I Don't Want To Know

As a writer, even though I am not part of any sort of literati, I am still plugged into the lit scene. You need to be if you want to understand the general to-and-fro of any industry you are interested in becoming a part of (same goes for TV, music, theatre, etc..). That said, I must make an admission. I am making this admission because I think there are a lot of people like me out there who feel the same but are reticent to admit it.

Here goes: I don't take any particular interest in the life of the artist outside of his or her art.

When I read a book, I don't care if an author comes from the East Coast and studied journalism, had a drug problem and now lives in a shed with a mastiff. It's not that I don't care about this author personally, it's that these facts shouldn't have anything to do with the book that I am about to read. I should be able to pick up the book, knowing nothing about said author, and be able to read it, enjoy it, be fully affected by it, without substantially missing something due to a lack of familiarity with the author's biography.

And yet, when you are culturally plugged-in (and by this I mean, you check out industry blogs, trade mags, etc.) there is so much white noise about the artists themselves that it seems divergent from what it is they are supposed to be doing: their work. We can talk about Picasso's passions, but 100 years from now there will probably only be discussion of his work - your work is the only thing left after you and everyone who knew you has died. And if people are still talking more about you than your work after this point, then I would think the quality of your work was overstated.

Would knowing that Stephen King battled drug addiction offer an insight into some of his writing? Yes. But, my point is that if that insight is necessary in order to fully appreciate a piece of work then there is a problem. The work doesn't work if you need a biographical cheat sheet to inject context into the material.

I think Bryan Ferry is an fantastic vocalist - and I don't want to know anything more than that. Nor the details outside a director's films, nor what inspired the playwright to write her play. I've got my own shit going on, thanks very much.

Ephemera is for journalists, fanzines, and those working on their Ph.D. The general public should not feel inadequate if they pick a DVD or book off a shelf, sit down in a theatre, or load a song without being prepared with supplemental information not contained within the medium which contains the work. The work inevitably has to stand up for itself. I write this for two reasons: first, with the likes of the AV Club and traditional print/TV media clamouring to add as much web-based context as possible to every article, there's a growing sense that - for the everyman - if you aren't savvy to the smallest details of each artist's passings and goings, you are nothing but a tourist. Secondly, embracing social media to a claustrophobic degree, we can now read endless commentating on authors reading their work for a live audience!...something no one really asked for outside the publishing companies themselves and perhaps the authors' parents. Let's face it: most authors can't read aloud to save their lives - it's not their specialty.

There are reasons for digging deeper, but that's up to the individual. It was interesting to learn more about HP Lovecraft when I reviewed Michel Houellebecq's quasi-biography of him and his work. What's funny, however - using that same example - is that when I proceeded to read the two works by Lovecraft contained in that same book, I don't recall thinking to myself "Ahh - this is where his uncomfortable relationship with women takes shape!". That's because the stories were two of his masterpieces, and when you witness a masterpiece, peripheral biographical information is going to gunk-up your enjoyment.

The medium may be the message, but the work contains the words. Outside of this we are left with cultural "bonus features". Nice to have, but not necessary.

All That Glitters Isn't Oranje

It should come as no surprise that my postings have been less frequent, in proportion to the success or lack thereof of the Dutch at the World Cup, which has just (mercifully) ended.

First: I'm happy we made it to the Final.

Second: I'm happy we lost (even though I wanted us to win at the time).

Allow me to explain: I will always support Oranje, but that doesn't mean I have to suspend my critical faculties while doing so. It also doesn't mean I am living in a nostalgic cloudbank in which Holland must either play soccer like the Kirov ballerinas dance or else they are "cynical" - a word bandied about by once-every-four-years-I-pay-attention-to-soccer pundits.

In case I haven't beaten this point enough, my Oranje is the team of 1998. It always will be. They were beautiful to watch (take a look at my Ryeberg essay if you haven't already) and most aficionados consider that squad the greatest team of the competition, regardless that they lost to Brazil in the semi-finals. The thing is, if you accept that, then you must also accept they were the very same team who flamed-out against Italy in Euro 2000 in the quarters, in perhaps one of the most humiliating games I've seen us play: same squad, folks. How's that for beauty?

The toughest question in the world if you are a Dutch international soccer player: What can you do when the public, the pundits, the former stars from the Golden Age all want to see you play ballet if playing ballet doesn't win anything? Don't get me wrong: I like the Oranje ballet - I am one of those people who can walk away from a loss, still chuffed that we played "as we should". I do side with author David Winner's thoughts about Dutch soccer philosophy, as laid out in his (brilliant) book, Brilliant Orange: The Neurotic Genius of Dutch Soccer. But inevitably you want to win something, and the only silverware the Dutch have is the Euro title in 1988.

This brings us to the present. Sadly. Sadly, because for the most part Oranje did not live up to the philosophy we had come to World Cup 2010 expecting. Under the direction of Bert van Marwijk, they took a detour: individual beauty, sure, when necessary, but collectively less a ballet than an assembly line with a very narrow directive: win, above all else. And they did. They were rusty at first and their games, outside of pockets of that ol' Clockwork Oranje we hoped to see, were not pretty, but they won, and continued to win. Lord, I wanted them to win, too - I was a willing enabler.

When the final against Spain came, I was a nervous wreck. I can only imagine how it must have been in Holland, for those making their way to the Museum Square in Amsterdam where the games were shown for the public. They had come so far, had been through so much, for so many years: 1974, 1978, the glimmer of 1998, the disappointment of missing 2002. So much baggage that you wanted them to win just to shake off the voodoo of the past.

But as I got prepared that morning I visualized what it would be like if we won, if for the first time ever we won the Cup. Instead of tears of joy, I have to tell you, I saw that it would have felt as if we had cheated. As if in winning, we had not done so as ourselves but as a cunning machine, as if someone had invented a "Dutch Soccer Team" to take our place. I cannot describe how difficult it was to deal with that: to stare at a historic vindication within reach of your fingertips, knowing simultaneously there was something inherently inauthentic about it. In fact, had we won, I fear the "victory" would have irrevocably punctured the heart of Dutch soccer, as opposed to the bittersweet reality I live with now: we lost, Dutch soccer is merely dented. Coach van Marwijk's corporatist approach has been repudiated, that is for sure. What I don't know is who or what, philosophically speaking, has been vindicated, since we are bridesmaids once again.

Perhaps it is our souls? I can't speak for yours, but mine is in a better if not exactly comfortable place right now.

Imagine walking into an empty room.

There is a baseball bat on the ground.
Sitting above it is a lead crystal vase atop a waist-height pedestal.
Written in large letters on the vase are the words: HIT ME.


(This is what enters my mind when I encounter self-righteousness.)

Dreams

(Over on Ward Six, there was a post about dreams and the use of dreams in one's writing. This is my response/non-response to that post.)

Dreams, without exploding into a cavalcade of pet-theories, feed our experiences back to us as deconstructed information. Familiar objects and people are shuffled, perhaps not randomly, and re-proposed to us. As reality.

I am haunted by dreams still. Dreams I had when I was a child. Nightmares. Fantasies. No wonder. When you are growing up, the easel upon which your dreams are painted is like an IMAX screen: massive, all-encompassing, as close to real as it gets. As you get older, as you obtain experience, as your field of vision and reason begins to vibrate independently - in other words, as you become an individual - dreams cease to take centre stage. They exist and appear just as often as before, but for some reason their weight and impact is lessened.

And yet, a handful of times every year (it's so hard to pin-down because they disappear into the ether like clear helium balloons) I will have a dream which haunts me throughout the morning (if not the day). It is those dreams I try to write down. Some I make into short stories as realities. Some, I incorporate into long fiction as, well, dreams.

Dreams are language. They vex interpretation, yet I feel there is nothing arbitrary about their construct. I fancy: somewhere in our sleeping minds an architect awakens and sorts through our lives, our goals and fears, our friends and enemies, our passions and hatred. This architect then casts a mold: fluid, non-dimensional, mantic. And it is this we are exposed to in our vulnerable slumber.

We wake up and try, often in vain, to make sense of it. And yet I think the most sense we will ever make of our dreams is by not interpreting them at all but allowing them to stand on their own. Allow them to stand as imponderable totems, sculpted by a subconscious architect: haunting, monolithic riddles. They represent the need for non-linearity in our lives.

Returning

Although this will go down as a formative, self-defining year, one of my great frustrations of 2009 is the inability to find the time and/or energy to collect, polish, publish all of the things, happenings, and concepts that come across my path - not even a healthy fraction. I've had more success capturing visuals but that's due to being in the right place/time with a cellphone camera rather than wilfully executing a deliberate agenda.

Work is going like gangbusters, which I am thankful for, the novel is improving with every moment I spend revising it (helps that people actually want to read it), and most recently/surprisingly I have become a homeowner. Just two days ago I was offered a part-time teaching position from a respectable college for a respectable film/TV program.

And yet, at risk of portraying myself as spoilt (or tetched), it seems as if it's not enough. I feel there is so much going on that I want to grab hold of: the recent (Twitter-inspired) trend of authors turning around and publicly accusing peers of personal attacks when in fact they are just doing their jobs (eg. book reviews), the aesthetics of stereoscopic imagery (that's 3D for you junior rangers), and the way in which the world unravels and combines at the same moment in time like a Möbius strip, and what about the Perimeter Institute for Theoretical Physics in Waterloo...?

It's too much for me. Everything: life, art, work... I hit the mattress every night and practically pass out. I used to read... I read War & (f'ing) Peace in the time between laying down and actually sleeping. Luxury! says the current me. Mind you, he gets more sleep and perhaps has a better grasp on the whole "early to bed, early to rise" thing. Maybe I shouldn't be visualizing the voice of "current me" as being spoken in the harsh brogue of a Scottish authoritarian.

Things felt as if they were falling apart in the spring, like when the aperture ring on my Zorki-4 came loose, right in the middle of shooting some nice "golden hour" shots on Dundas West (just south of Kensington Market) after a fallow 35mm winter. Little could I guess that within a few months I'd be living in a house just five minutes north of where I took these photos. Thankfully, most of them came out fine. Perhaps it was all an elaborate metaphor for being patient, for trying hard to see the forest rather than scrutinize the pines, the mouths of gift horses, etc.

This may all be true, if terribly clichéd. And who would give a horse as a gift in the first place?

This is not a lengthy letdown friends, as if to say that this blog has served its purpose and is to be cast onto the great cyber-somethingsomething where cyber-things are cast and probably set on fire. No, I will not be taking this blog on a walk into the woods, with Daddy and his shotgun. I'm just reaching a threshold where life is requiring more concentration and energy, leading me to ask (hello, rhetorical!) how imaginary magnitude can adapt to suit these changes without looking like an outmoded vehicle or an abandoned hobby (or both). Yes, as I said, rhetorical. But since when has rhetorical ever been a particularly devastating accusation?

Rhetoric is just a temporary building material, made up of the same stuff that kludges are moulded out of. Hope (if not faith), led by patience. That word again: patience. I think I met you somewhere, at a bar maybe, when I was younger and looking for your type. It is true that rhetoric cannot keep a tower standing, but it can inspire the building of towers.

Where am I going with this...right: things are odd, and unbalanced, and it all points to a giant (fictional) neon sign blinking just above my head, big-city halo-like, which says: TRANSITIONAL PERIOD OF ADJUSTMENT. Fair enough (if not sexy).

I suppose I am writing this to say that I'm here for you, but not in the way that I was, which is not to say that I am not still here. My focus is changing, not changing for change's sake but fermenting into something more stable and powerful. I guess, if I may go back and answer an earlier question, the reason why I am not as prolific here as before is that - now that I am slipping into a new stream of life - my energy must be treated as a finite commodity. Perhaps this, for now, is "success", and I'm just looking at it like a paleontologist holding a magnifying glass against a piece of the Arctic ice shelf, unsure of what is before him.

Tell you what: when I find out, I'll let you know. The long and short of it is that I'm still here, but here may be changing to suit my needs. We'll see. We.

Book Review: Unended Quest, by Karl Popper

"Pfuel was one of those theorists who so love their theory that they forget the purpose of the theory - its application in practice; in his love for theory, he hated everything practical and did not want to know about it. He was even glad of failure, because failure, proceeding from departures from theory in practice, only proved to him the correctness of his theory."

- Leo Tolstoy, War & Peace, Vol. III, Pt. 1, Chpt. X

My self-guided study in philosophy brought me to Karl Popper this past summer. Yes, another 20th century Austrian (seeing as the last philosopher's book I reviewed was Wittgenstein's Tractatus Logico Philosophicus). Another logician as well, but what's compelling about Popper is that he did not limit himself to one particular field of study (in his case, science). He was just as passionate and knowledgeable about social dynamics, art, and politics.

Popper approached the long-held observational scientific method with distrust; rather than prove a theory to be correct with empirical evidence, he took inspiration from Einstein's openness to critique (when he released his theories on relativity) and insisted that falsification was a better method (ie. allowing one's theory to be refuted by opening it up to the community-at-large for inspection from more angles). This, he argued, protected the world from the success of pseudoscientific "pet theories". His inspiration for this came from his disenchantment with social and academic institutions of the day which rigidly held the works of Marx and Freud in high esteem.

Allow me to stop here and say the following: there is no way in hell I can sufficiently (to my own or anyone else's satisfaction) and clearly lay-out the man's theories, justifications, and *how* he came about his all in what I always hope and aim to be a succinct blog entry. It has taken me a day to revise the above paragraph and I'm still not particularly happy with it.

That said, I found Unended Quest to be a fascinating portrait of a great mind who refuses to stop questioning. His way of thinking about the underpinnings of logic and about systemic, ingrained assumptions in society is nothing short of radical. Under Popper's means of demarcation such seemingly scientific pursuits as economics, climatology, and even dietetics are left looking like...well, not quackery, but certainly not anything approaching science.

So, yes, feet get stomped on, lines get drawn...and this brings me to what makes a great philosophical treatise: it forces you, whether you like it or not, to recalibrate your assumptions about society. Even if you have fundamental disagreements, you are forced to work hard to justify them. In other words, it's the perfect way to give your brain a shake (perhaps even your foundations of understanding).

Unended Quest is full of ideas and strong opinions, with the socio-political history of the 20th century as its backdrop. This is a man who lived through two World Wars, whose early experiences as a social worker with neglected children made him fundamentally question the learning process, and who ended up being on a first-name basis with some of the greatest minds of the then-burdgeoning realm of quantum physics (Einstein, Schrödinger, Bohr).

That's it. That's all I can write without this becoming a term paper. All I can add to this is that I aim to re-read this book on a yearly basis, which is perhaps the best complement I can pay to an author.

Unended Quest (ISBN: 978-0-415-28590-2), by Karl Popper is available at an independent bookstore near you, or online at any number of vendors.

Getting Better: Take It Outside

Writing programs, whether they be of the one-day or the week-long-getaway variety, can be good or bad things. In particular, I think anyone who is a closeted writer (ie. short stories and poetry hidden on your computer like pornography) and feels the need to affirm (or reaffirm) their direction should consider - at least as an option - a writing program. Provided you do some research and find a good course, a writing program allows you to unload your craft in front of others, receive honest feedback, and illuminate your shortcomings as well as your strengths.

Of course, there are always risks. Your teacher/mentor may not get along with you at all, for stylistic or personality-related reasons. You could be a poet in a room full of prose writers. You may find your peers to be full of themselves. You may find yourself an unintentional participant in a Self-Congratulations Society, where no one will accept or voice constructive criticism.

I lucked out, to put it briefly

Many years ago, I hooked up with a Toronto-based group, headed by someone who ran a web-based forum for local writers. It was ok. It wasn't what I wanted then, though of course I can articulate it perfectly now. The person coordinating the meeting I attended (and as an aside, being someone who coordinates a couple of groups now, it can be a thankless, dispiriting job) was not, at least on the surface, someone focused on the art or spirit of writing. She seemed more interested in writing events (contests and the like) rather than writing itself. This, I contend, is not wrong, but rather - being the sensitive philosophical type I am - it simply didn't jive with what I wanted. But even this is good, because the more you investigate the more you learn about what you need versus want. As a result of trial-by-error, your desires become less metaphysical and more concrete.

Fast-forward years later...my then-fiancée, Ingrid, who works in publishing, recommended the Humber College School for Writers' Summer Workshop. I had a novel. I didn't know whether it was good or bad, and it wasn't helped that I had no writer friends to bounce it off of for feedback. I looked into the program and decided to attend (financed by American Express). I ended up spending a week in a classroom of eight, with poet/novelist DM Thomas (The White Hotel) as our mentor. It was perfect. I could not have asked for a more seminal experience. Everything clicked. I walked away at the end, having attended seminars, Q&A's, and forums, with a much more evolved viewpoint of both the art and business of writing.

That week I learned to love and respect the art of revising/editing, something I'd always treated like poison. I met some great people who, for the first time, I could actually talk to about writing without having to explain what writing was in order to help them understand me. I was publicly confronted with a then-serious illness (habitually using it's when I should've been using its). I was flattered by the positive feedback I received but not stung or made sullen by honest critiques either.

As a result of that single week, my outlook, philosophy, and activity in writing was immensely deepened. I started a monthly writers' group - the very same sort of group I was searching for in vain before - which carries on successfully to this day (we celebrate our 3rd "birthaversary" this summer, in fact). The novel which had consumed so much of my time back then has since been shelved, having realised that it needed so much work that it was better for me to start from scratch and return to it later (under the axiom, "if you love someone set them free"). Now, of course, I have a new novel which I'm very happy with (along with a nice collection of short stories).

I write this because sometimes - particularly when you are an artist, alone, in an environment seemingly bereft of people who can empathize with what you do - it's important to look outside for that next important step: getting involved so as to help yourself. As writers, we can't allow ourselves to fall into the trap of thinking we are failures if we do not wake up at 5am, complete four chapters by lunch, followed by spending the afternoon staring solemnly out of our 3rd storey "writing nook" windows while we wait for the absinthe to kick in. That's mythology.

I should also mention an extremely good (short) book, called Art & Fear: Observations on the Perils (and Rewards) of Artmaking, by David Bayles and Ted Orland [ISBN: 0961454733]. I recommend it to anyone from any artistic background who is looking for some objective advice, written by people who truly understand. Lastly, even though I mention this book and provide a link to the Humber College course previously, it's just as important for people to discover what's right for themselves - there are many options out there. Please do your research.

Writing on Writing

I would like to say that I've been prolific in my writing over the last few weeks, but that would be a lie.

My first focus has been the novel. It is complete (in the sense that I don't believe it requires anything new to be added: chapters, characters, story arcs, etc..), yet requires a good revision to smooth over the parts which were put in place (not unlike a temporary glue or kludges) so that I could carry on telling the story without getting bogged down with detail work. Thankfully, the amendable bits are easy to recognize and not too draining for me to clarify.

A few weeks back, my tangential focus was on submitting two stories to two separate entities (one a contest, another a lit mag). Again, revisions were needed, as I don't think it's very safe to blindly submit something, even if you were perfectly happy with it previously.

In other words, the novel's coming along very well, submissions are submitted (and the inevitable lottery entered). There's just not a hell of a lot of "new" writing happening these days, which bugs me.

It would bug me more if it wasn't for the fact that I seem to be in a "research" period. Quite involuntarily, I find that I'm following leads which present themselves to me without my seeking them: clues, ideas, conjectures. Most influential, at least currently, is Karl Popper, whose "Unended Quest" I have been devouring for the last while. His insights into the theory of knowledge and its application across the spectrum of art, science, and politics is - if anything - thought provoking. The goal of philosophy, I am reminded when reading someone who understands exactly what he or she is talking about, is not to blindly adopt beliefs because they sound good, but to digest them. To try them on like a pair of garish sunglasses and look at the world through them; rarely will even the most profound philosophy not require adjustments made to it in order for you to still be and think like you, and not someone else.

I'm reminded of Hesse's Siddhartha, where the protagonist, upon meeting the Gotama Buddha, rejects his offer for Siddhartha to join his group, stating that the Buddha himself came to his wisdom not by following others, but through making the necessary mistakes needed to attain wisdom.

Somewhere, far away, I am *this* close to something.

On Kludges

[I'm finally picking up a thread I started a few years ago, eventually posted here, it being the third in a long series of posts which became this blog. -ed]

kludge or kluge

n. Slang A system, especially a computer system, that is constituted of poorly matched elements or of elements originally intended for other applications. A clumsy or inelegant solution to a problem. [From ironic use of earlier kluge, smart, clever, from spelling pronunciation of German kluge, from Middle High German kluc, from Middle Low German klōk.] (citation)

We all have serviceable jobs. However, from a worldwide perspective, only a very (very) tiny portion of us make a living which converges with who we really are and what we really believe in, whether this be political, spiritual, therapeutic or what have you.

What we (the majority "we") want to do outside of the constricts of these so-called irreconciled longings - what we really want to do with our lives, in other words - turns out to be a cliché when you look at it from a rather cool, pragmatic point of view.

I want to be a stock investor.

I want to be a painter.

I want to have my own business.

But it's a serviceable cliché. Clichés are the kludges of creative logic. We plug something into our jury-rigged formula which sounds derived and worn, and yet it's necessarily there because without it our goals would be vulnerable without a better substitute in the short term, and let's face it, even a better short term substitute would still be a kludge. Everything we do to substitute the wisdom of experience in order to find an intelligent, if temporary, solution to an existential problem (whether it be driven from an agnostic, partisan, or ephemerally creative impulse) is a kludge. Get used to it.

During the hey-days of the late 90's/early 21st century "dot com" stock craze there became a rather fashionable meme* on the website Slashdot which continues today, mind you in a more cynical context which is meant to demonstrate the shortsightedness of wishful thinking. An example of which is:

1) Create automobile out of plastic bags
2) ...
3) Profit!

Which is to say, when it comes to what we really want to do with our lives, we have the idea and we have the motivation, but quite often we know sweet nothing about what happens in between them.

When people who aren't writers (let alone novelists) think about writing a novel, they are essentially thinking:

1) Hey, I got a good story in my head.
2) ...
3) Fame!

Trust me. I speak from the perspective of someone who has heard this in many frightening ways.

However, lest I appear to cast scorn unduly upon a tiny fragment of people (or even a single profession), this situation applies to anybody who wants to get involved in anything they have absolutely no experience in, yet which they feel inexplicably motivated to follow: plumbing, tango dancing, astrophysics.

The trick is to fill in the "2)" with something which works enough so that when you know better, you can revise it. So, if step 2) on the path of someone who wants to open up a bistro is "find a storefront", you can be sure that it will be revised soon after they make the commitment with the likes of "...and get a bank loan, find a contractor, file permits with the city, draw a floorplan, tell your wife you won't be seeing her for several more hours a day for the next year...", etc..

Not only does the kludge which glues the first and third items together (as a plan, dream, goal) expand and contract the more we involve ourselves in the initial commitment, the goal itself (whether it be fame, fortune, or a more Buddhist sense of completeness) is informed and thus evolves as the task itself expands and contracts through the process. In other words, aside from the initial idea, everything after it is but a temporary placeholder, marking time until such a point where we can re-evaluate the situation.

Kludges, aside from their current and (rather too) strictly technological definition, are substitutes for the reality of experience: wisdom. And yet kludges never totally disappear, regardless of how much we accomplish or evolve through the process. We refine them as our initial naiveties are refined. As a result, the kludges become smaller, less detrimentally crutch-like, and less embarrassingly round pegs in the otherwise squared holes of knowledge.

[* I want it noted that I've gone 2 years and 227 posts without using the much abused term "meme". It is my hope, however, that "kludge" will be saved from a purely technical threshold of meaning -ed]

"Total" Oranje

I did promise this would not turn into a football blog during Euro '08; with that in mind, I'll make this passing note brief.

I cannot believe - I would never have believed prior to their first game - that Holland has not only won their first two games (vs. Italy and France, respectively) but that they would do so in a way that is making everyone, football fans or not, take note.

They haven't played this well in 10 years. "Well" is probably not the best word to use. They are playing "total football", a term coined in the early 70's to describe a system developed by coach Rinus Michels and player Johan Cruijff in which teammates switch roles on the field: strikers become defenders, defenders become strikers, everyone becomes "aware" of space and time. What's magical is that this philosophy transcends football and becomes a rather profound statement about the Dutch.

I'll leave it at that. I encourage you to read one of two things, if you are interested in knowing more about this phenomena (now realised by their massive success in this tournament). The first is a concise article in the Globe and Mail, by John Doyle. He touches upon what I was saying in the above paragraph. If you really want to know more, I highly suggest you read a book called Brilliant Orange: The Neurotic Genius of Dutch Football, by David Winner; the writer, an Englishman, describes how the evolution of Dutch football - in particular, the concept of "total football" - becomes an extension of the Netherlands' egalitarian society. Fascinating stuff.

And, if you're wondering why someone with the (particularly Irish) name Cahill is following Holland, it's because my mother's from Leiden. Ik kan spreken nederlands ook. Een beetje. And if Holland wins Euro '08, there may be a tattoo in it for me (if I'm sufficiently drunk).

Scribbled Notes on the Importance of Provocation

"Great art has dreadful manners..."

- Simon Shama

"It is important to have this idea in one's mind, because otherwise one fails to grasp the whole spirit of modern Science-Philosophy. It does not aim at Truth; it does not conceive of Truth (in any ordinary sense of the word) as possible; it aims at maximum convenience."

- Aleister Crowley

The enemy of philosophy is comfort, whether it be the philosophy of Art, Science, or Religion. I believe the aim should be truth seeking and its inevitable provocations, knowing that the process of seeking is fraught with necessary kludges and haphazard experimentation.

Knowledge is painful. Moving forward requires muscles, and muscles require exercise to stay useful. Tango dancers are not born, they practise themselves into being.

In the West, with the rise of the middle class after the Second World War, we increasingly have seen our lives surrounded - nay swaddled - in easy-to-access comforts: emotional, intellectual, spiritual.

Youths strictly consider university and college as a direct line toward employment and the beginning of their professional lives; the knowledge and the knowledge seeking of those institutions reduced to a utilitarian concept for sake of securing a Degree. When you graduate, it's all about your career, which becomes tied to money with the paying of debts, the purchasing of cars and houses, the investments for retirement. Along this linear path, comforts are sought to take our minds off this linearity; these comforts do not refute linearity but provide means to make the linearity easier. The lawnmower, for example.

And if one day, a biologist or a philosopher writes something which reiterates the natural chaos of our human lives, we frown and ignore it. Some of us will demand our money back (whether possible or not) and walk away in a huff to their air-conditioned livingroom/car.

Again, the seeking of truth leads to conceptual provocation and whatever truths we manage to unearth often come without directions for usage. But I will accept the kludges, the orphaned questions begging at the back of my head, if I feel that it brings us one step closer to knowing more about nature and human existence.

Language and Meaning

"The limits of my language mean the limits of my world"

- Ludwig Wittgenstein

I was reading the New York Times Sunday Magazine last weekend and caught this article, written by Michael Pollan, about the rise of agricultural diseases. In it, he begins with bemoaning the decreasing power of the word "sustainability", seeing as it has been turned impotent; yet another zombiefied corporate catch-phrase designed to make what one does appear useful even when in practise the reality is much more ambiguous.

There is a biting summary of this phenomena in the second paragraph of Pollan's article:

Confucius advised that if we hoped to repair what was wrong in the world, we had best start with the “rectification of the names.” The corruption of society begins with the failure to call things by their proper names, he maintained, and its renovation begins with the reattachment of words to real things and precise concepts. So what about this much-abused pair of names, sustainable and unsustainable?

I sat at the breakfast table, thinking about this paragraph. It stunned me, because my awareness of the philosophical questioning of language - its power to distort and clarify - didn't extend as far as back in time as Confucius. To read it made me understand that this conflict - the fight to keep language from becoming a meaningless putty in the hands of technocrats - has been going on probably since the dawn of communication. It wasn't until reading, of all people, Confucius - that old aphorism-spewing chestnut - speak about it that my understanding of the conflict was deepened.

The two writers who outlined this conflict most beautifully for me were Wittgenstein, quoted at the top (from his treatise, Tractatus Logico-Philosophicus) and John Ralston Saul, who rallied against the rise of technocrats most effectively in his books Voltaire's Bastards, and The Unconscious Civilization. Each fulfilled a means of illuminating the power of language in a way that was neither impractically academic nor precious. Saul warns about how the images and words we share can be/have been actively distorted by those with corrupting self-interest. Wittgenstein's very philosophy is about the parsing of truth and falsity (or senselessness, as he would put it) in how we use language to construct a world view.

With the discovery of Confucius' addition to this subject, I now have more to research and reflect upon. I suppose I'm fascinated with this subject, and for reasons I don't think are trivial. We are beset by corrupted means of communication every day: images that lie as well as they seduce, thoughts withheld from publication/broadcast because of vested interests. And yet, most importantly, I believe it's also language that can save us - the very tools used to fool us can be used to liberate.

I suppose one of the first questions I have is whether there are more than a handful of people out there who give a shit, or whether this is a pursuit (non-Quixotic, I insist) only a begrudging elite will ever have interest in following. Sometimes I'm haunted by the words of writer William Sturgeon, who - when asked if it was true that he thought 90% of science fiction was crap - answered that, actually, 90% of everything is crap. What haunts me is how this somewhat off-the-cuff pronouncement translates into the percentage of everyday people who truly care enough about things like this. It's important to me that people understand that the corruption of language (visual, textual, audible) is not simply an academic concern, and that it's possible to put up an effective, civil defense against it.

Update: For more on Confucius and the "rectification of names", please see this link for some context.

Article: Regarding A New Humanism

I came across an extremely well-written essay on the Edge site today. Written by Salvador Pániker, Regarding A New Humanism contains exactly the right sort of balance of passion and intellect that I find missing in so many essays concerning the path "we" (read: society) should take. It is neither heavy-handed nor exclusionary. I'd take the time to summarize it, but look, it's a short essay. If you can't spare the time to read it for yourself without a synopsis, even though the title is pretty darn self-explanatory, then...well, that's just too bad. And it's Friday.

An excerpt:

Indeed, those who pit science against sacred texts or science against art do so in error. Respective boundaries of autonomy aside, everything forms a part of the same prodigious struggle. The pursuit of the real which, in a sense, is the also the pursuit of the absolute. The absolute that is intuited, though it remains inaccessible. A fusion of fields as was seen in the Renaissance is certainly no longer possible; the mountain of specialization has grown too high. However, one might demand that the different fields of knowledge communicate with one another and without undermining each other.

It is not inequality that is the real evil,
but dependence.

Francois-Marie Arouet de Voltaire (1694-1778)

Philosophy Blog War: Vote For Me

Yeah, yeah - everyone's got a contest. However, there are few competitions as unique as NotBean's Philosophy Blog War. Yes, damn relativism: four contestants with philosophically-oriented blog entries...and only one winner. And you vote for the champ.

And guess what? I've got an entry this round, so I hope you'll judge wisely (and vote for me).

More info about the PhiBloWar (my phrase) here.

Too lazy to cruise over there and decide? Then just vote for me by pressing this button. Easy.

P.S. No, I haven't forgotten about the NYC photos - I'm very busy these days with things that pay rent, but promise to have some new pics up soon.

Book Review: Tractatus Logico Philosophicus, by Ludwig Wittgenstein

4.003    Most propositions and questions, that have been written about philosophical matters, are not false, but senseless. We cannot, therefore, answer questions of this kind at all, but only state their senselessness. Most questions and propositions of the philosophers result from the fact that we do not understand the logic of our language.
(They are of the same kind as the question whether the Good is more or less identical than the Beautiful.)
And so it is not to be wondered at that the deepest problems are really no problems.

I've been promising this review for some time. The problem has been - since this is a book not of philosophy but about philosophy - I've needed time for it to sink in. Furthermore, as much as I hate prefacing my opinion (or anyone else doing the same), due to the nature of this book I feel it fair to say a few words: I'm not an academic who specializes in philosophy. I do not have the names and concepts of all the world's great thinkers at my fingertips. As such, I tackled this book as a reasonably intelligent layman. What I have to say about it should be seen through this particular lens. This is not a dissertation and most certainly this is not an academic exercise. So there.

Wittgenstein's Tractatus Logico Philosophicus though only clocking-in at a svelte 108 pages, is a monster of a book. It is a perception-altering, densely laid treatise that attempts to clarify not a particular theory per se, but rather, pulls its focus back to comment upon the very scaffolding of philosophical understanding itself.

The way Wittgenstein sees it, there are too many fundamental errors and/or assumptions that sabotage philosophical propositions before they're even written down on paper. The key is to first lay down exactly what a sound proposition is and to understand it in its elemental form. Technically, linguistically, even mathematically Wittgenstein has taken his understanding of what makes a philosophical proposition sound and distilled into a dense uber-logical lexicon.

It's a fascinating (if insufferably semantic) approach: each point and sub-point are laid down like a revolutionary manifesto:

4.023    The proposition determines reality to this extent, that one only needs to say "Yes" or "No" to it to make it agree with reality.
Reality must therefore be completely described by the proposition.
A proposition is the description of a fact.
As the description of an object describes it by its external properties so propositions describe reality by its internal properties.
The proposition constructs a world with the help of a logical scaffolding, and therefore one can actually see in the proposition all the logical features possessed by reality if it is true. One can draw conclusions from a false proposition

Wittgenstein is intent on defining the way in which we attempt to interpret the world rather than the specifics of content. Wittgenstein's reverence for the power and importance of how language is utilized in articulating the world is infectious. His approach, however, requires careful reading. I will be honest in saying that it's difficult to review such a book without having spent a number of weeks re-reading it, making notes, checking out other people's feelings about it, etc.. I have not had the time to do this, and have only managed to read Tractatus twice - however, I will say that while the first reading was a slog in the mud, during the second reading things became suddenly more clear and fascinating.

Who should read this book? Anyone interested in expanding their practical and theoretical understanding of language and logic. While Tractatus is dense and unsparing to the casual reader, those who give Wittgenstein's treatise the time and effort it deserves will undoubtedly walk away richer for the experience (if not wiser). If Aristotle wrote the book on metaphysics, then Wittgenstein has written the book on metaphilosophy.

Tractatus Logico Philosophicus (ISBN 0-486-40445-5) is available at a fine independent bookstore near you. Also available online at various merchants. Note: this review is based upon the 1999 Dover republication (using the translation by C.K. Ogden, which is thought to be the definitive text).

Book Review: The Unconscious Civilization, by John Ralston Saul

As mentioned previously, House of Anansi recently re-released their acclaimed CBC Massey Lectures series. This news is a significant boon to the reader who values provocative, intelligent discussion which often straddles the fine line between social anthropology and philosophy. Having been pleasantly surprised with Doris Lessing's Prisons We Choose to Live Inside (reviewed previously here), I picked-up John Ralston Saul's The Unconscious Civilization with hesitant interest - I say hesitant because I'm already well-acquainted with his work.

I was first introduced to Ralston Saul many years ago with his book Voltaire's Bastards (ISBN 9780140153736). I was impressed with his bold and thoroughly-referenced perspective on what he contends is the growing paralysis of Western civilisation throughout history. However, in retrospect, this was probably the wrong book to start with; for one thing, it's about 656 (trade paperback) pages which, considering his dense style and cogent analysis, makes for a bit of a brain slog. Nonetheless, I followed this with the successive releases of Confessions of a Siamese Twin (ISBN 9780140259889), his treatise on Canadian social/political identity, and On Equilibrium (ISBN 9780140288032), his elaboration on six foundational aspects of civilization.

I wish now that I had first read The Unconscious Civilization.

Clocking-in at a comparably svelte 205 pages, Unconscious Civilization finds Ralston Saul boiling down the magnum opus that was Voltaire's Bastards into something much more approachable for the average reader without filing down its fangs. The thesis is partially revealed in the Preface, written for the 10th anniversary re-release:

When I wrote these Massey Lectures, I was convinced they would cause a shock. After all, I was describing the state of the West in a manner quite off the radar screen. I was saying there had been a persistent growth of corporatism in spite of the outcome of the last world war. And that this growth continued. Why would this be shocking? Because corporatism was part of the anti-democratic underpinnings of Fascist Italy in particular, but also of Nazi Germany. Beneath the uniforms and the military ambitions and the dictatorial leadership and the racism lay corporatism. It was the intellectual foundation of fascism. And it was supposed to have been destroyed along with both regimes in 1945.

So, it's not exactly light reading. Throughout history though, concepts and arguments that heed us to re-evaluate our surroundings (whether or not we end up holding fast to them) are often dissonant to our day-to-day perspective on life - in other words, controversy often ensues difference. Ralston Saul is unafraid to call a spade a spade.

The Unconscious Civilization lays out in dense, history-shifting references, the problems and origins of corporatism and how it has become an increasingly acceptable means to run modern societies, in spite of its history of stifling democracy and rewarding conformism.

One of the key points made is how one can propose to adjudicate the underlying strength of any given society - that is, asking: where does its legitimacy lie? He proposes that this legitimacy lies in one of four areas: God, a king, groups, or civilian individuals working as a whole. While the history of Western society has largely been influenced by the former two, Ralston Saul feels that we are most certainly in the hands of groups: think-tanks, specialists, and managers.

The corporatist model, he argues, in the tradition of the Catholic Church, is obsessed with God and Destiny - albeit transposed onto contemporary concerns such as the trade markets and privatisation of public interests. Corporatist language is thus cloaked in a similar sense of inevitability and sycophantic awe that the Church used to instill fear and hold power over the populace.

Although the density of Ralston Saul's arguments is impressive (in particular, his contention that Jung and Freud allowed the posterity of their work to fall victim to an inarticulated obsession with mythology) , I feel it's this same quality that weighs down the over-arching themes of the book. At points, particularly with his repeated references to Athens in the days of Socrates, I longed for the simple first-person perspective that gave Doris Lessing's Prisons We Choose To Live Inside its sprightliness and pactical immediacy. At times, Unconscious Civilization buckles under the considerable thickness of its content, which makes me wonder what the average reader will take away from it (without re-reading).

However, this doesn't change the fact that this is powerful stuff. Not content to only point out what's wrong with society, his last chapter is dedicated to thinking towards solutions. In particular, I found great interest in his contention that the public school system is out of step with the lifestyle changes over the last 20 years - as people are set to retire later and later, would it not make sense for children to enter into school later and then be required to receive a more complete education than the current system which is only concerned about cranking out specialists for the marketplace? Ralston Saul also delves into his equilibrium theory, to which he devoted a book in 2002, in which he postulates that individuals and society alike must work to remain balanced rather than hyper-focused on any one quality, in particular rationality, which has been used to justify abuses throughout history.

I would not hesitate to suggest this book to anyone interested in challenging views of society in general, and Ralston Saul's ideas in particular. For the latter, The Unconscious Civilization is the ultimate primer. For the former, you will undoubtably find yourself spending a great deal of time wrestling with its well-researched and sometimes scathing message.

The Unconscious Civilization is available for sale at a fine independent bookstore near you and online at House of Anansi Press, as well as...Powell's, Amazon, Chapters. Published by House of Anansi Press (ISBN: 0-88784-586X)

Book Review: Prisons We Choose To Live Inside, by Doris Lessing

House of Anansi Press has re-released their excellent CBC Massey Lectures Series. These are expansive, thought-provoking works which aim to push our understanding of society and the individual in the late-20th (now early-21st) century. The series includes works from many different points of view: A Short History of Progress by Richard Wright, The Unconscious Civilization by John Ralston Saul, and Beyond Fate by Margaret Visser are only a fragment of this extremely revealing and influential volume.

Prisons We Choose To Live Inside, a collection of five lectures author/novelist Doris Lessing gave in Canada in 1986, is a fine introduction to this astutely-observed collection. Clocking in at a mere 76 pages, Lessing lays down a sobering, eye-opening conception of the place of the individual in modern-day society. Her points are clear: history (the study of which she advocates with Cassandra-like insistence) clearly warns us against the perils of becoming embroiled in "mass emotion" and the inherent fascism of group-think. Repeatedly, she advocates the need for cool, objective distance from events and society - even at the peril of seeming an elitist.

With succinct skill and a preference to reference personal experience over statistics, she lays down her points consistently throughout:

I think when people look back at our time, they will be amazed at one thing more than any other. It is this - that we do know more about ourselves now than people did in the past. But that very little of it has been put into effect.

She makes it clear that there is little excuse, living in an age where social sciences (psychology, sociology, social behaviourism) have flourished, for society to not be equipped with an understanding of the basic underpinnings of society and human behaviour. Yet we don't; the information never trickles down from academia in a way that can be instilled easily in our public schools, perhaps because the message is largely: group-thinking and mass emotions are our undoing - at risk of ostracism, it's best that you question everything.

One of the many examples she lists is how Stalin, at the time when the Nazis invaded the Soviet Union, was referred to in Allied propaganda as 'Uncle Joe' and how the Russians' defiant struggle was our struggle...only to turn on a dime after the fall of Hitler and turn against 'Uncle Joe', decrying every aspect of the Soviet Union not only as backward - but evil. This last word is very important within the context of Lessing's lectures because historically it tends to come up every time a group wishes to strengthen their moral stance - and eliminate dissent. It isn't enough to politely disagree - you must denigrate and vilify. Lessing speculates the reason behind this lies with our animal instincts: the instinct to separate into good/bad, black/white etc..

One of her more chilling statements, which she uses when talking about her childhood in war-torn Southern Rhodesia (now Zimbabwe), is that we have to accept that there are people in all parts of the world - in every society - who quite simply enjoy barbarism. They enjoy it, and, when society is on the verge of a conflict, these same people will move to the forefront to push things towards violence.

Again, sobering - and pertinent - stuff. Lessing's tone is unapologetic, yet she does pepper her lectures with humour (albeit darkly at times). One thing to be aware of is that the original lecture was given in 1986; her examples refer to the British mining strike of '84, the Falklands War, and then-Communist Russia. Obviously, for those not born early enough to remember these conflicts, it may be good to have Wikipedia nearby for a little context. However, her analogies and references are universal and certainly applicable to the debacles we face today. Her speculations are haunting in their honesty and relevance, and I am reminded of someone's reference to John Ralston Saul's Voltaire's Bastards as "a hand grenade disguised as a book".

Quite true, and we are all the better for reading books such as these.

Prisons We Choose To Live Inside is available for sale at a fine independent bookstore near you, as well as...Powell's, Amazon, Chapters.

Published by House of Anansi Press (ISBN: 0-88784-5215)