Sunday 15 December 2013

We're the Millers

So, I imagine most of you have seen posters for We're the Millers--that comedy which doesn't look remotely amusing, unless the joke is in labeling it as a comedy.as it happens, however, I'm not here today to talk about what is wrong with comedy, though that sounds a fascinating topic, and I may well return to it at some later date. No, rather I am writing this to address a far more disturbing and, I feel, dangerous aspect of modern society; identity. Okay, maybe it's not MORE important... Comedy is after all the life-blood of a good society, but it's at least equal.

The problem of identity is not an old one by any means: it features quite prominently in the branch of philosophy known as epistemology, for example. The question is always along the lines of 'What makes me me?' This question is not as easy to answer as some people may at first assume--am I my mind? My body?  Am I both? Assuming this issue solved, however, one passes on to another topic, one perhaps more relevant to most people's day-to-day life. The question now is what to do with anger, lust, sorrow, jubilation, and the like--are these too considered to be part of who one is, or are they separate, external to oneself, yet exerting a binding influence on oneself? Every time someone with an abusive anger problem says "It wasn't my fault I did that (whatever that may be), I was just so angry--you know I would never do that!', that person is standing within the paradigm of the latter position. This positiion is wrong, however, one is who one acts. This, too, I will leave for a later date, however.

The particular issue I am discussing today is the more general topic of self-identity, the consideration of what to use when describing oneself, the debate over hat it is that defines one. In the standard poster advertising We're the Millers, there is a series of arrows pointing to the four main characters with some statement about them which aims at an introduction: one is 'drug-dealer', another 'stripper', the third 'runaway', and the fourth, 'virgin'. It is this last which bothers me particularly; why on earth is his lack of sexual history a defining characteristic? Is he somehow not yet a person because he has slept with noone? Is he more? Neither, because it is irrelevant. Every other label on that poster tells you something about the character, about what they have done or what they do--it is genuinely informative to learn that someone is a drug-dealer, or a runaway, because it directly defines or influences their actions. The others all say what the character does or has done, but the label of virgin tells you something he hasn't done--it's like labeling someone 'not a bankrobber'; it doesn't tell us anything about the person in question.

So the first issue I have with this label is that it is irrelevant an uninformative, and therefore fails to be a defining aspect of one's characer. Secondly, I object to it because it ascribes to the view I mentioned briefly in my last post, the view that we are animals--or, to put it differently, the view that our bodies and our physical urges are what define us. I object to this strongly. I am right-handed, but this does not define me; I'm right-handed, but I still play guitar left-handed, yet this also does not define me; I am constantly drawn to chocolate, yet this does not define me; what is more defining is that I choose not to indulge in this desire in the majority of cases. This is defining because it tells something about who I am, how I act, how I think, et cetera. 

Now, one may object here that to define one as a virgin is defining according to my second point, because it refers to actions, or to the abstaining from action. The reason I do not consider it relevant is because it says nothing; one could be a virgin because one has chosen to abstain; because one has grown up alone on a desert island; because one has constantly tried to sleep with people, but through pure chance has never succeeded. This list is not exhaustive, and that is why the label 'virgin' means nothing; it in no way defines the character of the person in question; I may concede that the reason for his being a virgin may be defining (or it may not), but that is a different matter entirely. Again, to return to the 'not a bankrobber' analogy, it tells us nothing because it doesn't tell us why he isn't a bankrobber.

Why does this bother me so much? Because I believe it ties directly in with narcissism, with egotism. To focus only on one's feelings, one's hard luck, to focus on how things affect oneself, this is to exclude the bigger picture, to lose oneself, ironically, in the focus on oneself. Yeah, life is often crap, bad things happen to good people, but that's life. Rosemary Sutcliff was inflicted with Still's Disease when she was very young, and went on to become a world-renowned author--that is what defines her.

We are, then, not defined by our physical characteristics, nor by what we have experienced, nor by what we have not yet done. We can not be defined by these because they say nothing about us, about our choices, about our lives--even were I to lose my legs in an accident, what defines me is my reaction to that loss, not that loss itself. We are who we act, this and this alone is what defines us. If you want to know someone, know their actions.

Tuesday 19 November 2013

Man: Animal or No?

I'm sure we've all heard the famous definition, 'Man is a rational animal', which I believe can be found in Aristotle's Nichomachean Ethics (though don't quote me on that, I'm more Platonic in my interests). In addition, Plotinus, St. Thomas Aquinas, and others have worked with a very similar definition (believe it or not, even Freud talked about it!). In the past, the emphasis was often on the first of these complements, that is, the rational aspect; perhaps the strongest example of this can be found in the philosophy of Immanuel Kant, both of whom lay heavy emphasis on reason and rationality. In more recent times, however, the emphasis has broadly shifted towards the second, namely, man as an animal.

This shift I find disturbing, not to mention largely uninteresting except for the concerns it raises. But first let me give a brief example of this rather base shift: on a bus home recently, I had the rather unusual experience of overhearing one girl ask the boy next her why he had not slept with anyone yet, despite being attracted to them. The boy evaded the question by asking why he ought to have done so, to which the girl replied that 'We are all just animals', and thus we should follow our needs. At this point the girl was getting off the bus, so I know not where the conversation would have led, but the complete conviction with which she made this statement struck me quite strongly. What, then, is the point of civilisation, what of art, what of language? Why need we speak, why not merely grunt, and, should I feel an attraction to a girl, why not simply throw her over the shoulder and be off with her?? Because, I am glad to say, I am not my body. To be sure, I am not my mind either, but rather the synthesis of the two, but what sets me apart as a person, rather than a mere beast, is my rationality, my mind and soul.

The very fact that we can disagree, the fact that this girl could hold this position and defend it to another, declares an inherent and inviolable distinction between humanity and those beasts which roam the plains. Actually, I just really wanted to make an allusion to beasts which roam the plains. Nevertheless, regardless of the phrasing, the point remains. It is simply self-refuting to declare ourselves animals, because an animal does not do so. There is a poignant remark made by the Seventh Doctor (6:13 of this video), played by Sylvester McCoy (who, incidentally, is Radagast the Brown Wizard in The Hobbit), in the Doctor Who episode, The Remembrance of the Daleks: "When is a cat not a cat? When it builds its own cat-flap." There is a fundamental difference between an animal and a person; yes, a person has that animal nature, and yes, one might even argue that is part of what makes that person, but it is only part, and therein lies the difference.

Wednesday 6 November 2013

The Circle of Power

It's been a while since I last posted, I admit -- not at all what I intended, but, as always, the best laid plans of mice and men gang aft agley. I have been busy submitting my thesis, and working on applications for next year, but at last I return to my platitudinal work.

I want to look, today, at an interesting aspect of politics, namely, that it is circular. What this means is that to be a Left-wing extremist has in practice the same result as to be a Right-wing extremist, though the two differ vastly in philosophy and thus tend to hate each other anyway (cf. the USSR and Nazi Germany). The reason for this fascinating circularity, as I see it, lies with power and control. Every government, no matter what its philosophy, has to come to terms with questions of power, and to whom control should be given. Banal examples of this include industry, security, education, and so it goes on; the question is, in essence, should they be controlled by the government or the people?

This question parallels the question of big government versus small government: the question, that is, of how much the state has the right and duty to interfere, for want of a better word, with our lives. What is interesting about this is that the further Left one goes, i.e. the more one argues for socialist 'power to the people', the more one ends up arguing for big government rather than small. This certainly seems a contradiction, and indeed it is in a sense; it is indeed contradictory to the declared ideals of the Left, i.e. everything belonging to the community, everything being equal, etc, but it is also a logical conclusion from this same position. The more everything is nationalised, the more everything is given to the direct control of the people, the more one is led to ask, "Yes, I know we all have the power, I know we all own it, but who is actually going to control it?" The problem is, 23,272,737 people (ABS 2013) simply can't run, say, the military, or the public health system, nor even the education system -- There is no Council of Twenty Three Million, Two Hundred and Seventy Two Thousand, Seven Hundred and Thirty Seven based on an Athenian model which can function on a day-to-day basis, and so actual control must be relegated to a small group. This, by the way, is the inherent contradiction of national socialism, but that is not the issue here.

Carry this through to a scenario wherein everything 'belonged' to the people, and you end up with the government controlling everything. This is no longer the great democracy that Left-wing politics claims to be; it has moved outside of its own realm and met with Right-wing fascism. Now, you may ask, why is Fascism Right-wing? Because it doesn't claim to give power to the people, but instead focuses heavily on the individual: too much focus on the individual being free to act howsoever he should see fit, though, results in a Nietszchean battle of wills from which one individual emerges as supreme dictator.

Thus we see that power comes full circle, and politics must follow suit. What is interesting about this, apart from it being an interesting observation to me in and of itself, is what follows from this: politics is in fact only meaningful in moderation. A discussion can only be fruitful, useful, or something else  rhyming with 'ul' if both parties are from a Centre-based position. One may be Left relative to the other, making the other relatively Right, but, as the sailor keeps the stars to his right, so must the politician keep the Centre in sight.

Sunday 29 September 2013

Can I Change Your Mind?

In any given discussion where two parties differ strongly on a particular point, one or both parties may attempt to persuade the other by means of argument, in order that they will both agree. This is in fact not usually successful, but that doesn't stop us from trying; when it is successful, we talk of the opposing party having 'changed their minds'. But can we in fact change someone's mind, and, more interestingly, are we in fact trying to?

At first glance, the answer seems an obvious 'yes' to both questions: we disagree, I want to make us agree, and if I succeed, what has happened, if not a change of position from that originally held? It seems impossible for there to be any other explanation. But there is. In actual fact, when one tries to persuade another to agree, one is in fact not trying to change the other's mind in any sense; quite the opposite, in fact. Rather, the whole process of persuasion relies on the other not changing their mind, since any such change would be disastrous to the persuasion.

So what is persuasion, then, that it seeks to create agreement where disagreement once stood, and to do so somehow without a shift in position? Persuasion is in fact an attempt by one person to show another that in fact no disagreement exists in the first place, and the disagreement that exists stems from an erroneous judgement. Think about it: when you want to persuade someone, what do you do? You start from a common point of agreement, and then attempt to show that if you hold this initial point on which you both agree, then it is necessary for you in fact to agree on the matter at hand. Your opponent in turn tries to do the same to you.

The crucial point in persuasion is the point of agreement from which you start. Your whole argument is reliant on the belief that your opponent will not 'change his mind', and end up disagreeing on the starting point. Your persuasion relies on the belief that as long as you both agree, it will end up that you both in fact agree on the matter at hand also.

Persuasion, then, is about saying "No, you don't actually believe that; you only think you do. In actual fact you and I agree completely, let me show you." I assume the ideal end to persuasion is for you both to laugh about it together, wondering how you could ever have been so foolish as to think there was a disagreement. What usually happens, though, is that neither succeeds in persuading the other, and both go away thinking the other an illogical fool. But who says we can't try?

If you still don't believe me, look at what I'm doing right now, what I've been doing throughout this post: I've been persuading you to understand persuasion as I do, by arguing that you already agree, or, more precisely, that you already act in agreement, but just haven't realised.

So, can I change your mind? No, to be honest, I don't think I can, nor can anyone other than yourself. But that's okay, because 98% of the time, I don't have to; I just have to prove that you already agree with me. Sadly, that's not as easy as it sounds...

Sunday 22 September 2013

The Slippery Slope: A Logical Fallacy?

The slippery slope argument. I'm sure we've all heard it before, on numerous occasions; perhaps we've even used it ourselves, since it seems to be a natural argument for people to give, even people who criticise it in others. And, of course, I'm sure we've all heard it swept aside with those five words: "Oh, that's a logical fallacy!" Okay, so you may wish to claim there are only four words there, since 'oh' is more a sound like 'umm', but the point stays the same, and I'm sure you all agree. This sweeping statement usually is sufficiently derisive as to discredit whoever is using the slippery slope argument (though it rarely makes him change his mind). The question is, are we right in calling it a logical fallacy?

At first glance, it certainly seems to be the case that it is an example of one of my favourite problems in philosopy: Hume's problem of induction. In essence, the problem runs as follows: no matter how many times you see something one way, it doesn't mean it will be that way next time. Hume uses this to show that we have no way to say something causes another; no matter how many times a glass breaks when I drop it, it may not the next glass I drop, simply because I don't know until it happens. To use one final example is swans. Until Europeans came to Western Australia, they believed all swans to be white, because indeed all the swans they had previously seen were white. Yet once they went to Western Australia, what did they see, but black swans! God, I love this problem.

Now, it seems to be the same case with the slippery slope argument, since the argument seems to run like this: If we allow you to push the boundaries this far, this will mean others will push the boundaries further, and eventually everything will end up in the gutter, so to speak. Even if the chap can bring historical evidence to back him up, surely, you may be saying to yourself, this is predicting future events based on past contingencies?? See how Hume turns in his grave, you say! Out, out, damned fallacy!

And yet, this is not all. The slippery slope argument, upon closer scrutiny, in fact reveals itself to be a lot subtler, and a lot harder to refute. Actually, I think it's impossible to refute, but we'll get to that. As is often the case with my discussions, it comes down to a very subtle distinction in understanding or meaning, a distinction which makes all the difference. The slippery slope argument is not saying, "If you let this slide, you'll have a landslide." Well, it is, but not in the way you think. Most people take it to be saying that this will happen immediately and necessarily, which would indeed be a logical fallacy. But the argument runs differently.

The slippery slope argument is the argument that if you let this slide, you set a precedent. You have, irrefutably, shaken the foundations on which we stand; now, certainly, the one who wants to push the boundaries may firmly believe that pushing any further is wrong, but he forgets one thing. What he forgets is that his mind has been formed in an environment with boundaries that go only so far. If he succeeds in pushing the boundaries, the future will be populated by those whose minds are formed by an environment with boundaries that go a little further. The point is, the mindset changes, and a precedent for change in this area will be part of what forms future minds. The slippery slope argument is that if you let this slide, you won't be there to make sure it stops safely, whether you want to be or not. And this is irrefutable. And this can be backed up by historical evidence. It is simply a logical fact that allowing the boundaries to be changed, changes the game.

I shall take one example, the example that, incidentally, started me on a defence of the slippery slope argument, since I used it against a Moral Nihilist philosopher (I know, right, who thought they still existed?!) while discussing this example. In 2011 in the United States, the Institute of Medicine made the recommendation that pregnancy be declared a disease under law, to enable health care provision for contraceptives and the like. Now, here one can make a plethora of easy arguments against this, and one of them is the slippery slope argument: by allowing pregnancy, a natural physical result of a natural physical act, to be considered a disease, a precedent is set. The precedent says that you can say whatever you want under the law, as long as you can get it approved, and it has the desired effect. This is an irrefutable claim, because if future change is opposed the current example can always be used as a "But you did it before" statement.

The slippery slope does not say things will continue to slide, it says you are enabling things to slide further. You may dream of a better world where things will not be changed past a certain point, but it remains that: a dream. In response to the slippery slope argument, one can only quote Yeats: "Tread softly, because you tread on my dreams."

Saturday 7 September 2013

The Problem of Equality

Equality is a term we all hear bandied around with great frequency these days; a term that has been the catch-phrase of all those who fight for progress since the Bastille rang with the sound of "Liberté, égalité, fraternité!" Certainly, to be going against equality in any form is a great taboo, a line none dare cross. Yet what on earth does the term actually mean? The more the word is used as a means of making one's position unassailable, the more ambiguous the word becomes.

Equality is often claimed to mean the same opportunity for everyone. This definition, however, can be taken in two very different ways: with the emphasis on 'opportunity', this definition can be read as stating that all should have the same opportunity to pursue whatever field houses their interests. With the emphasis on 'same', however, this means that all must have the same, i.e. qualitatively identical, opportunity. This is a far more radical claim, and, indeed, a dangerous claim. Sadly, this is what the term 'equality' is usually used to denote.

Why is this bad? Let me give a practical example or so, before returning to the realm of abstraction. It is quite common today to hear the claim that everyone's opinion is equally valid. Now, here we have that dangerous word 'equal' again. What people mean when they make this claim is that everyone's opinion (usually theirs specifically) is just as important, and should be given just as much weight, as any other opinion you might come across. But consider this (purely fictional) scenario. In a dilemma about whether a particular car is a safe buy, I ask two of my friends to inspect it with me. Now, one of my friends is a mechanic, the other an English teacher. In regards to the current shape of the car I'm considering buying, I'm obviously going to give more weight to my mechanic friend than to my friend who is an English teacher (perhaps I will trust the opinion of the latter more with regards to colour, or size of the car, or something of the like). The point here is that one opinion on a given question is not necessarily as good as the next, because it may be a more informed opinion.

A second example (really an extension of the first) is found in preschool. I don't attend preschool, nor in fact have I ever attended it, but it is a stereotype that in preschool, kindergarten, and the like it is quite common to be told that 'there is no right answer', because 'everyone's opinion is equally valid'. No right answer?? Of course there's a right answer, for God's sake! Not necessarily in every case, but in the area of education people often learn facts, and with facts there is a right answer. So, while it is true that everyone's suggestion is equally valid, in the sense that everyone has the right to come up with an answer to a given question, some of those suggestions are just plain wrong. And that's not a bad thing. In fact it's a good thing. If nothing is ever wrong, there's no point in improving; a challenge only exists when one might not succeed.

Back to the realm of abstraction. What this radical idea of equality does is it mistakenly takes equality to mean everyone must have the same situation. Yes, this can be used to pull up those who are, in a sense, and for lack of a better phrase, lagging behind. This can also be used to pull down those who are ahead, however, and it is here that danger lies. As the Irish writer Iris Murdoch said, "The cry of equality pulls everyone down". Why? Because we feel it 'unfair' that someone else should have something that in our position we can't or don't have, for whatever reason, and so we pull them down, back into line.

Equality is about giving everybody the freedom to pursue what is good, and what is of interest to them in their own way. What is right for one situation is not for another. Now, I'm not talking about anything in particular, but we can see parallels in the fight over 'marriage equality'. The word 'equality' doesn't factor here, because same-sex unions are already equal under the law. The only problem is, it's not called marriage. This is akin to me and my friend who is Filipino being equal under the law, but me not being Filipino. A controversial example, perhaps, but where's the fun in placid examples?

So this is equality. Those who are supposed to have 'natural talent', whatever that means, are judged more harshly because 'it's easier for them'. Those who struggle are judged more leniently, because 'it's harder for them, poor dears'. That is not equality, not in a true sense. Unfortunately that is equality in the sense we have it today. Those who are good must suffer, and those who are not are exalted.

Orwell was right: "All animals are equal, but some are more equal than others."




Sunday 18 August 2013

Grace: Poetry in Motion

There is perhaps nothing more pleasant than attending a Mass wherein the servers and the priest are all in complete control of the situation, so to speak; they move with grace and poise, and every movement seems to take no effort. Poetry in motion. I'm sure we've all heard the phrase at some point, in praise of someone's ability to dance, run, walk, do the boogie, whatever. Although probably not the last one. Anyway, the question is, what do we mean by this phrase? Exactly how is it like poetry in motion when we see someone move gracefully? And why is it that in an attempt to be solemn or graceful, some servers fall the way of being ostentatious?

The answer to this is quite simple; the analogy is drawn because the same factors which come together to make good poetry are necessary for physical grace. What are these factors? Good poetry requires good form, clear, crisp expressions, and, perhaps above all, economy of expression. To have possession of these results in grace and poise; to lack them, sloppiness or ostentation. Let me take each  factor in turn.

First, then, to good form. I should fend off a possible literary criticism here, by making the point that poetry requires good form whether it be free verse or not; in the case of free verse, the form is simply imposed by the author himself. What this means in the physical realm is quite obvious, and I'm sure needs little real explanation; in the case of dancing, for example, it is obvious that good form means adherence to certain principles of movement. The same applies, however, to such things as serving at Mass. One must stand, as in general life, with one's head erect, eyes forward. One's hands should be held in front of the chest, not pointing forward as if one is about to dive into a pool, but held naturally.

Clear, crisp expression. In poetry, this is obvious: phrases can't be hackneyed, they can't be rambling, nor can they be too elusive. In serving, what this means is that all actions should be done with a purpose; if there is no purpose, there should be no movement. When you walk, walk with a clear, crisp step towards your goal. When you genuflect, genuflect as if you know you ought to, not because you're stumbling to follow the person next to you.

Poetry, however, can often be ruined by a certain pretentiousness, that is, an overly exaggerated expression or a desire to show off by saying too much. There is perhaps no greater mistake than to exaggerate a movement. In everyday life, to walk or talk in an exaggerated manner is ridiculous, and in no way ever looks good. What makes good poetry good poetry is economy of expression. No more is said than needs to be in order to get the idea across. Likewise, in the physical realm, grace is acquired through economy of motion. No action should involve more movement than its purpose requires. No action should be exaggerated for the purpose of 'showing off', nor should any action be exaggerated for the purpose of 'being perfect'. In serving, a genuflexion should be quiet, and neither fast nor slow, but simply brief. It shouldn't take an hour to get from one end of the sanctuary to another; the movement should be calm, controlled, and by no means fast, certainly, but nor should it be trying to keep pace with a snail: it should be brisk and unassuming.

Grace is economy of motion, minimal effort, understatedness. If you notice an action because it's sloppy, there is no care for the action. If you notice it because it's ostentatious, the action has lost its purpose, and become the end in itself. Good serving (and indeed, all gentlemanly acts) should be unnoticed: bad serving is noticed.

Sunday 11 August 2013

Compartmentalisation

200 - 101 = 199. Absurd? I should hope so. Unfortunately this is not the case as often as I should like it to be. Let me explain: I tutor in various subjects, mathematics being one of them, and recently a parent came in and started complaining that one of her son's maths problems had been marked wrong, when it was correct. The problem was that given at the start of this post: we tried to show her how the correct answer ought to be 99, but she just wouldn't see it. So what was the problem?

Naturally, one may argue that the processes of vertical subtraction are frequently confusing and defy understanding, but even if that is the case, it should be plain to anyone that two hundred minus one hundred and on could not possibly equal one hundred and ninety-nine. So why couldn't this mother see it? The answer is compartmentalisation. Compartmentalisation is the process of separating everything into small, neat, distinct and independent compartments. At first this seems like wisdom, and indeed it is often useful to break things down into manageable pieces, but unless one is careful, something can be lost; the big picture. The mother could not see her answer was wrong, because she had lost sight of the actual problem as a result of her focusing on the minutiae of processing.

Again, and this will be familiar to anyone who knows me, the separation of music and mathematics is both unprecedented historically, and untenable intellectually. Until the nineteenth century music and mathematics were not just considered to be connected but music was a branch of mathematics That's right, people studied music as mathematics. Yet today music and mathematics are considered polar opposites, the one being purely subjective, all about 'how you feel,' and the other purely objective, cold, hard, scientific. Neither of these views is correct; music is not purely subjective, nor is it only about how you feel; mathematics is not just about following rules and applying stale formulae. Rather, both have their spark of individuality, creativity, and passion; both have a rigid underlying structure which compliments, rather than hinders, the creativity and beauty of what is produced. Both are seeking to represent patterns and thereby beauty, and they do it in the same way.

Today, as a result of compartmentalisation, we believe that if something is creative, it can't be 'restricted' by rules. If something is 'scientific' (whatever that means) it can't be creative, but must only follow rules. If something is 'arty,' it must ex hypothesi defy clear definition, analysis, or understanding. If something is practical, it is purely practical, and has no place for expression. The high-school musician says of the maths whizz, "Oh, that's alright for him, I just don't have a mathematical brain," while his counterpart says of him, "Oh, I just don't have the creativity to be a musician."

The two should not be opposed, and yet they are; and something as been lost thereby. Don't believe me? Beethoven loved to take geometric figures and twist them, raise or lower them, taking certain points on the figures as musical notes, and write entire motifs that way. It was a frequent habit of Baroque composers to end a piece of music about God or Religion with three semi-breves, which when read is the mathematical symbol for eternity: ... These composers recognised that beauty can be found withing order, and that knowing something about the underlying structure helps, not obstructs, one's ability to create the sublime.

Compartmentalisation is a dangerous habit, for it enables you to see only one side of a coin, when the other is drastically important. I could go on, but the point is made. Dare to see the big picture; it can be daunting, it can seem terrifying, but too much is lost if you close your eyes.If everything is broken off into separate, unconnected pieces, how are we supposed to draw from our past experiences? We must see the big picture, and see the connections between everything we have seen, and what we see now.