselves ultimately judged, it is our lives and the marks we seared on them that will be admitted to the court. He who lives more--chooses more--is like the man who opts to represent himself. He refuses to leave his fate in the hands of a contemporary. He says, "It has been my life. Let me be the only one under consideration. Then the judge will know that it is I who throws himself at the mercy of the court, that I was not thrown!"

Does an increase in responsibility lead to greater guilt? Could not a man try to absolve himself by washing his hands of his life and say to the prosecution, "It was not my fault. If I did wrong, it was due to the instruction given by another person, other people even--authorities and officials!" Would this hold up in a court?

Every person, by her own free-will, is negligent. Every person, by the gift of her life from another, is innocent.

Authority

A man stands before you and commands, "March!" How responsible would you be if you did? How responsible would you be if you did not?

If you take a look at the man (notice his finely cropped hair, his polished boots, his badge) and you begin to march--how responsible are you? "I only marched because his authority overwhelmed me. Were he not an officer of the law, I would not have moved," you say. I respond, "Your defense is inadequate. You may have found his authority compelling, but you are still within the equation of responsibility. The officer (including the image he projected) plus you (including your recognition and assent to authority) equals the responsibility in the situation. Were he not there, you would not have moved--true enough. If you thought nothing of officers, if you neither feared nor respected the law, however, you would not have moved either."

Ceding freedom to authority does not happen without an act of concession, which leaves the conceder partially responsible. It does not follow from this that the weight or prestige of authority is completely fabricated by the person who concedes to it. More accurately, it is as though the officer says, "I m to be listened to," and the conceder responds, "I agree."

It is often held against a person who goes her own way by critical contemporaries that her actions are capricious. "She has no rule by which she acts; she only does whatever strikes her fancy at the time." - "Do you suggest that a person who on the contrary only acts on rules never does what strikes her fancy? If she acts, for instance, according to the rule, 'Always abide by the law and its officers' commands,' she does not act from her fancy (i.e., what she prefers)? I cannot agree--for a thing chosen is ultimately a thing most preferred. Since a person who submits to authority--to some extent--chooses to, that person's fancy is active. From your criticism, you imply that a person's fancy is always capricious. The person who acts on rules is also capricious."

If the criticism for a person who goes his own way also adheres to the rule-abider, how might the rule-abider more aptly criticize the independent person? Both sorts act on rules (to abide by fancy and to abide by authority) and both sorts are capricious (insofar as what they do is influenced by what they fancy). What precisely is the difference between them? The independent person gives the greatest credence to her own passions and convictions; the dependent person gives the greatest credence to an outside source. Though both invest themselves into positions they bare responsibility for, they invest in different positions.

The independent person says of himself, "I am honest. I know that what I think and do is at bottom a consequence of what I most recently have thought is true and good. I recognize that I am free to accept or reject my own predilections. I think the only consistent thing to do is to accept them, since rejecting them is still done on the grounds of a predilection--that what I most recently have thought is true and good is actually false and bad."

The dependent person says of himself, "I am correct. I know that my private predilections are given to error, so I reject them in favor of more impersonal decision-makers. I accept authority because it is greater than I am, has a larger wealth of input and understanding. I recognize that a person can never upon reflection know objectively whether they are thinking correctly and doing rightly with certainty, so I defer to an outside party for objectivity."

The independent person emphasizes subjectivity; the dependent person emphasizes objectivity. The rule-abider may aptly criticize the independent person for solipsism. The independent person may retort with a charge of bad faith (a conscious disavowal of freedom where freedom persists) against the dependent person.

The independent person faces a problem of epistemology. The dependent person faces a problem of ethics. The independent person believes as she does on circular grounds; she believes she is right because she believes she is right. The dependent person operates on a faulty notion of her beliefs, for she acts as though she is not free and thereby not responsibly when she is both (if only partially).

When one retains autonomy, one retains the risk of faulty self-determination. When one concedes to heteronomy, one retains responsibility for the concession with the risk of thinking it too was handed over. When faced with the dichotomy between autonomy and heteronomy, what will the existing individual do? Those who seek the truth will choose the former; those who avoid error will choose the latter.

Is it possible that the existing individual may choose one in one circumstance, and the other in another? Yes. How are the circumstances different if they prompt different choices from the same individual? Rules cover different areas of conduct. The passion the individual feels about the area of conduct influences the individual's choice. For some, an area of scant personal relevance and importance is an area that most warrants heteronomy. To them, the feeling of apathy makes the discharge of responsibility permissible. "I don't care. You decide." For others, an area of immense personal relevance and importance is an area that most warrants heteronomy. To them, the feeling of gravity makes the discharge of responsibility permissible. "I care too much. You decide."

Should a person be consistently one or the other or should a person be both, though in different areas? In economics, it is commonly advisable for the sake of mitigating risk to diversify one's portfolio. In politics, it is commonly advisable for the sake of reputation to toe the party line. The former has the benefit of safety for the investor; the latter has the benefit of predictability for the politician. Does a person want to benefit privately (by self-reflective standards of benefit) or publicly (by other-reflective standards of benefit)? A person esteems inconsistency because it is not constricting upon them. People esteem consistency because it is readily understandable and therefor manageable.

By marching, one accepts partial responsibility for the path taken and the destination arrived at, since one participates in both. By not marching, one accepts consequences from the authority for not recognizing him. March and you may be led off a cliff by your own feet; stay still and you may be shot for insubordination by an authority you do not recognize. Marching is a dangerous movement if the destination is still; stillness is a precarious position if the setting is in motion.

Limitations

June 21, 2009

We hear, "Where there's a will, there's a way." How wrong this assertion is! Where there's a will, there's a will. Where there's a will, there's not much. Example: a man desires to fly--he has a will to fly. He desires to be in flight more than any other state. Is there a way that an individual can be in flight? Yes--by jet-pack for instance. But where can one procure such an item and who can afford the maintenance and jet fuel? If the way there is for a will to fulfill itself is nearly impassable, what good is the assertion? It only serves as a reminder for human impotence. "Where there's a will, there's a way. Where your will is, there's nearly no way."

Can we please be through with individualistic triumphalism? What more must we go through to put an end to this overweening sense of ability?

"You can do anything you put your mind to." Proviso: provided that what you put your mind to is a viable option given your circumstances.

"You could be president someday." Provisos: provided that you have a nearly bottomless source of income or can pander enough to those with bottomless sources of income to garner theirs to fund a national campaign, provided that you look good on camera, provided that you have the energy to discuss the same talking points at debates, town hall meetings, and in interviews for years, provided that you are 35 years of age and a natural-born citizen of the United States, etc., etc.

The upshot? It takes more than a will to accomplish something. Circumstances and personal abilities must align with the desired goal.

Defense

June 16, 2009

2: If I may be blunt--and I think I may--I am tired of speculation. Specifically, I am tired of your speculation. I am tired of all of your tedious refrains from living, which is to say I am tired of everything your write. It is to no great purpose. It has no impact on anyone outside of yourself, and the only impact it has on yourself is to further alienate you from your life or to further entrench you in your prejudices.
We normally consider people who talk to themselves frequently to be crazy. What significant difference is there between talking to one's self and writing to one's self? There is none. Both are broken forms of communication by way of their requiring an insufficient number of parties to communicate. Sane people do not wear both hats, my good man.
1: You certainly may be blunt. Candor is essential to all friendships and I know your intentions are always friendly. I hesitate to explain myself for fear I will only be robbing you further of your opportunity to sleep--as tired as you are--but you seem to have enough energy to criticize. Begging your apology in advance should I keep you up past your bedtime, I will take up my own defense.
I grant you that my writing does not have a great impact, but that is not my desired effect. True, perhaps in my weaker moments, I want to be recognized for what I say, but that is not the greatest reason why I write. I am confused about so many things. I find it helpful to write in order to clarify my thinking. Even if the clarification only involves delineating what I do not know, I think this is good for my character. If nothing else, it improves my state of mind, calming me down from the frustration that flows from one's own lamentable ignorance.
At other times, when I estimate I have an approximation of truth somewhere in my consciousness, I write it down as well. It is a good thing to share what one has in abundance, provided that the shared good is really good. The truth is one such good. I have a superabundance of thoughts and observations that are candidates for truth. Isn't it good of me, then, to share?
In the event that the truth goes unseen, as a result of my scant readership, I do not think the exercise a complete waste. A beautiful thing about the truth is that its being known does not alter it in any way. The truth abides, with or without you. To that extent, I can do it no harm--by lying or by refraining from speaking the truth--or benefit--by speaking the truth or refraining to lie. The truth about truth is a great relief, is it not?
If the truth remains the same regardless of its being known, what good is it to propagate the truth? Oh, what a deftly formed question! I have now introduced ethics into this epistemological excursion. "It is good for the individual to know the truth." A simple proposition, wouldn't you say? It is by that proposition that I attribute all justification for my communication, even if it is solely with myself.
Thank you for your patience, I promise I am nearly done. You had mentioned something about alienation. I am taking myself away from my life by writing and thinking as I do, you think? Does that mean that life ought not to involve language and thought? No--you couldn't mean that. Is it possible to think and write too much, to then create a second life inside your mind while neglecting your first one? Oh, perhaps. Have I achieved that level of intellectualism? I think not! I spend much more of my time acting and even if my mind stays active during activity, I'd hardly say I am alienating myself from my life. Is there not always a voice carrying on in your head? If it's written down, its called stream of consciousness. You cannot contend that simply because my stream flows to different areas--or at a different rate--than yours that my stream is flowing off a cliff. That would be a prejudicial assessment, don't you think?
A yawn? Just one more thing before you doze off. You say that there must be two parties to communicate, and I grant you that as well. It is a keen observation. Yet, would you possibly deny that within a single person there are multiple parties? The free individual bears within herself all sorts of possibilities. If you want to think pictorially about it, we can roughly slice up a consciousness. On the left side is the part of the consciousness that contains entrenched beliefs--prejudices you called them. On the right side is the part of consciousness that contains tentative beliefs. When a person writes to clarify, she runs between the two parts. Usually this movement involves reason and logic, but it also also involves pathos (for some beliefs are more ardently believed or are given to being more believable to a person than others). In this way we have two parties communicate: the formed person and the forming person. What is the outcome of the communication? Some of the forming person becomes more solid and transfers into the "formed" part while another part--the left overs--is jettisoned outside of the tentative person and into the jungle of the possible and impossible persons.
Now I am carrying on again and your eyes are glazing over. Wake up then, and come at me again.

Absorption

June 13, 2009

How is one supposed to respond to hate? "Turn the other cheek."

All hateful acts are a sort of striking. All loving acts are a sort of welcoming. Thus to respond to hate with love is to invite a blow. If the striker is open, he will be transformed thereafter. The flesh of the cheek absorbs the knuckles and cups the fist. A fist is relieved of its hateful potency when that which is struck does not resist.

What is it for one person to resist the hate of another? To respond in kind. When a person asserts in a situation that they will not respond in kind--as with the presentation of a cheek--hate is preemptively disarmed. It announces the futility of all kinds of striking. It keeps the hater at bay, even when he draws near. To strike an object that does not respond is a futile interaction; the only change that can occur is in the striker alone. If he is open, his fist will reverberate with its own frustrated energy. The turned cheek adds no hateful energy of its own, but only returns passively what it was given. It alters the expected outcome of the striking--the one the hater anticipates--by amending loving energy to the input.

On one view, this leaves he outcome at nil for the two opposing energies cancel each other out. On another view, this produces a positive outcome. Hate, which is the movement of evil, is at once retrograde (moving away from where one ought to go) and stationary (making no progress of its own). It is the lack of righteous movement as evil is the lack of love, of good. Something positive added to nothing is positive.

Persuasion

A person stands before you and says, "believe me." Implicit in all written documents is a similar exhortation. All successful communication involves belief, that the speaker is trusted by the audience. An individual is frequently asked to assent to propositions introduced by another. Should you?

If there are nefarious motivations for the persuasion, perhaps not. Why would one person try to persuade another person to believe as they do? Persuasion involves conscious intention; a person persuades on purpose. As with all purposeful activity, there is a possible logical explanation for persuasion. Some social activities (actions involving more than the individual) are primarily performed for egocentric reasons. In such situations, the other (or others) have an accidental role. The actor is not ultimately concerned with his audience, but with himself. Applied to the action under consideration here, persuading another person is not the persuader's ultimate concern. The persuader could be uncertain of his own beliefs, and thus allay his anxiety by counting another person amongst the believers like him. He wants to place himself into the truth, and attempts to do so by surrounding himself with like-minded people.

Other social actions are primarily performed for tuistic reasons. In such situations, the other (or others) have an essential role. The actor is ultimately concerned with his audience, not himself. In the situation under consideration here, persuading another person is the persuader's ultimate concern. He could simply be trying to relay the truth to another person, and thus acts to her benefit by making her more informed. He wants to bring the audience into the truth, and brings into himself a sense of accomplishment.

Some tuistic actions have malevolent intentions. The persuader here has a will to deceive, wishing from malice to harm the person being persuaded. Here we may place all instances of swindling and lying.

Ideally, communication involves a reciprocity of interest. The speaker is interested (primarily) in the audience--not herself--and the audience is interested (primarily) in the speaker--not themselves. In the first scenario considered here, the persuader is less credible; in the second and third scenarios, the persuader is more credible. Credibility is diminished within a context of conflicted interest. In the first scenario, the persuader is more conflicted. He is doing you a service only by doing himself a service, which is to say he is doing you a disservice. The second and third scenarios may be outwardly indistinguishable to the other person involved in the communication. Trust and distrust are introduced as the means for navigating within the uncertainty. In assessing the situation, the other person may believe and take a risk that the scenario is of the third kind. Or, the other person may disbelieve and take a risk that the scenario is of the second kind.

A tricky thing about people is that they are complex. A given person may harbor all three reasons for persuasion at the same time.

To communicate is a precarious act. To volunteer an observation that may be incorrect, that may be incorporated into another's party's belief-system, that may then be acted upon, that may bring about more ugliness in the world--this is the risk of the speaker, the writer, or the artist. (Moreover, it is the risk of anyone who has a public face, for we are always emanating examples through our living.) Ethics is deeply enmeshed in communication because we take so many of our cues for beliefs from our community.

A Response to Prince Andrei

June 8, 2009

Prince Andrei, in Tolstoy's War and Peace, commands his friend Pierre to avoid conjugal love. He says: "Never, never marry, my friend. Here's my advice to you: don't marry until you can tell yourself that you've done all you could, and until you've stopped loving the woman you've chosen, until you see her clearly, otherwise you'll be cruelly and irremediably mistaken. Marry when you're old and good for nothing...Otherwise all that's good and lofty in you will be lost. It will all go on trifles. Yes, yes, yes! Don't look at me with such astonishment. If you expect something from yourself in the future, then at every step you'll feel that it's all over for you, it's all closed except the drawing room, where you'll stand on the same level as a court flunky and an idiot...Ah, well!..."

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My dear Prince Andrei, what a sad sight you are before me! You, a man of great ambition, are crestfallen at being hopelessly married. What a pitiable thing to squander one's talents. How I do empathize with you! You, who contain so much that is "good and lofty," have been forced to compromise it. How frustrating, indeed! Surely you were meant for something more, and yet you are here...bored.

May I ask what happened to you? Did love burst in and throw its dust in your eyes? Were you temporarily taken out of your wits by the smell of her neck? Before you knew it, you were twiddling your thumbs the day after your wedding night. "What have I done?" Did you think that very thought, only too late?

But is it really too late? Not for a man of your ability, you courageous and clever man. Andrei has blazed an escape route. You have outsmarted everyone. You have found the perfect out: war! Marriage is one duty; citizenship is another duty all together. You were a citizen before you were a husband and must go off to war. Could anyone really disdain you for defending your country? You are putting your life on the line--the very one you are bored of, I realize--but nevertheless, your own and only life! How noble! So you take leave of your wife, your one irreversible mistake--by taking leave you try to prove it is not so irreversible after all. She will wear her ring and you will wear your sword. You can forget about your great misstep and instead remember your great, rarefied stride.

I cannot help but wonder if you are missing something, though. As your true friend I would be remiss if I did not offer up this question that springs forth from considering your remarks. Is marriage not an accomplishment, dear Andrei? You insinuate as much, but I cannot assent to that proposition.

Must marriage mean that it is all over? Not 'does' it--that is a trivial question. Surely it can end everything for an individual. (Are you not one such individual, Andrei?) Firstly, what is it that ends upon union? Talent? No, surely you possess as much talent prior to the ceremony as posterior to it. Independence? Here we may be closer. One retains an autonomous conscious and has that sort of independence. But one is not as free anymore and thereby one has less independence. Now, one must take an accounting of another's interests. One has been yoked in that fashion and is called to be steered by consideration for another person's well-being. Oh, the burden of it!

Perhaps at one point you thought it was--for why else would a great man such as yourself ever consent to associating yourself with the institution? Now you see it as a trap. It is a leech for you too, is it not? It drains you of your energy. What a curse, to only to be able to be yourself by yourself! If others watch you do your tricks and applaud (as they should for such a courageous and clever performer) you can still be yourself. Bring them backstage, have them follow you through the streets, poking their noses in your consciousness, pricking your conscience with their own dignity--and your self-bubble bursts! You have made the right choice for yourself to be free of such interruptions, but it is all too late. You are stained. I know your misstep and I will not forget it. You may distract everyone else by the clicking of your heels in lockstep with your comrades, but I will nurture the memory of your mistake. And what of when I die? Oh, I wager there will be another who remembers all the same. Then, would you will be so bold as to deny your failure? Or will you stopping making a show and repent?

Some people have no business marrying, I grant you. How can you tell Pierre here not to, though? Do you know him so well? After all, by all appearances, you never knew yourself so well--else you would have known better than to marry with all the talent you possess.

Risks of Writing

June 8, 2009

To begin writing is in part a selfish, pompous, and dangerous task. It is selfish insofar as the author seeks to be understood. He presents himself through presenting the contents of his consciousness.

To write is pompous insofar as the act of writing presumes that the author has something worthy of saying. To be read is to steal away the time of the reader. As the reader's time is limited, it is a great thing to steal away. (That a man is more infuriated by the theft of money than of his time is all together unreasonable, or more accurately, unwise.)

It is a dangerous thing to develop a talent because you may misuse it. Writing well is a distinctly dangerous talent because of its proximity to truth. Language consists of the boxes by which we cart off the contents of Being's warehouse. One who builds a great edifice out of boxes as is done by the act of writing puts himself and his community at great risk. Nothing damages the truth more than untruth being couched in pretty or lofty words. Although the box is empty, it is still enough to knock a passer-by off course when the writing-edifice fails testing.

I write, but only in my dungeon. My setting mitigates the third risk of writing, but does nothing to lessen the first two.

The Value of Writing

June 4, 2009

If a person were offered a choice between a rare sort flower or a poem about the flower, she would be a fool to choose the poem. Reality is always greater than language--greater in scope and greater in richness. Reality is the well-spring of all poetry, and as such, it is more valuable.

All communication, when the subject of it is unfamiliar, is an impediment. Confusion is a consequence of lack of experience with the relevant reality. Poetry when referencing a reality unknown to the reader, is impotent. It cannot engender the flights of thought and feeling poets are want to disseminate through their creations. Confusion gives way to frustration, and the reader is thereby repelled from that which he ought to be attracted. Vacancy stands in the way of beauty.

Reality, however, from certain angles can be a veil. It can be a stumbling block for what is important. Intertwined with it is that for which it is valued for. When distilled from physicality, they are known to us as ideas. If one were to dwell only with the flower, eventually it would become boring. Increased duration of time can make the new the familiar and the familiar the stale. Why is this? The attention on the flower, when mixed with the sloth of the mind, gives rise to a yawn. The red of its petals, repeatedly sensed, becomes boring. Why? The physical when sensed by itself admits of diminishing returns. Event the heights of erotic sensation become tedious and painful when the stimulation has been extended beyond its proper scope. Feedback from one's body when interacting with an object eventually becomes a barrier to interaction. A little exposure to the sun is energizing; too much, is painful.

The greatest thing to possess would be a flower and a poem about it, for the two compliment and enrich each other. We can only love what is known and communication (here, the artistic creation) is a means of increasing knowledge. To pass one's attention from the beauty of the flower to the beauty of the poem and back again: the process is endless. The two reciprocally adorn one another with accoutrement. Repetition enlivens rather than sickens.

The most reality is not just being, it is the union of being and being-known. The greatness of Christianity is its premise that Being and the Word are reciprocally ennobling.

Lightness

June 4, 2009

Why is Christ's yoke light? Why is not His yoke burdensome as a plow's yoke is to an ox?

Because it is made of love. All that love requires is requital. Love admits of no proof. It cannot be matched except with reciprocation.

A plow's yoke restricts the desired movements of the ox. It wishes to escape, but remains hindered. The yoke is affective because it limits freedom.

Christ's yoke propels the desired movements of an individual. She wishes to be alive, and is given life. The yoke is affective because it enhances freedom.

What is life? It is the given. It is the ontos of every individual. Life is basic. It is contemporaneous with her existence, which is prior to her consciousness. Life is the grounding. It resists definition. It is a mystery. Its trappings can be described, but it remains ineffable.

The living individual can judge it--some judge it a gift and others a burden. Regardless, within every living individual there is a desire to persist--to continue to live. Even with those who take their lives, there is doubt somewhere in the mind and resistance somewhere in the body.

To be kept from evil is to at once have less freedom-as-option and more freedom-as-good. Freedom-as-option is valueless; it is increased by the quantity of possibilities. Freedom-as-good is valueful; it is increased by the quality of possibilities. Freedom-as-option has no end; the well of possibilities is without bottom. Freedom-as-good has one end--itself, the Good.

Love is life's gravity. Love gives life coherence, structure, and integrity. Unalloyed love is constant, eternal, and thereby mysterious.

Love is the name for the desire of a good. Love admits of gradations; good is diversely manifest. Pure love is simple; the greatest good is unified. Both are one. The former is one in one; the latter is one in many. The movement of love is always the same; the effects of good are always the same.

Everything that is good is related to life. Every good ought to be related to with love by the living individual. Christ is the point of convergence between the subject (individual), the object (good), the action (love), and the setting (life).

The relation between life and freedom: the former is a necessary condition of the latter. Freedom-as-option is the sort of freedom available to sub-rational animals. With rationality, a person has an ability to recognize a good. With practical rationality, a person has an ability to successfully pursue a good. When freedom is construed as a good in itself, it is good to the extent that it nourishes life.

Life admits of quality (in normative terms) and quantity (in numerical terms). The former relates to freedom-as-good. The latter relates to freedom-as-option.

The quality of life is more valuable than the quantity of life. Eternal life is the point of convergence between the two. Christ confers the greatest quality (reunion with God) and greatest quantity (eternity).

Boring

May 27, 2009

What is boredom? The feeling of emptiness after a repetition. What is a repetition? Something done or experienced more than once.

Boredom is what eats away at the aesthete. The familiar is his enemy. He is always seeking novelty. By placing himself in unprecedented situations--or repeated situations with unprecedented actors--he is able to escape from boredom.

Nothing scares him more than the same exact experience twice. He is at once in the grip of and repelled by the temporal. Finitude is his pied-piper. He hates that time can be repeated--that there is a commonality to all present moments--and so always seeks the future, because it is unexperienced. As soon as he receives it, it becomes stale. His greatest desire is to be as a dog, lost in the chase of his own tale. He never stops, and thereby remains entertained.

Within the aesthete is the recognition of the finite's shortcomings. It cannot satiate with finality. He feels his inner hunger. He opts to gorge himself on sweets rather than settle for bland, but substantive, food. He is a forest fire burning through underbrush.

What is he after? A beautiful sensation.

What is sufficient about a beautiful sensation. It is interesting. It holds one's attention while it lasts. A beautiful sensation is enrapturing. It energizes one like sugar in the gas tank. A dog sniffs around in a lawn. This sent is new, then this one, and still this one over here. A dog lives in the transition between scents, in the search for difference. An aesthete, similarly, longs to discover, and is driven onward by the remnants of the previous sensation.

What is deficient about a beautiful sensation? It is disposable. One does not recycle a beautiful sensation. A pure aesthete never revisits the same painting. Once he has consumed it, it is has nothing to offer him in the future.

The aesthete is fundamentally hopeless. There is nothing normative in novelty. Boredom always wins the day, if given enough time. Finite permutations only go so far. Pleasures are limited. Yawns await. The most fitting end of the aesthete is suicide. When he realizes his body is no longer a fitting vehicle to new destinations, he drives it off a cliff. In the free-fall, he experiences his final newness. His crash echoes, but then as all that he is involved in and concerned about, it dissipates to nothing.

What if one is too cowardly or tired for suicide? Then one has enough courage and strength only to regret.

Modernity

May 7, 2009

A distinctly modern sentiment is a response of fear in the presence of doubt. One can thereafter submit to the doubt or rebel against it. Both achieve the end of lessening the disagreeable feeling of fear, the former through acceptance of the disagreeable phenomenon and the latter through rejection.

The expectation that one can know everything there is to know is juvenile. The great figures of modernity have, frequently, been juvenile.

Is it courage or cowardice to submit to what you fear?

Those who claim it is cowardice describe submission as willful forfeiture, voluntary defeat. Those who claim it is courage describe submission as willful forfeiture, voluntary defeat.

Cowards forfeit something that is already theirs.
Courageous people forfeit something they want but could never have.

Cowards lose a game they would have won.
Courageous people lose a game to win a greater one.

The modern sentiment wants control and feels itself powerful enough to take it. When you are the only resident in a vacuum, its easy to control everything--because there is nothing there. It is easy to be powerful when there is nothing to be confronted by.

By eviscerating reality, relieving it of everything that opposes the mind with finality, everything that outstrips human capacity, the modern sentiment steals victory.

A man watches a child's joy over winning a game of tic-tac-toe. The child thinks himself superlative in prowess; the man thinks the child superlative in self-satisfaction. What does it matter to win a game of tic-tac-toe against an opponent who is meanwhile putting you in checkmate?

Room for Rest

May 7, 2009

I am like Kant, trying to make room for faith. His approach was to get reason in order; my object is the passions.

If we begin with the individual as given, as developed and self-aware--the actual individual person--we begin with a smattering of beliefs. To draw conclusions about what is known, which of those beliefs are pieces of knowledge, the beliefs must be parsed into bundles of certainty and uncertainty. Here we run aground on the problem of the criterion. The problem of the criterion consists in the fact that that belief which parses between known belief and unknown belief is itself an unknown belief that must, for the sake of parsing, be assumed to be true. The inescapability of the unknown in a person's beliefs demonstrates the personal necessity of faith, which is the endorsement of a belief that is not certainly known.

--
Where ought belief begin? That is precisely the wording of the question. "Ought" introduces a valuation into the sphere of belief. It introduces the centrality of ethics into all belief. Life is action; ethics is thought about action. Thought is, viewed ethically, an act in itself--if nothing else one of complicity. For in thinking we grant attention, and the granting of attention is itself an ethical act, i.e., one that admits of value.

If a thought has no ethical import, is it valueless--is it worthless? Not necessarily. It is trivial. There are times when triviality is valuable, as when playing a game or viewing life practically. Such value, however, is of lesser stock. It can sustain life, but never perpetuate it. A prudent act, one that is practically rational, when viewed only as such, is a sort of digestion. It nourishes what already exists, without adding anything significantly new. It maintains stasis. Ethics, being fundamental, is always of greater value than the simply practical. An ethical act is a sort of birth, always bringing something of intrinsic value into existence.

There is nothing wrong with believing something because you want to. There is, however, something wrong in refusing to admit your desires. To deny your desires is dishonesty at best and self-ignorance at worst.

--
Desire is one of the most fundamental feelings. As with all feeling, however, it is not the consequence of a free process of consciousness. It is not totally up to the man to desire power in a situation; his response is largely automatic, a predisposition. Not all feeling is chosen at the time of being felt; some feeling is spontaneous and uncontrolled. All feeling, when considered from a longer perspective--i.e, a person's habitual patterns of passion--is chosen to the extent that prolonged feeling can be nurtured or suppressed. To nurture a feeling is to voluntarily, freely, direct one's attention to situations that have been associated with that feeling before. To suppress a feeling is to systematically avoid awareness of those passion-generating situations.

Here is a meeting place of the whole person--the will, the passions, and reason. For to choose which passions to suppress or nurture appropriately is to draw upon reason to pass judgment. Reason, guided by the passions, selects those passions that can be self-endorsed. When a person in full consciousness assents to a certain sentiment as a response to a situation, a person has secured greater ownership of herself.

--

Where does one find assumptions that need not be further justified? Where can one allow the mind to rest? In those areas where the heart speaks most loudly does the questioning mind cease to question. Conviction is a consequence of intense feeling--something quiet and preconceptual, a short, forceful movement--and intense feeling is that which undergirds all thought-architecture.

When one sets about inspecting thought-architecture, the belief nexus of any individual, one takes a survey of the edifice. One looks at it from without and within, aiming to draw a blue-print. The blue-print, the edifice's essence, is the visual representation of conviction--those unquestioned, foundational/structural beliefs. (Feelings are to ideas what form is to matter.)

Upon gaining familiarity with thought-buildings, one suspects everything superficial--everything presented by the person through conversation, writing, and action--is a near necessary consequence of the hidden scaffolding. This window here (a speech), this protusion there (a letter), a high ceiling (a habituated smirk-response)--all follow from nuanced sentiments. A man builds with his mind what his heart requires.



How can we make a disinterested, unbiased, thought-aesthetic? If such a thing were a real possibility, it would rely upon overlapping areas of conviction.



Do people present such overlap? There are a great many shared beliefs that are trivial or historical which are the results of education. Such beliefs hardly warrant discussion because they lack actionable import. The acceleration rate of gravity or the year of Columbus’s maiden voyage to the Americas do not influence thought or action construction. The sort of convictions we are concerned about here, as thought inspectors, are those that are not reliant upon education. Given the contingencies of education and the idiosyncratic emphases in different geographical locations, most taught beliefs lack overlap potential.



Are there tendencies in uneducated beliefs? If so, how could they be explained? Let us consider the latter first, given that it is more approachable (i.e., more readily admits of speculation rather than empirical inquiry, as the former warrants). Shared convictions could have a natural origin (given that all humans are natural) or metaphysical origin (given that metaphysical explanations are always possible).



Surveying the various thought-aesthetics (i.e., philosophies), all of the convictions that a person could build other actionable thoughts on, the likelihood of a natural overlap is slim. There may, however, be certain questions that nature readily posses, which explain the thematic unity in the diversity of thought-aesthetics different people hold. If those questions admitted of a few common answers, those questions would function as guideposts for comparison.



What is the most unavoidable question for every individual? “What should I do?” Every individual faces the following moment of openness in time with an eye for potential avenues of action. As that openness stretches into an undefined point into the future (e.g., the evening, Tuesday, July, marriage, death, etc.), people have various avenues that correspond to various time periods.



The prompting that comes from future possibility is the instigator of thought-construction. Thought-architecture is where people take shelter in all that is undefined, pre-linguistic. It is a place of stasis within the openness of the future. The landscape presents possibilities that are humanly relevant. (The totality of relevance is commonly referred to as the human condition.) What is relevant to humans? That there could be such a distinct sort of things suggests that humans themselves ar ea certain sort of thing. (The world is fixed, the human condition is fixed, therefore the third condition must also be fixed).



Here we meet with the concept of human nature. Human nature can be considered physical (consisting genes, chemicals, etc.), metaphysical (consisting of a soul, mind, etc.), or a hybrid of the two. Human nature sets limits on the question, “What should I do?” when considered metaphysically. It does not do so when considered physically. Human nature qua physical phenomenon generates factual, not normative, implications. It describes what humans do. Only by an erroneous logical can it take the natural description of human activity and conclude with a recommendation that is actionable for the individual. No sentiment is aroused by the introduction of a fact into consciousness alone.



In this way, biological facts are as trivial as historical facts. If upon asking the question, “What should I do?” a person is told, “Humans are altruistic as a result of the evolutionary efficacy for altruism. If you are a human, then you would be altruistic,” the person’s question is not answered. A factual response to a normative question engenders a factual, rather than ethical, response—a blink of the eyes or a blank stare, for instance. Only by an appeal to metaphysics can one answer a normative question in kind.



It is here that we rejoin our introductory remarks on sentiment. Conviction, an outcome of intense feeling, is a response to metaphysics. The conviction is not justified and so is either unjustifiable or above justification.



What is justification? It is the appropriate origin narrative of a certain belief. Appropriate often designates something empirical, something that because it is able to be sensed can garner universal consent. “I believe in this because of that there,” tends to be the ultimate/basic justificatory statement. (The bearing of universal consent upon the given individual is often overstated. What it matters to a person whether he is identified with a larger group or not depends on his need for community. Some individuals would risk truthful solitude over false companionship.)



What of beliefs that are not corporeal, could not admit of physical sensation? If there is any hope of answering the individual’s most persistent question in a robust fashion, then it must be from the non-factual/non-physical/non-corporeal/non-natural. It is in that realm—the realm of metaphysics—that the mind finds rest. The question is whether this rest is, to be metaphorical, on a solid foundation or in quick sand.

Non-rational grounds for Rationality

If someone were to command to you, "Reason," with no further support, what could you do? Could you progress towards anything simply by reasoning? Do you not need something to reason about in addition to the rules of logic? Is not some of the content to be reasoned about going to be assumed true without any further justification. Does not this imply that the lynch pin of everything rational is non-rational?

If one is to reason meaningfully about anything, one must accept certain content to be reasoned about as true, i.e., really existing as conceived. Can that ever be verified? If so, certainly not in the same way that the outcome of reasoning can be verified, i.e., against the facts. Certain facts we must assume to arrive at other facts, and assumptions in themselves are not certain. They may be plausible or justifiable, but they are not certain.

For example, the fact that sense data is generally reliable is in itself uncertain. It requires an appeal to a measure distinct from sense data and reality with which to assess reliability. Drawing upon the validity of "common sense," will not suffice, unless it is simply assumed to be valid. Upon assumption, it is admitted into belief on less than certain grounds.

Foundations are unavoidable; foundations are uncertain.

A Question of Agency

May 1, 2009

Nature, properly speaking, is not an agent. Agency is a characteristic of persons. Persons are, amongst other things, those beings that can fit their means to their ends. Persons can choose their actions and thereby ennoble their goals. Not everything that acts, chooses. Nature and all strictly natural phenomena do not choose.

There is a tendency, consequent of our anthro-centrism, to think in terms of agency--even regarding nature and natural phenomena. A case in point: natural selection. To select is to choose, to scan a field and endorse one option over others. Selection is only available to agents. Yet, natural selection is one of the most commonly referenced attributes of nature. Linguistically, this houses a confusion. Nature does not select species to survive anymore than a trash can selects to be gray. A more proper term, free from agency baggage, would be natural action.

Only agents can be subject to questions of why. Nature, an object--the object, can only admit questions of how. When a person poses to herself the question, "Why me?" to whom is she addressing? Herself? No--selfhood is not a choice, it is a given. Nature? No--nature does not choose, it gives (and takes) solely in the sense that it does, not that it decides to do. Can there be any other appeal to this most interior of questions? Is the disavowal of any other subject--the Subject--liberating? Does a person, when they deny a greater agency, gain greater fulfillment? Is a victory worthwhile when it is thin--when one responds to the question, "Why me?" with "Don't ask,"? Ought we rebel against this natural questioning tendency, our disposition to address the wider world as an agent? Or does the persistence of this question suggest that there is something real that is at once real and not natural?

Unnaturally Natural or Naturally Unnatural?

May 1, 2009

Our minds never tire of raising certain grandiose questions. How could consciousness ever be constructed out of unconscious materials? How could dead matter ever combine, on its own, to become living?

Some respond to the persistent mystery surrounding the answers to those questions as proof of their nonsensicality. Nature tends, by her impersonal machinations, to prefer individuals to survive and perpetuate their winning traits. At times, however, accidental traits pass-on and endure. These accidents are those attributes of individuals that do not secure their survival (initially) and there perpetuation (eventually). These superfluous mutations remain, so long as they do not hinder nature's ends. If the mutations are disadvantageous, then those individuals and the species they belong to become extinct. Humanity's great mutation, the peculiar extent of their consciousness, has been of the utmost benefit to them. Never before has adaptation been so swift and fluid. More than any other animal, humans exploit their surroundings, thereby securing their survival and perpetuation.

Aspects of consciousness are not of equal import. Some aspects of consciousness, like those questions posed in perennial philosophy, fail to meet either of the two basic needs for which nature selects. To the extent that consciousness does not benefit the species, it is accidental. That we can at once ponder and not benefit by pondering questions concerning consciousness and life demonstrates the accidental, mutated quality of philosophical thought. We can study those frustrating questions to offer hypotheses as to how they ever could have arisen, but we will always treat them as a sixth toe or second head: a grotesque curiosity.

Some respond to the persistent mystery surrounding the answers to those questions as proof of their necessity. Because of the precarious position consciousness and life have in the natural world, they are distinguished from it. Rather than calling them natural and supposing they do not belong, they are called supernatural and supposed to belong elsewhere.

If we were never perpetuated by wondering about certain truths, why can we not be rid of questions? How could something spring from nature that is so patently unnatural? Could it be that there is something unnatural in us?

Nature commands: live and then die! A human's interiority commands: live! Either humans are fundamentally deranged (at once mindful of part of what nature requires and resistant to the other) or they are in some way transcendent.

Dreams Considered

April 21, 2009

Some of us dream while awake of justice, of true love, or timeless beauty. The fact that we dream raises an interesting question: how does the content of our dreams compare with the content of our waking life? Additionally, how does that content shine upon the person who houses it? Is the light cast flattering or harsh?

A dream while awake, an act of imagination that is brought forth to fulfill a current vacancy, is akin to other forms of desire. We desire what we lack. At times, these desires are for something that is apparently consumable. The appetite for food is a realistic one; a person can be satiated by acquiring something real and concrete. The stomach's dream can be lived through the process of eating. At times, a dream takes as the object of its desire--as the awareness of what it is without--something that cannot be produced concretely (i.e., in the world, tangibly).

Given that we exist in a state of privation from the grandiose content of waking dreams, ought we resign ourselves to striving for what is currently attainable? Is the human heart justified in desiring an earthly impossibility? Is it wrong to be self-defeating, insofar as the dreamer's life is necessarily feckless, or is it the only course to fulfillment?

Desires and dreams are related in that they take as the subject a lack, absence, or vacancy. Both are directed towards what is not presently fulfilled. The lack of a desire is construed as more noble than the lack of a dream to those who are critical of idealists, since the desire can be fulfilled concretely and the dream cannot. Dreams are disparaged as being hopeless, as devoid of a sufficient amount of concrete content.

A 'dreamer' is an appellation of derision. To be a dreamer is to be unrealistic. Is this a fair criticism? It is less of a criticism than a definition. A dream is what it is precisely because it is not real in the way that waking life is. We do not fault an emaciated man for being hungry; his lack colors his consciousness and to that extent paints him in the eyes of others.

At times we are the subjects of longings that are interpreted as being chimerical. An idealist and a dreamer are often taken to be synonymous. A certain sort of person, one who refers to himself as a realist, takes pleasure in holding idealists in contempt.

An idealist travels through his waking life as a man on the scent of a bakery. He has a nose for something sweeter that is in the offing. Precisely because what he wants he cannot fulfill where he is at, he moves forward. How is his being drawn different than the hungry man?

Who is more facile: the individual who longs only for what he knows he can get--what is for him possible now--or the man who longs for what he knows he cannot get now?

Dreams of the sort discussed here have more significance for the dreamer precisely because they are distinct from reality. Their passionate energy is born out of defeat and victory; defeat in being frustrated by the world and victory in refusing to be overwhelmed by the frustration. The realist disdains anything distinct from reality. The valuation is a consequence of a different reaction to the earth. Plato looked at the earth and what was possible in his mind, and preferred the latter. Aristotle looked at the earth and what was possible in his mind, and preferred what was possible for his mind to find in the earth. These men's desires are satiated by different content. One has a stomach for the possible, the other for the present. One says the other is gorging himself on slop; one says the other is filling his stomach with air. Both are correct.

A person critical of the idealist says what she wants she does not have and cannot get. If the idealist is self-aware, she knows this is the nature of her dreams and dreams them still. Could this be reprehensible?

Dreams are crafted out of the pieces of life. They have concrete girders. We cannot create out of nothing; we make out of something. We cannot invent totally; we innovate upon the given. Plato and Aristotle both look to the greatest aspects of the earth. Plato uses them as exemplars to construct a rarefied world; Aristotle uses them to navigate the mundane world we are familiar with. The materials are the same, but the uses are different.

Can one justly criticize the contrasting uses? For they both deny the totality of the world; they both brush off the dirt to reveal the essence. In that lopping off, they both deny the world and begin to dream. They desire what they don't have; both want the world devoid of filth, contingency, and exceptions. The realist thinks he can find that here; the idealist thinks he can only have that elsewhere. For the one, the lack of concreteness in ideas is like a lie; for the other, the concreteness in ideas is a taint. Which is preferable? If the realist is already guilty of taking a step towards the ideal and away from the actual, can he take pride in committing a misdemeanor rather than a felony? Or, rather, ought he resign himself to be a criminal regardless and thereby transgress the laws to their fullest.

If one knows that a death sentence is universal, is one any wiser for saving face and only perpetrating a crime for which a life sentence is warranted? Does a realist go to the grave with a better life lived if he, though recognizing the injustice of the laws of the world--of contingency to the bottom, of all things conditional and fleeting--consents all the same to aspire to steal apples? Or, does the idealist live more according to his inner senses when he is all the same snatched from life whilst trampling upon the earth to reach for the starry fruits?

Grounded

April 19, 2009

2: What would you say if I were to tell you that every person's life is a battle?
1: I would say, "that's interesting."
2: Interesting enough to divulge what your battle is?
1: Don't you know?
2: How should I know?
1: Well, if it isn't apparent after a little reflection, I must be losing the battle.
2: Hmm. I think you are fighting for the unconditioned in the conditioned.
1: That's one way to put it. Am I winning?
2: It's a losing battle. You can't know what's unknowable. This world is conditioned to the bottom. There is always a limit, rules have exceptions, laws have loopholes.
1: So, your interesting observation is just a springboard into criticizing me?
2: I suppose you could say that.
1: What's the occasion? Why are you attacking me?
2: Because you are annoying as Hell with all of your highfalutin meditations on optimism and pessimism, submission and rebellion. I'd like more than anything to shut you up.
1: What so annoying about what I have to say?
2: The same thing that's annoying about watching an one-legged spider try to crawl away to safety. He's already mortally wounded, he should just give up.
1: So you're saying it's annoying to be in the presence of futility.
2: Exactly.
1: Then I won't shut up, and you'll be doubly annoyed--with yourself and with me.
2: Good point. At least I can take solace in knowing my own righteousness.
1: Where does your righteousness lie?
2: It is the obligation of every rational agent who wants to be rational to battle against ignorance.
1: What about me is ignorant?
2: The part of you that is constantly trying to justify beliefs by convictions and feelings. You cannot will the truth. Universal values don't exist because you want them to. The truth is cold and disinterested. We have to take it however it appears to us.
1: And if appears to me that the good is real?
2: Then I still win because it doesn't appear to me and if it doesn't appear to me than the good is not universal.
1: You could just be confused.
2: The same goes for you.
1: True, possibility doesn't entail anything.
2: But your confusion is much more likely.
1: How so?
2: Whereas I can get people to agree that we do not know the good, you cannot get people to agree we know the good.
1: And if truth does not depend on consensus?
2: We are human. We have no greater appeal than consensus. That is the core of democracy, rationality, and progress. That, over time, with increases in precision, we have greater expanses of agreement between people. We study the errors of those who went before and offer new, corrected hypotheses. We're beyond all that unconditional claptrap now.
1: How can there be progress in ethics if there's no real aim of ethics, if there is no good that we are striving to know?
2: There's progress in ethics because we are gaining a better understanding of what we can know. Taking our cues from science, we test knowledge claims empircally. Once we began understanding the sorts of things we could know certainly, we could then agree on the sorts of things we should do. Everyone knows that people have needs--shelter, clothing, food--and wants--to be pleased--and now ethics consists of giving people what they now need and want. All of your sacrifice for the sake of ideals, for the sake of some invisible dream...it's all so inhumane! People are suffering here and now and you tell them to endure, that it's not so bad because it will all be okay when you're dead. Your dear 'unconditioned' is getting in the way of progress. We live on the earth, buddy...and on the earth we can only progress by trial and error. The viewpoint you advocate is protracted obstacle. "Don't change the world, change yourself," you say. Well, I can't will myself to not need food, I can't change that. I can't make sadness into happiness. But I can...
1: Hold on a minute. You never answered my question. Progress implies some sort of fixed point. You can't move towards something unless you have something you are moving away from.
2: We are going towards an ever sophisticating version of what suits humans. We are consistently learning what makes people healthier, and we are implementing the means of getting healthier.
1: So then health is you unconditioned in the conditioned. It is your supreme endpoint.
2: No, it is not unconditioned. It is completely conditioned. We can state without controversy what a healthy person is. It entails a certain weight, blood pressure...
1: A level of psychological fulfillment?
2: No.
1: So happiness doesn't matter?
2: Of course happiness matters, but its a consequence of bodily health. When the body is in the right order, a person is happy. All the chemical are in balance.
1: So the good is the optimal state of the body.
2: Basically.
1: And how is the claim of what the optimal state of the body less ignorant than my conception of the good as a metaphysical, independent reality?
2: Because we can't know metaphysics?
1: Whereas you can know the optimal state of the body?
2: Yes.
1: Then what is it?
2: We're working on that.
1: But you don't know it now.
2: Of course not. We need to conduct more studies and improve our instrumentation. We have a good general idea, though.
1: I thought I had a good general idea, too.
2: You can't convince people of yours, though.
1: And you can?
2: Yes.
1: How?
2: The body of scientific discoveries concerning medicine, nutrition, and the like.
1: How could a person ever be convinced by something whose conclusions change all the time?
2: Because the change is par for the course. We admit from the start we are not there. We admit we are searching for the conditioned in the conditioned. You can't hold it against us.
1: I though bodily health admitted of optimality.
2: It does.
1: But that's unconditioned.
2: No it's not...I'll grant you it's theoretical, but it is empirical. Life is much better now as a result of our theoretical advances thus far. Life is better by any empirical measure than 200 years ago.
1: Perhaps on empirical measurements, yes.
2: There are no other sorts of measurements.
1: That is true. And that is tragic.
2: What do you mean?
1: The scales of qualitative difference are not precise like those of qualitative. I would suggest that for all the measurable improvement, we have not necessarily experienced a greater qualitative improvement. In fact, the contrary is more frequently the case for every individual who resides in this world where the metaphysical is so roundly shunned. You, the people you claim to be represented, have sacrificed ethics for epistemology. Your overweening fear of metaphysics, of the unknowable (not the unbelievable or unfeelable, mind you), has made you inconsiderate of happiness. You admitted as much just a minute ago. Pleasure is the consequence of a sentient body functioning optimally. Happiness is distinct from that. Your system cannot account for happiness for the simple reason it cannot be weighed or seen. Who is more feckless: me for justifying ethics by metaphysics or you by justifying ethics by nothing at all?
2: To justify ethics by metaphysics amounts to a state worse than justifying it by nothing at all--it justifies ethics by a lie.
1: When truth is only construed as what can be physically sensed.
2: As though there were any other kinds of sensation!
1: Oh, you poor man! Have you really lost all your intuition? Has your conscience shriveled up from lack of watering? Can you no longer sense beyond the colors a painting to the beauty within it?!
2: Here we go again. Would you just shut up with your groundless drivel?!
1: Only if you will.

Home

April 13, 2009

Our sense of dignity and our pride would have us believe that we are autonomous. Everything that leaves us is by our own choosing, bearing the stamp of our self. Every act, word, and breath leaves a trail of merit or demerit, stretching back to the origin deep within us.

A strong notion of ownership is, however, confused. Such possession is impossible. Such autonomy is beyond us. Do not stick doggedly to it. For how does the path reach ourselves when the origin of the object (the act, word, or breath) is in a mood, a sickness, or some other disturbance? Where is the glory for the thing said when it was the result of constipation, a cold, or a scarcely noticeable itch? How much of what we do is the consequence of something we had no part in bringing about?

The Stoics understood this problem and a visual is attributed to them as an apology for their disavowal of free will. Thinking everything a man does is determined by some other force (i.e., Nature), they still felt a need for responsibility. How could a man ever be responsible when he is not autonomous? How can we blame the machine for turning out bolts when it is simply a bolt-making machine?

If we construe responsibility in terms of causality, the need can be provided for. In this sense, we can blame a waterwheel for contents downstream, not because the waterwheel freely chose to turn, but because its boards touched the water and thereby had a hand in moving it along.

This picture, where a man can be condemned for being a man--where his responsibility is borne out of that very place where he is not responsible at all (his facticity, his existence)--warrants despair. But does not the alternative, that of radical responsibility--where a man is always a step beyond his circumstances and picks everything--warrant as much despair? Does it not warrant more? For in the former case, a person is responsible because she was born, whereas in the latter case, a person is responsible because she chose to be born, chooses to live, and ultimately chooses to die?

Finding ourselves somewhere in the middle of these interpretations, how can we avoid the fission of helplessness and the fusion of vanity? By adhering to the humility that arises from ignorance, by learning from the odd situation we find ourselves in--that we cannot with any great certitude judge our own case. To live as though you were being judged, that you are to be praised or blamed, that the path leads from your acts, words, and breath to your self whilst never being sure that it does in the given moment. In this tension we are most at home, muddled beings that we are.

Purity

March 27, 2009

Love is not quantifiable. We are confused when we ask, 'how much do you love me?'

Love is only qualifiable. It is distinguished by its purity. The more pure the love, the more rare. The more apt question is: 'how well do you love me?'

Love is often a component of an alloyed relation. 1 part sensuality, 1 part self-righteousness, and 1 part love, for instance, is a common cocktail. The first part involves bodily ownership of the other, the second part involves self-love redirected through the lens of the other (insofar as the mirror is less impressive than what it reflects), and the third part involves acceptance of the incomprehensibility of the other and the desire for its improvement.

The muddle that is human relations is a consequence of their capacity for diversity. When one dissects the bond between two individuals, one oftentimes finds contrapurposive tendencies (such as that of possession of sensuality and the disinterestedness of love seen above).

Ambition

March 24, 2009

Few things mark a person more ordinary than a desire to be extraordinary. The extraordinary person thinks only of being himself. The ordinary person, rejecting what he is, hopelessly strives to be something more. Few things more surely indicate doom than such an ambitious streak.

Denial

March 21, 2009

Riddle me this: how far down can confusion go? Can a person (one of flesh and blood, of beating heart and throbbing mind) sincerely choose falsity or evil (what is the same irreality)?

So much depends on whether a man can soberly choose his own undermining. Can you look into the radiance of truth and say no?

Some will deny the possibility. "You are only looking into a mirror, where the reflection loses some of its luster. You can deny the false gods, even those who are so near to the true that they share but one truth in common. But never, never could you see the truth and ever deny it. The truth is overwhelming. Whenever you are subjected to it, your will evaporates and you must obey."

Is this because you yourself are a lie, a less than truth? Does the light of truth eviscerate all darkness, whatever its manifestation?

What of the mechanism of self-loathing (one of the most potent forces in the human heart)? "No. You are too beautiful for me. I see you, you have entered into me, and I reject you. Not because my eyes reject you, or because my brain cannot comprehend you, but because I will not allow it! You will not dwell in me, and you will be nothing to me--not because you are nothing, but owing to your purity and simplicity--which makes you all the easier to deny!"

What of pride? "You are bright, I grant you that. Indeed, my eyes squint in your presence. But, I have the power to overcome you. Not through concentrated reflection of your rays, but through my own generation. I outshine you truth!"

Are these not real possibilities?

Some will always deny it. "You cannot look into the truth and deny it! All that you blow over are nothing but straw men. The Truth responds, "I never knew ye!" and you never knew Him. The truth has this foundational element of reciprocity. The truth resonates. If you are not vibrating, you are not in proximity."

Repetition vs. Uniqueness

March 18, 2009

What does being repeated do the value of a given experience? Initially, one would think that it always depletes the value. The law of diminishing returns, a basic tenet of economics, states as much. The first bag of pop-corn tastes so good; it hits the spot. But, by the 2nd or 3rd bag, the buttery, salty goodness becomes nauseating. Bribery would be required to consume another. Even that seemingly bottomless pit of pleasure, the orgasm, would become trying given enough repetition. The flesh becomes raw, the mind exhausted.

But, is this a consequence of repetition alone? No. It is a consequence of repetition and temporal proximity. Place a enough time between each experience, and the return does not necessarily diminish. Indeed, even the contrary can happen. If one is predisposed to a certain location, go a month without being there, and the return is sweeter than the previous visit. The value can increase.

So, who has the more enviable position: our ancestors or ourselves? We can consume so much upon demand. We can repeat our favorite albums nearly whenever and wherever we want. Our ancestors may only have had the pleasure of hearing their favorite songs a handful of times, when they were privy to a live performance. Do we enjoy an album on a given listening more because we have the pleasure of already memorizing them, anticipating the motion of the notes, and therefore establishing a relation to them? Did they enjoy their songs more because they knew how crucial it was to pay attention as it unfolded, because the performance was precious for its rarity?

Is it better to be familiar or present? How could one go about being both--since they are not mutually exclusive. If one could do that, how much sweeter would life be?! In truth, every moment is at once old and new--old insofar as it relies upon fixed perceptual conditions and draws upon established notions for interpretation and new insofar as the perceptual contents have never been so constituted and an experience as yet interpreted presents itself. Harness the truth in both qualities and be filled!

Undergrowth

March 18, 2009

Would you care to know what nearly drives me mad?

Skeptics from the way back, those Pyrrhonean sorts, had a way of undermining every assertion. It consisted of muddling the argument. When a person proposed a belief, they would propose the opposite of the belief. Take, for instance, the exterior world. A well-meaning victim would say to Pyrrho, "It is blatant that the world exists. Look here, we are interacting with it right now. Whatever it is, we are touching it, looking at it." He would pick up a book, smash it onto a nearby table and exclaim, "That noise is real! It is evidence that the outside world exists. Close your eyes, I'll prove it once more." With eyes closed, he would again slam the book down with vigor. "Did you hear that? It was the real book, which existed though we did not see it. It existed so much that it caused a sound without our seeing it."

And Pyrrho, he would be smirking all the while. He would retort, "I grant you that there are sense perceptions, that they are with us so long as we are conscious. But what of unconsciousness? What of dreams? Are they not equally assertive in the way they are when we are awake? It is nothing but brashness to assert something you have no criterion to decide between. If you can offer me no distinct method of deciding between a given dreamed and waking phenomena, then I can grant you no such reality. Perhaps it is real, independent of us. Perhaps it is not. I can make no commitment either way."

This muddling can take root everywhere. Take the proposition you are most sure of ("that your boyfriend loves you," "that you work at the Starbucks on 9th and Elm," "that you are a man,"), and they can offer you a convincing argument for the possibility of the contrary ("that he is putting on a show," "that 9th and Elm is only in your mind," "that you have no body at all"). They poke a hole, pry open a little daylight (perhaps a little darkness), and with that--they have you! And my mind has me in such a way all the time (or at least it wants to).

But here is what makes the Pyrrhonean such a fool: that the possibility does not necessitate falsity. Just because you can assert the contrary with a modicum of plausibility, does not entail that the preponderance of evidence in favor of the original position is refuted.

So, the skeptic is written off with a blank stare and a quip, "So what? I'll place my bet on the truth of my assertion. You may place your bet on yours. And, time will tell who wins."

He has already gotten a hold of you, though. And when the well-meaning victim walks away, laughing to himself, the seed is already planted. Days later, after a depressing circumstance, the sprout shoots up. "What if?" he asks himself. "How am I to tell which, if any, is right?"

"No, no. It is entirely irrational. The possibility is too outlandish to entertain." Still, it lingers in the background--it refuses to be erased from the mind's blackboard.

The strength of every "what if?" is multiplied by the force of habit. Before he knows it, he's a sick man. All the while, he can laugh at the silly skeptical objections from a certain perspective on things he can take. Still, they weigh on his heart because his mind cannot let them go.

How does he become well? Only when he makes peace with the possibility of being in error. "Hah hah! I am fallible. Thank you, Pyrrho, for teaching me about myself. Thank you for giving me the gift of humility. I will prune the plant, and not let it grow into self-loathing and fear. No, I'll let it live, but not flourish. It will be my little doubter's bonsai. It shall have a privileged place in my mind's garden, so resilient is it. But, it will be dwarfed by the oak of common-sense and the redwood of will."

The Trappings of Falseness

1: "What do you make of habits? Do you believe in them?"
2: "What do you mean 'believe in them'?"
1: "Do you think people are 'creatures of habit,' as they say? I mean, do you think habits play a central role in an individual's life?"
2: "I suppose so, yes. Students sit in the same seats in classes without seating charts because they are comfortable with the seat they first sat in. It's the path of least resistance. Do what you've done before because you already know how to do it. You have to designate less thought to the action. We all favor autopilot."
1: "Right. I couldn't agree more. Does that fact scare you, though--our penchant for autopilot, that is?"
2: "Not really. It doesn't seem to me like it's any better or worse than anything else that is a common human trait. The phenomenon of forming habits is neutral because you could just as easily form a good habit as much as a bad habit. There's nothing about habits in the abstract that should scare anyone."
1: "In the abstract, right. Again, I am with you. But what about in the particular, what about for you or me? When we form habits, is it really so neutral? I'm not so convinced. Sure we have many benign habits, like the chair-sitting you mentioned. But habits are the grease that makes slopes so slippery."
2: "No. Slopes are slippery because people are given to being recalibrated so often. We like novelty so much--or loath staleness, whichever--that our scales are frequently being zeroed, as it were. Take romantic love, for instance. Everyone knows about honeymoons and their "wearing off." Infatuation leads to institutionalization, and then love is dead. Was the relationship any different? Not necessarily. The only thing that definitely changed was the fact that each person became comfortable, got used to it, and then we hardly take notice of those things we once found endearing. So we need more all the time. And porn--everyone whose ever been caught in the web of porn knows you start with Sears catalogs and end with snuff films. It's like hunger. You have to keep eating, more and more and more--because you are a grist. So, you start walking downhill, and that gets boring, then you start jogging, and that gets boring, then you start running--and before you know it you're buttering up your sneakers and trying to ski down that slope. That's how slopes get slippery."
1: "I see your point. But habituation has a hand in it..."
2: "You know slippery slopes are logical fallacies, right?"
1: "Logical fallacies, yes. But I am talking about human nature, where logical fallacies become actionable. And I am trying to make an ethical observation if you would only indulge me."
2: "By all means, continue. I was only making sure you weren't confused from the start."
1: "It's interesting you should put it thus. Because that is what frightens me so much about people being creatures of habit. Err once, and you're more likely to err again. And err consistently in one area of life, i.e., make a habit of it--and you'll make errors in another area of life. And then, you find yourself sliding uncontrollably. Or rather, you would find yourself sliding if you could even recognize motion anymore. But if you start in a confused state--though you think you are thinking clearly because it seems to you like any other accurate thought you have experienced--well...that just damning. Right?"
2: "I'm sorry. I can't agree. I'll grant you that if you don't understand arithmetic, you'll be poor at algebra. I agree that a erroneous pattern of mathematical thought will increase the likelihood of all you mathematical thoughts--but I hardly see how it has any bearing on your aesthetic thoughts, say."
1: "Think of falseness as a fatal disease. Maybe it starts in the kidneys, but it progresses throughout the whole body until you're dead. Health engenders health, illness, illness."
2: "Just because you break your arm doesn't mean you won't be able to think straight anymore."
1: "That's silly--and a red herring. I'm not saying that a illness in one spot will engender illness in another given spot. I'm saying that it tends to propagate though, if left untreated."
2: "I hardly think the body is an analogy for the mind. The mind isn't so interrelated."
1: "Well, humans aren't so compartmentalized as you take them to be."
2: "So, you're telling me that if I am wrong in my estimation of what the good life is--since you wanted to bring ethics in--then I am going to be wrong in my scientific investigations? I'm sorry. I don't think habits have that much sway."
1: "If you are wrong about something so fundamental, how could you ever be right about anything--short of being right by accident?"
2: "There are plenty of asshole scientists and ignorant poets who, though excelling in one area of life, are off base in another area."
1: "Of course, of course. I'm not talking about guarantees, here. Perhaps even so much emphasis on forming good writing habits, for instance, depletes the energy needed for forming good social habits. Nevertheless, let falsity in somewhere and I think you ruin your own credibility. And now we have full warrant to be paranoid, because falsity and truth hardly seem different to the person holding the beliefs--provided that have an equal amount of conviction."
2: "So, you want everyone to excel at everything, only accept that truth everywhere, and never function on hypotheses and hunches?"
1: "I just want everyone to be careful about everything they do, because everything takes us one step closer to habits. And bad habits have a way of multiplying."
2: "Well--I find this desire of yours a hopeless one. Why emphasize something that you yourself admit escapes our own scrutiny?"
1: "Well, it doesn't have to escape our scrutiny, it just does. Because we have formed a habit of being credulous. If you pause and reflect on what you do and why often enough, if you try to pay attention to that conglomeration of your self--heart, mind, body, etc.--then you'd have a better nose for falsity."
2: "I have better things to do than stop all my forward momentum and reflect all the time."
1: "So you'd rather have more beliefs and risk them being false, act on more principles and risk them being false--than have fewer ones with greater assurance of truth?"
2: "What is this assurance of truth nonsense, and all this talk about 'having a nose' and listening to your 'heart'? That's all drivel. You said yourself you can't tell, and I agree with you. Falsity feels like truth sometimes."
1: "Yes. But that's because you want it to be."
2: "What? No. I don't want the world to be as it is, but I take it like I see it just the same."
1: "Not all error is willful. I'm not speaking clearly. Sometimes error is a result of the force of habit. And so we return to my point. Perhaps your 'taking' of the world is as it is because that's the way the world hit you a long time ago and now you can't help talking it otherwise. Because it practically unquestioned by you. And now you can't discern between truth and fiction."
2: "Oh, please! Let's not start dragging armchair psychology into this."
1: "Fine, fine... how are your classes going?"

On The Principle of Non-Contradiction as it related to Humanity

March 8, 2009

My thoughts have grafted onto the truth about us much better since I accepted the possibility of contradiction. It is possible, when dealing with humanity, to invalidate the law of contradiction. For a man can both love and hate the same object. A man can be confused and certain about the same face. A young man can murder the woman he loves the most because he loves her too much. It is possible to traverse so far on the wheel of love that one goes down into hatred. And one can hate oneself so much as to birth love of others strictly out of self-contempt. And one can contort love of others into self-love, and bring about an outward apathy after the transition of love-objects. Is anything more surprising about man than the possible contents and configurations of his heart? Is anything less surprising in dealing with him than watching these constituents enacted? No one ought ever be confounded in their interactions with other people.

Does this make every person unique? Yes. More curious, however, is how the uniqueness is such that it does not disallow successful hypotheses. People are at once predictable and unpredictable, trouncing through some categories, defying some tendencies, while nevertheless remaining mired in others.

So, the proposition of trusting another is in the fullest sense a gamble. There are odds that, in theory, could be ascribed to whether the individual before you is, say, lying or not. Yet, even with access to those probabilities--the risk is always that they are an currently an exception. 10:1 the man is honest. He is the sort of man who is honest in these situations. He has been that sort of man for twenty three years. But today, he is exceptional. For his self spills out of the sort, and today his consciousness if floating in the exterior region. There are odds on behavior, and metaodds on the odds being accurate in the given time frame. What a sublime mystery! And we burst through it all the time! Trust and distrust without any consideration (to say nothing of the middling ground of unsureness).

And the frightening position repeats itself in our own interiority. How little do we know ourselves! (What a nebulous concept, housing even more posturing and willful ignorance, even more probability disruption!) Too much and not enough.

Truth

November 22, 2008

Among historians, a thought often is found: "numbers lie." The supposition behind the thought is of the inherent weakness of statistics. By tracking two quantities that are contemporary to each other and placing their numerical representatives next to each other, the mind often jumps to causal relations. However, correlations do not necessitate (nor do they rule out) causal relations. Statistics can be used to manipulate. They can be disingenuous tools of argumentation. Orwell's 1984 captures the nature of statistics well. The government that pervades the novel is always quick to publish the quantity of something unimportant (like shoelaces) and how production of them has increased. Taken on its own, the increase brings with it a higher estimation of the society. "It is good for production to increase. The more things, the better." However, the statistics wantonly skew the real environment. The a few, scant unimportant items are made in greater frequency, while the essential conditions for human flourishing languish. Shoelaces are up; love is down.

Historians rarely make a related observation that seems to me to be even more fundamental: "words lie." Indeed, words lie more than numbers. Numbers are only tools for the lies delivered by words. "1.2 million more shoelaces were produced this quarter from last quarter," is more of a lie for the words it leaves out than for the numbers it leaves out. '1.2 million' is a relatively unimportant part of the sentence. (It's not even the subject, of course.)

One of the most frightening and, simultanesously, most comforting properties of truth is that it obtains without our assent (or denial). Saying, "Jack is a boy," does not make the real Jack a boy. It is an obvious truth, a blatant observation, I know. Yet it is so often forgotten. We want to believe that the truth is not so isolated from us. When I say, for instance, "I didn't mean any harm," I assume that somehow my assertion will prevent the listening from being harmed by my action. I want the truth to bend to my will.

At times, the truth does so 'bend.' I have said something like, "I'll see you tomorrow at 2:45." The following day I saw the person at 2:45. But did my will necessitate the truth? No, it only aligned with it. For, what if I had every intention of seeing the person the next day, took all the necessary steps, and then, on the walk up to her apartment, tripped, fell, and went momentarily blind from the trauma? The point is here that the will is only contingently related to the truth.

Since all of our words are products of our wills, the all our words share the same relation to the truth. Speaking geometrically, at times language and truth overlap. At times they run parallel, at times they are perpendicular, and at times they are not even on the same plane. Further, we lack the capacity to always assess with certainty exactly what way our language is relating to the truth. Speaking psychologically, I may confess, "I am not angry with you," and yet deep in my subconscious there may be great reservoirs of anger directed at the listener. The psychoanalyst says after a number of therapy sessions that you are unaware of your deepest sentiments, but that they are present nonetheless. Truth at large, if it could speak, could easily speak to us as the psychoanalyst does about his patients: "Although you think and talk one way, the truth is really another."

What are we to do in this situation? How are we to approach truth if we lack any necessary ways of relating to it in language? We have far more hope in relating to truth by nonverbal means, by actions. Art moves us so to such a degree because there is of the supra-linguistic vastness of its accuracy. Truth is more than truth is said. Art is experienced better than art is written of. Being and consciousness of being (the state of presence) are less estranged from each other than being and description of being (either by numbers or words). Our best approach to life is one of truthful living, which places a person's bet of time (the greatest asset a person has) on a proposition that, after rigorous examination, is judged to overlap truth. Then, words presumed true are transformed into actions which, if true, are far more truthful than their representatives can ever be.