In today's increasingly efficient world, where everything is faster-paced and we tend to be less altruistic on average to others because there are just more of us and - more importantly - we interact with others more often, I think the driving force of our change in attitudes is not just that we have more opportunities. I think it is also that we think we are entitled to more.
We are entitled to more, perhaps, because we have more activities that we are engaged in - which means more opportunities for rewards. It furthermore may take more work to do all of these things and, with the invention of things like red eye lattes and blackberrys, we can do more work than ever before.
Perhaps this is also because we see others around us taking advantage of these opportunities and actually getting more during life - and we all feel like we should be entitled to the same. It doesn't matter whether we realize that these people have devoted their lives entirely to the achievement of this one goal. We tend to think that everyone is entitled to whatever the greatest-achieving person in a society is entitled. That may be the secret of how inequality can be sustainable: if there is the opportunity for any of us to achieve the highest position in society.
This is also why the unrealistic optimism of American beliefs in self-ownership and initiative have also served as excuses for providing the appropriate support for people born into disadvantaged positions in society. If we cannot acknowledge that some simply cannot achieve higher positions, then we can scarcely be motivated to change this condition.
Wednesday, November 5, 2008
Obama
That was all the NYT headline read today. And the name now says so much.
Suddenly I feel proud to be an American, for the first time in my life - no exaggeration. What is most noteworthy is the fact that so many are treating this as a success not for Obama but for all of us. We don't even hear Obama's name mentioned all that much - just the victory itself. No one is mentioning much in partcular, just the pure potential that tis represents. Although we're all starstruck over Obama himself, he's so clearly symbolic. He's the first black, second-generation immigrant, professorial president in history. I tend to doubt the ability of symbolism to produce good, but Obama is symbolic in the best way possible: as an indicator of real demographic and attitudinal change. And to top off all his symbolism, he's smart, supported by a savvy staff, and beloved by the world. I'm going to throw caution to the winds and say he's perfect.
Cross-campus was awash with loud voices last night. Even my dining hall card-swiper greeted me with a wide smile today. We're all feeling the possibility of an Arendtian human power.
As the Guardian, of all newspapers, says, Obama is our hope.
Suddenly I feel proud to be an American, for the first time in my life - no exaggeration. What is most noteworthy is the fact that so many are treating this as a success not for Obama but for all of us. We don't even hear Obama's name mentioned all that much - just the victory itself. No one is mentioning much in partcular, just the pure potential that tis represents. Although we're all starstruck over Obama himself, he's so clearly symbolic. He's the first black, second-generation immigrant, professorial president in history. I tend to doubt the ability of symbolism to produce good, but Obama is symbolic in the best way possible: as an indicator of real demographic and attitudinal change. And to top off all his symbolism, he's smart, supported by a savvy staff, and beloved by the world. I'm going to throw caution to the winds and say he's perfect.
Cross-campus was awash with loud voices last night. Even my dining hall card-swiper greeted me with a wide smile today. We're all feeling the possibility of an Arendtian human power.
As the Guardian, of all newspapers, says, Obama is our hope.
Saturday, September 13, 2008
Right, or just persuasive?
If you aren't persuasive, you lose in a debate. That is a sad fact of life. We recognize that reasoning must be transparent and public, and therefore our public policies should be determined by the winner of a dialogue, who demonstrates that he understands what types of reasons are compelling to others' interests. Compromise is essentially for clear speakers and thinkers.
But I think this is a problem on the individual persuasive/advisory level, where the articulate also have an advantage. A person necessarily understands her own interests better than others can. But if she cannot articulate her own position to herself, she can often be persuaded by others to follow a different course of action that is not, in fact, best for her. It is difficult to resist the persuasive power of a well-articulated intuition, unless we can defend our own intuitions in a similarly articulate manner.
I agree that the most articulate communicators are also the clearest thinkers, and often their expressed reasons simply are better than those from muddier thoughts. It is simply easier to think more deeply and complexly if one is working with clear parts. However, their reasons are often based on intuitions as well - they have just learned to understand those intuitions more clearly. The skill of explaining often doesn't change the intuition itself; the intuition may be flat wrong, whereas someone with weaker powers of communication has the correct intuition. This is especially dangerous when the articulate give advice, because their intuitions are especially ill-attuned to understand what is best for others.
But I think this is a problem on the individual persuasive/advisory level, where the articulate also have an advantage. A person necessarily understands her own interests better than others can. But if she cannot articulate her own position to herself, she can often be persuaded by others to follow a different course of action that is not, in fact, best for her. It is difficult to resist the persuasive power of a well-articulated intuition, unless we can defend our own intuitions in a similarly articulate manner.
I agree that the most articulate communicators are also the clearest thinkers, and often their expressed reasons simply are better than those from muddier thoughts. It is simply easier to think more deeply and complexly if one is working with clear parts. However, their reasons are often based on intuitions as well - they have just learned to understand those intuitions more clearly. The skill of explaining often doesn't change the intuition itself; the intuition may be flat wrong, whereas someone with weaker powers of communication has the correct intuition. This is especially dangerous when the articulate give advice, because their intuitions are especially ill-attuned to understand what is best for others.
Monday, September 1, 2008
Exactly how good is a Starbucks Vivanno?
Interpersonal comparisons of utility are indeed difficult to make because of the imprecision of language. Lauren Henry may think that a chocolate-banana Vivanno at Starbucks with espresso is "SO good" and gush about it for thirty seconds while I may think it is merely "a nice combination" because it is healthy, chocolatey, and full of caffeine. Or perhaps the latter is all that Lauren Henry thinks, she just takes that combination to be even more valuable than I do and thus worth thirty seconds of gush... Or perhaps she thinks no more of the combination than I do, but still thinks the combination worthy of thirty seconds of gush because of her more effusive tendencies... Which is it?
It could be that this question is as insignificant as the thought experiment of asking whether everyone sees blue as you see red, but expresses red in the same way that you express blue. But it could also be more significant, because it would seem to assign more moral weight to certain individuals based on the mere fact that they are more emotional and therefore gain more utility from certain acts - or fewer resources because they are likely to achieve the same utility from them. When we estimate utility, do we mean the mere emotional response, or the situation that normally produces a certain emotional response?
It could be that this question is as insignificant as the thought experiment of asking whether everyone sees blue as you see red, but expresses red in the same way that you express blue. But it could also be more significant, because it would seem to assign more moral weight to certain individuals based on the mere fact that they are more emotional and therefore gain more utility from certain acts - or fewer resources because they are likely to achieve the same utility from them. When we estimate utility, do we mean the mere emotional response, or the situation that normally produces a certain emotional response?
Saturday, August 23, 2008
When Aristotle was right
Man is a political animal. Intuitively, this is right. Of course, it needs to be explained a bit further and Aristotle is not helpful on that score.
Prof. Steven Smith convincingly interprets Aristotle to mean that men are not necessarily naturally - that is, biologically - political. Rather, we are in fact political because we can only actualize ourselves in a political environment. Speech is the key. We can develop relationships between one another only because of speech, the ability to share a common language and therefore understanding. And, for some unexplained reason, we want to develop those relationships that we have the capacity for, and therefore we act in public. This is similar to Arendt's notion that we cannot be human without action in the public space of appearances.
But why do we seek out these relationships simply because we have the capacity to? And why are these necessarily positive relationships that we seek out? Why can't we evilly exploit our ability to communicate with others in order to use them for our means rather than working for mutual or common goals? There seems to be a built-in assumption that we naturally do anything that we have the capacity to do, or that these relationships are in fact better or more useful than other options and therefore, more plausibly, everyone will pursue them. That said, this is overwhelmingly true in practice.
As Smith suggests, why doesn't this belie Aristotle's other notion of inequality? If language and reason are natural to the human species, and not to particular members of it, and these are the foundations of politics, why do we not all have an equal role to play in politics? Perhaps Aristotle would say that the capacity to reason is not what makes us all equally proficient at politics, but only what sets the stage for all people to be governed by politics. If Aristotle's argument is, as I remember it, that rulers are fit for ruling and the ruled are happy to be ruled because they cannot govern themselves, then it does in fact make sense for all people to pursue political relationships, regardless of what the outcome will be for themselves.
Essentially, it is a fact that man is a political animal - simply because we are all involved in politics right now. But the explanation for why we do such and how we go about it is far more complicated.
Prof. Steven Smith convincingly interprets Aristotle to mean that men are not necessarily naturally - that is, biologically - political. Rather, we are in fact political because we can only actualize ourselves in a political environment. Speech is the key. We can develop relationships between one another only because of speech, the ability to share a common language and therefore understanding. And, for some unexplained reason, we want to develop those relationships that we have the capacity for, and therefore we act in public. This is similar to Arendt's notion that we cannot be human without action in the public space of appearances.
But why do we seek out these relationships simply because we have the capacity to? And why are these necessarily positive relationships that we seek out? Why can't we evilly exploit our ability to communicate with others in order to use them for our means rather than working for mutual or common goals? There seems to be a built-in assumption that we naturally do anything that we have the capacity to do, or that these relationships are in fact better or more useful than other options and therefore, more plausibly, everyone will pursue them. That said, this is overwhelmingly true in practice.
As Smith suggests, why doesn't this belie Aristotle's other notion of inequality? If language and reason are natural to the human species, and not to particular members of it, and these are the foundations of politics, why do we not all have an equal role to play in politics? Perhaps Aristotle would say that the capacity to reason is not what makes us all equally proficient at politics, but only what sets the stage for all people to be governed by politics. If Aristotle's argument is, as I remember it, that rulers are fit for ruling and the ruled are happy to be ruled because they cannot govern themselves, then it does in fact make sense for all people to pursue political relationships, regardless of what the outcome will be for themselves.
Essentially, it is a fact that man is a political animal - simply because we are all involved in politics right now. But the explanation for why we do such and how we go about it is far more complicated.
A philosopher in crisis
Dear experienced reader of political theory and philosophy,
I am writing to seek your advice in an intellectual crisis. I write not because you are likely to be interested in my personal crisis, but because I have a feeling that the general question may interest you. I admit that these questions are dauntingly numerous and open-ended. I don't hope for any treatise as long as this email, maybe not even responses to each question, but only the comment(s) that initially come to mind and any discussions of this topic that you can point me toward.
I tend to think that my intellectual sympathies lie with political philosophers and (a bit more loosely) theorists rather than strict political scientists or policy analysts. The reason: I favor the more rigorous argumentation of the analytic philosophers. But after working this summer for a legal scholar who is a former journalist and by no means a philosopher - though with more theoretical coherence than most - I've heard the other side of the story, lawyers arguing before the Supreme Court who have no patience with philosophers who are unwilling to accept political realities and are altogether shunned by the legal practicing community. I've thus stumbled upon the questions below that I suppose are very common. Yet despite how common I imagine these to be, I am ever-stymied in my attempts to find professional discussions of these questions. I begin to fear that, occasional rosy-colored public statements aside, political philosophers write more for their colleagues and their own gratification than to produce any lasting change. I say this not as a critic, but as a concerned fan - for I, too, gain a great deal of insight and pleasure, if you will, from theoretical and philosophical debates. But I am still confused about the following questions:
1. Who is the audience of political philosophers? Most political and legal philosophers freely acknowledge that their work is ignored by practitioners of law. Sometimes they argue about the necessity of informing the public. But I doubt both that they have any enthusiasm for that proposal (I see very few journal authors churning out public pamphlets) nor that their ideas lend themselves easily to public digest. Yet I also do not see them often directing their arguments to policy-makers or the politically influential.
2. What do political theorists and philosophers hope to accomplish with their work? I know they seldom hope to solve the great questions they pose like Why is justice important?.
3. Given the profound importance of legal theory questions, why should we trust this class of thinkers to resolve them for us? Especially given that most arguments begin with certain theoretical premises - whether Rawlsian, consequentialist, etc - but authors of course refuse to pigeon-hole themselves into a school of thought so that members can easily grasp their arguments and non-members can easily reject them, this makes it very difficult to disaggregate the total work out there for the non-member of the philosophical community. Even deciding what one believes requires going article-by-article, deciding, if it meets our test for soundness of logic and argumentation, whether it appeals to our intuitions about what is right. If I plan to write as a legal theorist, how can I take myself seriously while realizing that most people will merely dismiss my argument based on its first premises? If in a pluralistic system we can never hope to base our entire theory of law on one (my) philosophy, why should we adopt it in this aspect? Cleary the reason I favor this approach is because it is the outgrowth of my fundamental principles. But there is a certain disingenuousness in arguing in persuasive dialogue that this is the best outcome for others who do not share my principles, based on outcomes alone.
4. Similarly, as a mere student and a fresh student of political philosophy, can I hope to add anything to the discussion early? The field seems to me to be one for the wise and experienced, mostly for older philosophers who have authority through credence. Certainly one say that . But if I do not come across as a prodigy - the contrary being almost 100% guaranteed - do you think that I can do anything that will be accepted? A mediocre chemistry professor can at least hash out the details of some new formula. But it's not clear to me that the same is true in philosophy because there is no "scientific method" to which you can appeal. It seems you must prove the soundness of your method before addressing the details, or no one will trust you. And therefore all the young people simply seem to be applying the philosophy of an established philosopher to a new question. But if I don't want to merely embrace some such philosopher blindly, must I just consign myself to a career writing about the specific texts of other thinkers, quoting others only?
Can a political theorist do respectable work in political philosophy, and likewise? The very fact that the debate between the disciplines is so stained with contempt, on both sides, suggests that the constructive nature in which they could engage is lost.
Sincere thanks,
Erin Miller
I am writing to seek your advice in an intellectual crisis. I write not because you are likely to be interested in my personal crisis, but because I have a feeling that the general question may interest you. I admit that these questions are dauntingly numerous and open-ended. I don't hope for any treatise as long as this email, maybe not even responses to each question, but only the comment(s) that initially come to mind and any discussions of this topic that you can point me toward.
I tend to think that my intellectual sympathies lie with political philosophers and (a bit more loosely) theorists rather than strict political scientists or policy analysts. The reason: I favor the more rigorous argumentation of the analytic philosophers. But after working this summer for a legal scholar who is a former journalist and by no means a philosopher - though with more theoretical coherence than most - I've heard the other side of the story, lawyers arguing before the Supreme Court who have no patience with philosophers who are unwilling to accept political realities and are altogether shunned by the legal practicing community. I've thus stumbled upon the questions below that I suppose are very common. Yet despite how common I imagine these to be, I am ever-stymied in my attempts to find professional discussions of these questions. I begin to fear that, occasional rosy-colored public statements aside, political philosophers write more for their colleagues and their own gratification than to produce any lasting change. I say this not as a critic, but as a concerned fan - for I, too, gain a great deal of insight and pleasure, if you will, from theoretical and philosophical debates. But I am still confused about the following questions:
1. Who is the audience of political philosophers? Most political and legal philosophers freely acknowledge that their work is ignored by practitioners of law. Sometimes they argue about the necessity of informing the public. But I doubt both that they have any enthusiasm for that proposal (I see very few journal authors churning out public pamphlets) nor that their ideas lend themselves easily to public digest. Yet I also do not see them often directing their arguments to policy-makers or the politically influential.
2. What do political theorists and philosophers hope to accomplish with their work? I know they seldom hope to solve the great questions they pose like Why is justice important?.
3. Given the profound importance of legal theory questions, why should we trust this class of thinkers to resolve them for us? Especially given that most arguments begin with certain theoretical premises - whether Rawlsian, consequentialist, etc - but authors of course refuse to pigeon-hole themselves into a school of thought so that members can easily grasp their arguments and non-members can easily reject them, this makes it very difficult to disaggregate the total work out there for the non-member of the philosophical community. Even deciding what one believes requires going article-by-article, deciding, if it meets our test for soundness of logic and argumentation, whether it appeals to our intuitions about what is right. If I plan to write as a legal theorist, how can I take myself seriously while realizing that most people will merely dismiss my argument based on its first premises? If in a pluralistic system we can never hope to base our entire theory of law on one (my) philosophy, why should we adopt it in this aspect? Cleary the reason I favor this approach is because it is the outgrowth of my fundamental principles. But there is a certain disingenuousness in arguing in persuasive dialogue that this is the best outcome for others who do not share my principles, based on outcomes alone.
4. Similarly, as a mere student and a fresh student of political philosophy, can I hope to add anything to the discussion early? The field seems to me to be one for the wise and experienced, mostly for older philosophers who have authority through credence. Certainly one say that . But if I do not come across as a prodigy - the contrary being almost 100% guaranteed - do you think that I can do anything that will be accepted? A mediocre chemistry professor can at least hash out the details of some new formula. But it's not clear to me that the same is true in philosophy because there is no "scientific method" to which you can appeal. It seems you must prove the soundness of your method before addressing the details, or no one will trust you. And therefore all the young people simply seem to be applying the philosophy of an established philosopher to a new question. But if I don't want to merely embrace some such philosopher blindly, must I just consign myself to a career writing about the specific texts of other thinkers, quoting others only?
Can a political theorist do respectable work in political philosophy, and likewise? The very fact that the debate between the disciplines is so stained with contempt, on both sides, suggests that the constructive nature in which they could engage is lost.
Sincere thanks,
Erin Miller
Sunday, August 17, 2008
Moral progress: escaping mere intuition
Slavery seems objectively wrong. Why? Because it is disproportional: it harms people a lot for benefits that are not of similar magnitude. The reason we can say that it is categorically wrong, in any society, is because we cannot imagine a benefit that could offset the evil of wholly eliminating human freedom.
At first, this appears to require a consequentialist perspective: we must be willing to harm ourselves a bit and perhaps tradition a lot for the sake of the greater good. Say we throw self interest and tradition into the mix: we weight self interest more heavily and give the loss of tradition a negative utility because we think these create many unforeseen goods themselves. Then it still seems like the good of tradition can't possibly outweigh the harms of slavery. As to self interest, it seems that we can see the possibility of a substitution for achieving the same utility (in history, economic prosperity).
Part of what living in a society means is that there are certain conditions that we must avoid in pursuing our self interest. That means that we conceive of other, non-anti-social means of achieving those same goals. (at which point the separate question What is antisocial? becomes absolutely necessary to answer).) Let's grant that we prohibit only goals that are inherently anti-social - i.e., they have as their end the suffering of others, such as other-regarding preferences. But then what if society then prohibits means that are incidentally anti-social but that are the sole means of achieving someone's perfectly acceptable goal (see religious practices)?
But we cannot conceive of any way in which slavery is such a means. After all, the slave owners in the South were able to resurrect their economy after the Civil War with paid labor alone. Nor can we conceive of a way in which banning gay rights is such a means (unless someone really buys the argument that the social/moral fabric of the society will be tattered by this), because providing gay rights hasn't undermined Christians' ability to live their "good life" at all.
It appears that, by even a loose, all-pleasing consequentialism (or cost-benefit analysis, if you will), we cannot justify slavery. Thus the abolition of slavery is indeed moral progress.
Of course, every case cannot be a simple one like slavery. For this reason, I offer the following examples that are slightly more complicated: affirmative action, abortion (some might argue), surveillance of public areas, and euthanasia. This is because we do not see clear alternatives for achieving individual goals in these cases, and there are competing interests on both sides that seem far less imbalanced than in the slavery example (though I'm not arguing that I don't have an opinion on which interests in each case are more important).
At first, this appears to require a consequentialist perspective: we must be willing to harm ourselves a bit and perhaps tradition a lot for the sake of the greater good. Say we throw self interest and tradition into the mix: we weight self interest more heavily and give the loss of tradition a negative utility because we think these create many unforeseen goods themselves. Then it still seems like the good of tradition can't possibly outweigh the harms of slavery. As to self interest, it seems that we can see the possibility of a substitution for achieving the same utility (in history, economic prosperity).
Part of what living in a society means is that there are certain conditions that we must avoid in pursuing our self interest. That means that we conceive of other, non-anti-social means of achieving those same goals. (at which point the separate question What is antisocial? becomes absolutely necessary to answer).) Let's grant that we prohibit only goals that are inherently anti-social - i.e., they have as their end the suffering of others, such as other-regarding preferences. But then what if society then prohibits means that are incidentally anti-social but that are the sole means of achieving someone's perfectly acceptable goal (see religious practices)?
But we cannot conceive of any way in which slavery is such a means. After all, the slave owners in the South were able to resurrect their economy after the Civil War with paid labor alone. Nor can we conceive of a way in which banning gay rights is such a means (unless someone really buys the argument that the social/moral fabric of the society will be tattered by this), because providing gay rights hasn't undermined Christians' ability to live their "good life" at all.
It appears that, by even a loose, all-pleasing consequentialism (or cost-benefit analysis, if you will), we cannot justify slavery. Thus the abolition of slavery is indeed moral progress.
Of course, every case cannot be a simple one like slavery. For this reason, I offer the following examples that are slightly more complicated: affirmative action, abortion (some might argue), surveillance of public areas, and euthanasia. This is because we do not see clear alternatives for achieving individual goals in these cases, and there are competing interests on both sides that seem far less imbalanced than in the slavery example (though I'm not arguing that I don't have an opinion on which interests in each case are more important).
Liberation from Social Kantianism
I've at last been liberated from the deontological ethical system from which, I think, suffering is widespread. Put simply, the most common version of this ethical system (from my observation) says that we should not do anything in public that creates a "stir" - except in very exceptional circumstances (so it's not quite absolutist).
My particular ailment was an ethics that wedded some rules of that ethics to a prohibition against doing acts in public or in private that would be contrary to my image of a wise, self-aware, modest, other-regarding scholar with a healthy sense of the contingency of his own beliefs. In other words, I had a virtue-ethics-like What Would My Scholar Do? test. I think this is a remnant of my unusual childhood idolization of intellectuals - before I had any understanding of them and their thought processes. Thus even my answers to my What Would My Scholar Do? test were probably wrong.
I was constantly plagued by the thought that I "should" or "shouldn't" do something, without any particular reason why this was the case except the command of experience or the graven image of my scholar. Upon a consequentialist education, one can easily rationalize both these systems: First, we don't want to create a "stir" because this would be an especially bad outcome (hurting many people). Second, I don't want to contradict the principles of scholarly life because this life is, after all, my aspiration (my end). And no single action can be more important than that ultimate end.
But the simple fact is that consequentialism is just more complicated than that.
Now I am free to think of my end freely, without a crowd of convenient means that are simply ruled out. For example, I can try to win a debate round without ruling out a million small ways of arguing - such as attacking an argument in a rhetorical manner, as well as an analytical manner, when I know that will be more persuasive. For example, I can inject my comments into a seminar discussion without worrying that I will distract or muddy the discussion. I just need to engage in order to learn - and hopefully, in the long term, do a little less muddying when I say my piece. I knew this a long time ago, but I saw some virtue in remaining principled, with high standards. Indeed, I distinctly remember Matt Wansley commenting to me my sophomore year: "I always admire that you're a principled person. Some of your principles are bit weird and irrational, but I like that you stick to them." I didn't like it then, and I don't like it now.
So I'm free to reject my irrational principles. I can, according to Shelly Kagan's description of rationality, reject the principles that are externally imposed on me (or imposed on me through faulty reasoning). This doesn't mean I can use any means, because very often there is a consequentialist reason for why a certain means just won't do. But I must be able to articulate that reason before I act on my mere impressions about virtue and creating a stir.
In short, I am liberated.
My particular ailment was an ethics that wedded some rules of that ethics to a prohibition against doing acts in public or in private that would be contrary to my image of a wise, self-aware, modest, other-regarding scholar with a healthy sense of the contingency of his own beliefs. In other words, I had a virtue-ethics-like What Would My Scholar Do? test. I think this is a remnant of my unusual childhood idolization of intellectuals - before I had any understanding of them and their thought processes. Thus even my answers to my What Would My Scholar Do? test were probably wrong.
I was constantly plagued by the thought that I "should" or "shouldn't" do something, without any particular reason why this was the case except the command of experience or the graven image of my scholar. Upon a consequentialist education, one can easily rationalize both these systems: First, we don't want to create a "stir" because this would be an especially bad outcome (hurting many people). Second, I don't want to contradict the principles of scholarly life because this life is, after all, my aspiration (my end). And no single action can be more important than that ultimate end.
But the simple fact is that consequentialism is just more complicated than that.
Now I am free to think of my end freely, without a crowd of convenient means that are simply ruled out. For example, I can try to win a debate round without ruling out a million small ways of arguing - such as attacking an argument in a rhetorical manner, as well as an analytical manner, when I know that will be more persuasive. For example, I can inject my comments into a seminar discussion without worrying that I will distract or muddy the discussion. I just need to engage in order to learn - and hopefully, in the long term, do a little less muddying when I say my piece. I knew this a long time ago, but I saw some virtue in remaining principled, with high standards. Indeed, I distinctly remember Matt Wansley commenting to me my sophomore year: "I always admire that you're a principled person. Some of your principles are bit weird and irrational, but I like that you stick to them." I didn't like it then, and I don't like it now.
So I'm free to reject my irrational principles. I can, according to Shelly Kagan's description of rationality, reject the principles that are externally imposed on me (or imposed on me through faulty reasoning). This doesn't mean I can use any means, because very often there is a consequentialist reason for why a certain means just won't do. But I must be able to articulate that reason before I act on my mere impressions about virtue and creating a stir.
In short, I am liberated.
Saturday, August 9, 2008
How Callous, Yeats
Complaining of those who yearn for luxury when you yourself already revel quietly in them. As though such desires properly preclude a man from more developed sentiments. Frankly, they may at times distract him from the fullest use of his finer sentiment. But the mere presence of these passions is no justification for dismissing the whole.
It will take a really good poem from Yeats to reconcile me again to the man who scorned the low-born poet John Keats with these words: “I see a schoolboy when I think of him, / With face and nose pressed to a sweet-shop window,” a boy “poor, ailing and ignorant, / Shut out from all the luxury of the world, / The coarse-bred son of a livery-stable keeper.”
It will take a really good poem from Yeats to reconcile me again to the man who scorned the low-born poet John Keats with these words: “I see a schoolboy when I think of him, / With face and nose pressed to a sweet-shop window,” a boy “poor, ailing and ignorant, / Shut out from all the luxury of the world, / The coarse-bred son of a livery-stable keeper.”
Sunday, August 3, 2008
The Merchant of Venice
Much as its title suggested economics, which I find tedious, "The Merchant of Venice" surprised me with its themes of law and justice, which I find enthralling. The mind of Shakespeare seems to have roved human affairs with inhuman breadth.
The layers of the justice discussion in TMV are many. On the superficial level, the main character Shylock embodies both vindictiveness and the letter of the law. He resists those who manipulate the law in order to receive lighter sentences for their wrongs. But the play comes to its reflective height during the courtroom scene, when the learned scholar brings mercy into the debate. The question then becomes: To what extent is mercy part of the law? And, to the extent that it is, can it annul other parts of the law, such as contracts?
I think most would agree that there are certain terms by which, inherently, a man cannot bind himself. In modern law, the term for this is "unconscionability": loans above a certain percent of interest are automatically null and void, regardless of the consent of the debtor. The assumption is that the debtor is not fully rational when he agrees, either because he has been economically (or otherwise) coerced or because he has not accurately weighed the costs to himself. Aristotle offers the classic example that a man cannot bind himself into slavery (though his rationality is autonomy). But modern unconscionability doctrine goes a step further: even if there is no irrationality or coercion in a particular case, the mere existence of such exploitive contracts is repugnant to a society as a whole.
Here is where the contract for a "pound of flesh" enters the scene. The contract was made on the irrational assumption that breach of contract was impossible, and therefore the punishment was irrelevant. But once the contract was made and then breached, Shylock contends that any failure to execute the contract-specificed punishment undermines law. But it seems evident before the court that the execution of such a grisly punishment by the law would be so horrific as to undermine the law more. Thus the interesting question is about what the law is - whether it is expected and legitimate rules of behavior, or whether it is the concrete rules enacted through legitimate processes.
Masterfully, the legal scholar calls upon Shylock to grant mercy, hoping that all he desires is deference. If she gives him ultimate power over Antonio's fate, he retains this power even by granting mercy; indeed, Antonio will then owe him a debt. But Shylock is not so simple-minded as the scholar believes: he wants "justice," not power. Yet the very attempt to compensate Shylock with this bit of power suggests some rightness of his claim. As in ethics, even if the rule can be violated, its violation demands compensation for the resulting victims.
But the fact pattern's complexity deepens further. When Shylock refuses to grant mercy, the scholar turns the tables 180 degrees: she accuses Shylock of attempted murder of Antonio (awkwardly, for trying to spill "Christian" blood) and grants Antonio control over his fate. By doing so, the scholar guarantees that an act of mercy rather than retribution will result. But this again seems to validate the claim of Shylock by skirting his punishment for it.
All told, The Merchant of Venice is captivating for how it deals with contracts, vows, and other such legal phenomena. Later vows about a ring are sacrificed when the circumstances press - and the lady of justice again grants a reprieve. The lesson here seems to be analogous to the classical ethical argument that promises carry implicit conditions (such as unconscionability or force majeure).
The play is also hard-core feminist, which helps... The legal scholar who saves the day is actually a woman, Portia, in disguise.
The layers of the justice discussion in TMV are many. On the superficial level, the main character Shylock embodies both vindictiveness and the letter of the law. He resists those who manipulate the law in order to receive lighter sentences for their wrongs. But the play comes to its reflective height during the courtroom scene, when the learned scholar brings mercy into the debate. The question then becomes: To what extent is mercy part of the law? And, to the extent that it is, can it annul other parts of the law, such as contracts?
I think most would agree that there are certain terms by which, inherently, a man cannot bind himself. In modern law, the term for this is "unconscionability": loans above a certain percent of interest are automatically null and void, regardless of the consent of the debtor. The assumption is that the debtor is not fully rational when he agrees, either because he has been economically (or otherwise) coerced or because he has not accurately weighed the costs to himself. Aristotle offers the classic example that a man cannot bind himself into slavery (though his rationality is autonomy). But modern unconscionability doctrine goes a step further: even if there is no irrationality or coercion in a particular case, the mere existence of such exploitive contracts is repugnant to a society as a whole.
Here is where the contract for a "pound of flesh" enters the scene. The contract was made on the irrational assumption that breach of contract was impossible, and therefore the punishment was irrelevant. But once the contract was made and then breached, Shylock contends that any failure to execute the contract-specificed punishment undermines law. But it seems evident before the court that the execution of such a grisly punishment by the law would be so horrific as to undermine the law more. Thus the interesting question is about what the law is - whether it is expected and legitimate rules of behavior, or whether it is the concrete rules enacted through legitimate processes.
Masterfully, the legal scholar calls upon Shylock to grant mercy, hoping that all he desires is deference. If she gives him ultimate power over Antonio's fate, he retains this power even by granting mercy; indeed, Antonio will then owe him a debt. But Shylock is not so simple-minded as the scholar believes: he wants "justice," not power. Yet the very attempt to compensate Shylock with this bit of power suggests some rightness of his claim. As in ethics, even if the rule can be violated, its violation demands compensation for the resulting victims.
But the fact pattern's complexity deepens further. When Shylock refuses to grant mercy, the scholar turns the tables 180 degrees: she accuses Shylock of attempted murder of Antonio (awkwardly, for trying to spill "Christian" blood) and grants Antonio control over his fate. By doing so, the scholar guarantees that an act of mercy rather than retribution will result. But this again seems to validate the claim of Shylock by skirting his punishment for it.
All told, The Merchant of Venice is captivating for how it deals with contracts, vows, and other such legal phenomena. Later vows about a ring are sacrificed when the circumstances press - and the lady of justice again grants a reprieve. The lesson here seems to be analogous to the classical ethical argument that promises carry implicit conditions (such as unconscionability or force majeure).
The play is also hard-core feminist, which helps... The legal scholar who saves the day is actually a woman, Portia, in disguise.
Wednesday, July 30, 2008
Why integration doesn't (quite) make sense
First, how far do we integrate? To reflect the demographics of the community? If so, how do we define the community? As the neighborhood? The city limits? The county? The crowd of people whom a child is likely to encounter? Each one of these often yields a very different figure. And then, why is the white suburban child of Mississippi better off with integration while the white rural child of Wyoming is left in his uniracial isolation, hundreds of miles from the nearest sizable minority population?
Second, how does one combat white flight? If school board policies force a child into a school that his parents dislike, many parents yank their children from the school. White flight is, in one iteration, more forgivable: you cannot expect parents to be willing to sacrifice something as crucial as their child's entire early-life training for an obscure societal - goal - especially a seemingly statistical one - like integration. This is the "education quality" iteration. It can be solved by exogenous means. However, in another iteration, white flight seems quite reactionary: when a child is thrown from a situation of racial majority to one of racial minority, many parents turn tail and run. Indeed, it can be very uncomfortable to be amongst a race that one is not used to. But this iteration is much harder to solve.
What is fascinating about integration in education is just how pivotal it is for many children's lives. The recent court decision essentially - though not deliberately - denied an equal education to many minority students. The reasoning is that it is better to tolerate systematic disadvantages of many students (though students of a single race - this is important), so long as they may be legally escaped, than to inescapably disadvantage individual students. What makes the disadvantage inescapable is its basis in race, a factor that is no fault of the individual. But so long as school districts may consider race as one of many factors, or proxy in some other (still arbitrary) factor like residential location, individuals will still be inescapably disadvantaged arbitrarily (i.e., by no fault of their own) - though not directly by labeling them by race. Therefore the ruling may effectively eliminate the effective opportunity of children of a minority race to achieve an equal education, in order to reduce the likelihood that a white child will too - but explicitly because of race.
So it seems like there is something naggingly wrong with holding little white poor children responsible for the racist attitudes of their community. However, is there a better way? How do we hold a community responsible for segregation, if it is indirect and through public opinion? We must correct the inferior opportunities that are caused by undue, de facto racial segregation. And schools are the front on which the segregation in others areas of public life does the most damage - by entrenching, in an era when education minimums for employment are rising, disadvantages in other areas.
Can we simply dismiss and leave for dead integration, when the natural trend seems obviously toward resegregation? It seems to take government integration to start the dominoes toward a result that everyone, in theory, seems to favor. Very few parents in 2008 actively want to exclude black children from their schools. But they just don't want to undergo the costs of experimentation and transition.
I can't say I know the answer to any of these questions, but I do know that mandatory, individualized categorization by race does seem to leave a bad taste in the mouths of many. Perhaps Justice Kennedy's opinion is less incoherent than I originally thought.
Second, how does one combat white flight? If school board policies force a child into a school that his parents dislike, many parents yank their children from the school. White flight is, in one iteration, more forgivable: you cannot expect parents to be willing to sacrifice something as crucial as their child's entire early-life training for an obscure societal - goal - especially a seemingly statistical one - like integration. This is the "education quality" iteration. It can be solved by exogenous means. However, in another iteration, white flight seems quite reactionary: when a child is thrown from a situation of racial majority to one of racial minority, many parents turn tail and run. Indeed, it can be very uncomfortable to be amongst a race that one is not used to. But this iteration is much harder to solve.
What is fascinating about integration in education is just how pivotal it is for many children's lives. The recent court decision essentially - though not deliberately - denied an equal education to many minority students. The reasoning is that it is better to tolerate systematic disadvantages of many students (though students of a single race - this is important), so long as they may be legally escaped, than to inescapably disadvantage individual students. What makes the disadvantage inescapable is its basis in race, a factor that is no fault of the individual. But so long as school districts may consider race as one of many factors, or proxy in some other (still arbitrary) factor like residential location, individuals will still be inescapably disadvantaged arbitrarily (i.e., by no fault of their own) - though not directly by labeling them by race. Therefore the ruling may effectively eliminate the effective opportunity of children of a minority race to achieve an equal education, in order to reduce the likelihood that a white child will too - but explicitly because of race.
So it seems like there is something naggingly wrong with holding little white poor children responsible for the racist attitudes of their community. However, is there a better way? How do we hold a community responsible for segregation, if it is indirect and through public opinion? We must correct the inferior opportunities that are caused by undue, de facto racial segregation. And schools are the front on which the segregation in others areas of public life does the most damage - by entrenching, in an era when education minimums for employment are rising, disadvantages in other areas.
Can we simply dismiss and leave for dead integration, when the natural trend seems obviously toward resegregation? It seems to take government integration to start the dominoes toward a result that everyone, in theory, seems to favor. Very few parents in 2008 actively want to exclude black children from their schools. But they just don't want to undergo the costs of experimentation and transition.
I can't say I know the answer to any of these questions, but I do know that mandatory, individualized categorization by race does seem to leave a bad taste in the mouths of many. Perhaps Justice Kennedy's opinion is less incoherent than I originally thought.
Tuesday, July 29, 2008
Culmination of Detainee Thoughts IV: BW's Tone
I think the one thing that really needles liberals about Ben is that he is conservative, but one more educated in civil discourse. In other words, he has an agenda to defend the administration and reduce the threat of terrorism, not necessarily with maximal concern for individual rights, but he does recognize a need to accommodate the views of others who reasonably do value individual rights foremost and distrust the executive. Nonetheless, the tone makes all the difference.
Ben is, without doubt, a superb rhetoric-breaker. He masterfully calls out hypocrisy and shrillness, partisanship and chumminess. Yet he addresses his rhetoric-breaking to the scholarly crowd. And, at the end of the day, the scholars just blink and say, "Yes, we agree. We're not the ones spewing the rhetoric." Sure, they may use the slogans, but that's not actually what they think. And the only concrete reason (all aesthetics aside) to break rhetoric is to halt belief in it.
Ben is, without doubt, a superb rhetoric-breaker. He masterfully calls out hypocrisy and shrillness, partisanship and chumminess. Yet he addresses his rhetoric-breaking to the scholarly crowd. And, at the end of the day, the scholars just blink and say, "Yes, we agree. We're not the ones spewing the rhetoric." Sure, they may use the slogans, but that's not actually what they think. And the only concrete reason (all aesthetics aside) to break rhetoric is to halt belief in it.
Monday, July 28, 2008
Labeling our own politics
When we identify ourselves as "liberal" or "conservative" to others before they have a chance to observe it in us ourselves, what is our purpose? When the others are of like politics, do we want to associate ourselves with a community? When the others are of opposite politics, do we want to gloss over differences without getting into the gritty details? Either way, I was struck by the way that Ben Wittes, a pragmatic thinker, tends to look down his nose at such self-identification, apparently seeing it as simplification of our views.
Yet I've realized that the reason I self-identify is in order to qualify some of the more pragmatic statements that I make, in order to fend off snap judgments by the more reactive of liberals. This alert gives them a heads-up that, in total, I have reached a different conclusion than my immediate judgment might suggest. Yet even this seems to be an attempt to evade dirty details-debates or not to lose their camaraderie...
Does anyone really know what these labels mean, beyond vague association with certain noted persons and policies? Is there any real consistency implied by "I am liberal"? (At least according to Bryan Garner, the Republicans are winning the popular battle because they are able to describe their values in two-word catch-phrases that are just concrete enough to attract constituents but not concrete enough to alienate them once they are drawn in.) I often find that the liberal or conservative position simply boils down to some basic rhetoric and to the convenience of the moment. It is liberal to oppose gun rights against state force, but to support defendant rights against state prosecutors? It is conservative to vehemently oppose abortions - any sacrifice of opportunity for life - but to support schemes that might deny certain poor kids opportunities in life? "Liberalism" and "conservatism" seems, in its haste to cut men into two groups alone, to set up rigid positions on everything from individual rights against the collective to tradition in general to economics - in ways that are not necessarily logically consistent (as civil libertarians, especially, have found).
Just try asking someone, What does it mean to be liberal?
[Digression warning: I don't quite understand, except for the vague suggestion that conservatives favor the small and localized (including individual initiative and goals) while preferring continuity with the past on a large, structural level. Essentially, these individuals advocate showing respect to society by obeying traditional rules, but stretching those rules in every possible way - and openly - in order to achieve one's self interests. They oppose any attempt for society to define what ends you should work for, or to compare you in substance with others; or of any attempt to craft "ideal" social rules that are unpredictable and based on any "collective" or abstract goals.]
In short, our partisan association seems an easy way to divide ourselves into clean camps, while evading the - sometimes significant - differences between our views and those of the larger camp. We seem to derive great pleasure from ideological company.
Or is there something about these base issues that make them fundamental to the human experience? After all, it seems that conservatives tend to prefer certain types of social services, while liberals prefer others. As a recent article in The Economist explains, Americans now are now dividing geographically along partisan lines. Truth be told, I would prefer to live in a liberal community, and this seems to be based on very real personal discomfort that I feel around conservatives.
But while this may be relevant to our personal feelings, partisan identification is not useful in discussing compromise policy options. I would argue that we should avoid wearing our politics on our sleeves at all - it's unclear when this knowledge will actually aid a conversation or relationship. It's better to just work out the gritty details.
Yet I've realized that the reason I self-identify is in order to qualify some of the more pragmatic statements that I make, in order to fend off snap judgments by the more reactive of liberals. This alert gives them a heads-up that, in total, I have reached a different conclusion than my immediate judgment might suggest. Yet even this seems to be an attempt to evade dirty details-debates or not to lose their camaraderie...
Does anyone really know what these labels mean, beyond vague association with certain noted persons and policies? Is there any real consistency implied by "I am liberal"? (At least according to Bryan Garner, the Republicans are winning the popular battle because they are able to describe their values in two-word catch-phrases that are just concrete enough to attract constituents but not concrete enough to alienate them once they are drawn in.) I often find that the liberal or conservative position simply boils down to some basic rhetoric and to the convenience of the moment. It is liberal to oppose gun rights against state force, but to support defendant rights against state prosecutors? It is conservative to vehemently oppose abortions - any sacrifice of opportunity for life - but to support schemes that might deny certain poor kids opportunities in life? "Liberalism" and "conservatism" seems, in its haste to cut men into two groups alone, to set up rigid positions on everything from individual rights against the collective to tradition in general to economics - in ways that are not necessarily logically consistent (as civil libertarians, especially, have found).
Just try asking someone, What does it mean to be liberal?
[Digression warning: I don't quite understand, except for the vague suggestion that conservatives favor the small and localized (including individual initiative and goals) while preferring continuity with the past on a large, structural level. Essentially, these individuals advocate showing respect to society by obeying traditional rules, but stretching those rules in every possible way - and openly - in order to achieve one's self interests. They oppose any attempt for society to define what ends you should work for, or to compare you in substance with others; or of any attempt to craft "ideal" social rules that are unpredictable and based on any "collective" or abstract goals.]
In short, our partisan association seems an easy way to divide ourselves into clean camps, while evading the - sometimes significant - differences between our views and those of the larger camp. We seem to derive great pleasure from ideological company.
Or is there something about these base issues that make them fundamental to the human experience? After all, it seems that conservatives tend to prefer certain types of social services, while liberals prefer others. As a recent article in The Economist explains, Americans now are now dividing geographically along partisan lines. Truth be told, I would prefer to live in a liberal community, and this seems to be based on very real personal discomfort that I feel around conservatives.
But while this may be relevant to our personal feelings, partisan identification is not useful in discussing compromise policy options. I would argue that we should avoid wearing our politics on our sleeves at all - it's unclear when this knowledge will actually aid a conversation or relationship. It's better to just work out the gritty details.
Saturday, July 19, 2008
Leaving the Altar
So the churches are modernizing, too. Someone seems to have come to terms with Mill and the realization that dogma cannot survive the harsh light of forced sunshine - and thus it must willingly open the curtains itself. Contemporary congregations are, I imagine, much more comfortable believing creeds that invite competing views and interpretations. Why has the Coos Bay Christian Science Church, with its somber services with eight elderly men sleepnig throughout, still sacrificing genuine communication for the sake of tradition?
The church in the basement of a coffeehouse that I attended today was a far cry from the pews and organ of a traditional church. The pastor embellished his sermon with colloquial terms like "awesome" and "like," and used catchy taglines like "you have a green light" and "be missional." The "hymns" were accompanied by guitar and drums and their lyrics were projected onto overhead computer screens. As Joel informed me, the session was being taped for broadcast in movie theaters on Sunday morning. When the songs resonate with people, they are much more compelling. It made me realize that organ music may at one time have been inspiring - rather than sleep-inducing as it currently is. In fact, even the inclusion of music might have attracted audiences in the mid-twelfth century.
The creed itself was non-denominational, and thus rather generic. The messages were simple motivational ones, and only loosely connected with scripture. For example, the pastor enjoined his congregation to do good wherever they could find it, to be proactive, and to unburden themselves of any material possessions that are unneeded but distracting. All of these are good other-regarding moral principles, whether substantiated by Biblical passages or not. The one - and I mean one - conventional part of the service was communion. But even this was done collectively: each person was given a mini cup of grape juice and cracker so everyone could eat and drink simultaneously, at the direction of the pastor.
The main doctrinal dispute I had was with the idea that God tells us what to do. One of the hymns said "I give you control." I could only think of Alayna and the deterioration of her life and ambitions as soon as she surrendered them to God's ambiguous "will."
Such an open environment made me confront some of the really hard questions of religion. For example, how do we know what is God's will? If God doesn't talk to us directly - and surely few can claim, honestly, to have spoken directly with him - then the author of his opinions must be church personnel. But this sounds like an invitation for abuse.
The church in the basement of a coffeehouse that I attended today was a far cry from the pews and organ of a traditional church. The pastor embellished his sermon with colloquial terms like "awesome" and "like," and used catchy taglines like "you have a green light" and "be missional." The "hymns" were accompanied by guitar and drums and their lyrics were projected onto overhead computer screens. As Joel informed me, the session was being taped for broadcast in movie theaters on Sunday morning. When the songs resonate with people, they are much more compelling. It made me realize that organ music may at one time have been inspiring - rather than sleep-inducing as it currently is. In fact, even the inclusion of music might have attracted audiences in the mid-twelfth century.
The creed itself was non-denominational, and thus rather generic. The messages were simple motivational ones, and only loosely connected with scripture. For example, the pastor enjoined his congregation to do good wherever they could find it, to be proactive, and to unburden themselves of any material possessions that are unneeded but distracting. All of these are good other-regarding moral principles, whether substantiated by Biblical passages or not. The one - and I mean one - conventional part of the service was communion. But even this was done collectively: each person was given a mini cup of grape juice and cracker so everyone could eat and drink simultaneously, at the direction of the pastor.
The main doctrinal dispute I had was with the idea that God tells us what to do. One of the hymns said "I give you control." I could only think of Alayna and the deterioration of her life and ambitions as soon as she surrendered them to God's ambiguous "will."
Such an open environment made me confront some of the really hard questions of religion. For example, how do we know what is God's will? If God doesn't talk to us directly - and surely few can claim, honestly, to have spoken directly with him - then the author of his opinions must be church personnel. But this sounds like an invitation for abuse.
Sunday, July 13, 2008
Culmination of Detainee Thoughts III: The Paradox
The paradox is this: if anyone is guaranteed full judicial process and we cannot adequately differentiate between those who are guaranteed it and those who are not without that judicial process, then we must give full judicial process to everyone. At least, this would be a paradox if we care much more about protecting the rights of those who are due full process than about denying the others process. If we care somewhat about denying process, for retributive or military reasons, we can simply give the maximal due process consistent with that goal. Yet if we claim that even this reduced process is sufficient to differentiate between the lawful and unlawful enemy combatants, then why do POWs need more process? This involves acknowledging that any trial process is necessarily imperfect and allows for some margin of error. The question is how much error we are willing to tolerate.
If we care much more about denying process, then we can easily resolve the paradox by simply ramping up process slightly across the board in order to weed out a few of the most easily differentiable cases. In this case, we are willing to tolerate a wide error margin.
A corollary result is that the Geneva Conventions cannot easily deny their due process protections to violators. Mixed in amongst civilians whose liberties we want to protect - perhaps especially in wartime - they must be given equal judicial process. Of course, once they are adequately determined to be violators, then the Conventions can retributively (or out of military necessity) deny them some rights - but judicial process is part of that determination and thus not subject to such denial.
If we care much more about denying process, then we can easily resolve the paradox by simply ramping up process slightly across the board in order to weed out a few of the most easily differentiable cases. In this case, we are willing to tolerate a wide error margin.
A corollary result is that the Geneva Conventions cannot easily deny their due process protections to violators. Mixed in amongst civilians whose liberties we want to protect - perhaps especially in wartime - they must be given equal judicial process. Of course, once they are adequately determined to be violators, then the Conventions can retributively (or out of military necessity) deny them some rights - but judicial process is part of that determination and thus not subject to such denial.
Saturday, July 12, 2008
What the hell do Congressmen want?
This simple question struck me as a conclusion as I was walking across DuPont Circle's park: What the hell do Congressmen want? All my long pondering about congressional motivations and congressional goals culminated in the simple realization that rank-and-file Congressmen are inscrutable. They do not want to play the hero, as the president usually does (or as their presidential-aspiring colleagues may). They do not want to go down in history for changing one issue (though there are some exceptions to this one). They do not (only) want to do what is good and right and true for their constituents.
Congress is insufferably noncommittal. As John Hart Ely raises in his book about war powers, Congress often shrinks from accountability. Therefore in the vast majority of cases, the most important victory is saying a lot while committing oneself to nothing. This, however, belies the theory that Congressmen simply want power. They in fact step back from the wheel quite often.
Oft-cited as it is, surely re-election cannot be their only motivation...
But after Yale-In-Washington met with former Senator Trent Lott a couple weeks ago, I'm beginning to think that Congressmen simply want to succeed in the social hierarchy that is the U.S. Congress. The ceremony is so formal and elaborate, the accommodations so opulent, the traditions and rules so clear - and all topped by an overwhelming sense of importance and purpose. With those conditions at stake, who wouldn't want to get re-elected, or simply to rise in power within Congress?
Sitting across from Lott as he rattled on stories of his exploits with procedure and persuasion, I had to restrain myself several times from asking the incoherent question, Did you often (or ever) step back and remember why you were in the Senate? Of course the people of Mississippi were constantly on the tip of his tongue, ready to be personified in every one of his public comments, but were they ever at the front of his thoughts?
Of course these are gross generalizations. But there is something disturbingly insular about most Congressmen's descriptions of their house and their role. It is almost as though Congress were not a forum, or an instrument of good governance on the ground, but a community, or an end in itself...
Congress is insufferably noncommittal. As John Hart Ely raises in his book about war powers, Congress often shrinks from accountability. Therefore in the vast majority of cases, the most important victory is saying a lot while committing oneself to nothing. This, however, belies the theory that Congressmen simply want power. They in fact step back from the wheel quite often.
Oft-cited as it is, surely re-election cannot be their only motivation...
But after Yale-In-Washington met with former Senator Trent Lott a couple weeks ago, I'm beginning to think that Congressmen simply want to succeed in the social hierarchy that is the U.S. Congress. The ceremony is so formal and elaborate, the accommodations so opulent, the traditions and rules so clear - and all topped by an overwhelming sense of importance and purpose. With those conditions at stake, who wouldn't want to get re-elected, or simply to rise in power within Congress?
Sitting across from Lott as he rattled on stories of his exploits with procedure and persuasion, I had to restrain myself several times from asking the incoherent question, Did you often (or ever) step back and remember why you were in the Senate? Of course the people of Mississippi were constantly on the tip of his tongue, ready to be personified in every one of his public comments, but were they ever at the front of his thoughts?
Of course these are gross generalizations. But there is something disturbingly insular about most Congressmen's descriptions of their house and their role. It is almost as though Congress were not a forum, or an instrument of good governance on the ground, but a community, or an end in itself...
Friday, July 4, 2008
Woolf's Realistic Feminism
Today I read Virginia Woolf's speech, "Shakespeare's Sister," in which she first articulated the "Room of One's Own" formula for the success of a female writer. There is one unusual thing about her views on feminism, which is less their content than their combination: she believes both that women have been systematically disadvantaged in a way that precluded their earlier success in writing, and that they have failed to grasp the modern opportunities to remedy that historical repression. She says, in unequivocal terms, that women have done nothing of historic value.
As it turns out, these views are very similar to my own. I have always been angered by the hump that women must climb before they can succeed like men. It is not an insurmountable slope, but one that ensures only the cream of the crop are recognized. Yet at the same time, I have always repudiated the whining of women who sit at a political or literary discussion and clean their nails or otherwise primp, who "trust that there is always an arm to cling to," as Woolf would say.
I felt like I had been hit by a cold iron when the summarizing article from The Guardian (always printed at the end in this speech series) raised the objectivity of Woolf. My blood raged when he noted that men have also suffered from financial hardship in history, but have overcome it. It seemed very clear to me that this was motivated by a misogynist attempt to discredit Woolf. (He disdainfully concludes his article with an assessment that Woolf always, despite errors in logic, "maintains an unfaltering poise.")
However, the reviewer does have a point about the emotion with which she speaks. Indeed, women have not done poorly solely because of the material constraints that they faced: they seem, by their very nature, to have scuttled away from the limelight and retreated at the slightest sign of resistance. Indeed, men in 1928 could proudly say that they had done much to advance the cause of women - including granting them the vote less than a decade earlier (and the worries of minorities who seem to be progressing but still aspire to parity is often dismissed as whining at the expense of more pressing problems).
The reviewer's overlooked point is that this is the female second nature - the one shoved at them by society. It is not in the first nature of a woman to primp during an intellectual discussion. But a man would be scorned for doing so, while a woman would only be discouraged with a condescending smile and sigh; and women have been taught to appreciate the condescending smile of their male guardians.
But even a socially imposed disadvantage can only be stretched so far into martyrdom. For one fearful moment, I worried that even moderate feminists like Woolf, who empowered women to act rather than whining, were on par with the crazed and single-minded head of PETA. Since we cannot hope to think entirely outside our own experience, we may victimize ourselves more than is fair - and, going below the PETA level, we may do so as an excuse not to act. Primping girls may take the condescending smile as a reassurance that they need not struggle to grasp the meaning of the discussion in order to please.
Yet the reviewer conveniently ignored that Woolf herself acknowledges the passivity of women and urges them to action in a stirring peroration.
But, even if more could be said to supplement Woolf's analysis, I do think that civil conventions demand tolerating some exaggeration (though that is not quite the issue here) and some single-minded "framing" of one's subject in a public speech. The author of this article violated that convention.
[Perhaps I should note, I'm listening to Frank Sinatra right now - which just maddens a woman already in a feminist frame of mind.]
As it turns out, these views are very similar to my own. I have always been angered by the hump that women must climb before they can succeed like men. It is not an insurmountable slope, but one that ensures only the cream of the crop are recognized. Yet at the same time, I have always repudiated the whining of women who sit at a political or literary discussion and clean their nails or otherwise primp, who "trust that there is always an arm to cling to," as Woolf would say.
I felt like I had been hit by a cold iron when the summarizing article from The Guardian (always printed at the end in this speech series) raised the objectivity of Woolf. My blood raged when he noted that men have also suffered from financial hardship in history, but have overcome it. It seemed very clear to me that this was motivated by a misogynist attempt to discredit Woolf. (He disdainfully concludes his article with an assessment that Woolf always, despite errors in logic, "maintains an unfaltering poise.")
However, the reviewer does have a point about the emotion with which she speaks. Indeed, women have not done poorly solely because of the material constraints that they faced: they seem, by their very nature, to have scuttled away from the limelight and retreated at the slightest sign of resistance. Indeed, men in 1928 could proudly say that they had done much to advance the cause of women - including granting them the vote less than a decade earlier (and the worries of minorities who seem to be progressing but still aspire to parity is often dismissed as whining at the expense of more pressing problems).
The reviewer's overlooked point is that this is the female second nature - the one shoved at them by society. It is not in the first nature of a woman to primp during an intellectual discussion. But a man would be scorned for doing so, while a woman would only be discouraged with a condescending smile and sigh; and women have been taught to appreciate the condescending smile of their male guardians.
But even a socially imposed disadvantage can only be stretched so far into martyrdom. For one fearful moment, I worried that even moderate feminists like Woolf, who empowered women to act rather than whining, were on par with the crazed and single-minded head of PETA. Since we cannot hope to think entirely outside our own experience, we may victimize ourselves more than is fair - and, going below the PETA level, we may do so as an excuse not to act. Primping girls may take the condescending smile as a reassurance that they need not struggle to grasp the meaning of the discussion in order to please.
Yet the reviewer conveniently ignored that Woolf herself acknowledges the passivity of women and urges them to action in a stirring peroration.
But, even if more could be said to supplement Woolf's analysis, I do think that civil conventions demand tolerating some exaggeration (though that is not quite the issue here) and some single-minded "framing" of one's subject in a public speech. The author of this article violated that convention.
[Perhaps I should note, I'm listening to Frank Sinatra right now - which just maddens a woman already in a feminist frame of mind.]
Friday, June 27, 2008
Culmination of Detainee Thoughts I
Several key ideological issues separate my own views from those of Ben Wittes, my employer. The ironic part is that Ben thinks that his own view is pragmatic and essentially non-ideological.
First, Ben harbors a deep-seated fear of judicial power. He senses sinister motives around every dismissal for want of jurisdiction, every constitutional question left unanswered - nearly every ruling on process rather than the merits. At the same time, he scorns any judicial interference on a detailed, policy-making level.
Many would - as Seth Waxman does - contend that this approach is contradictory. Ben wants the courts to do both less and more. Yet there is no necessary contradiction: Ben merely wants the courts to evaluate the adherence to rules, and not to administer those rules themselves. Therefore he gets nervous when courts are less than fully transparent and thus leave open to themselves the possibility of crafting further, and more detailed, rules. In fact, he acknowledges this in his book with a chapter entitled "The Necessity and Impossibility of Judicial Review."
Yet, while I see no contradiction, I still think that Ben's fears may be gratuitous. After all, he trusts the executive with more open-ended authority. The courts have, historically, paused before doing much more than craft very abstract rules, and even these do not depart too much from popular, slowly evolving sentiment. I think the court's ruling in the series of Gitmo cases reflects not an attempt for them to "carve a seat for themselves at the table." I actually think that judges do not hunger for power in the same way that politicians may. They are already influential, and are usually satisfied to simply deliver the final word on cases. While I think the opponents of judicial activism may be right that judges will decide cases based on their preconceived notions about outcomes - thus taking the opportunity that arises to decide an issue as they personally see fit - I'm not so sure that judges are thinking about the bigger picture of power.
But I think Ben may have some valid points. What is it about the structure of the courts that gives Ben pause to delegate authority to them? Since judges are usually appointed not elected, it could be their lack of democratic underpinning. (Yet at the same time Ben opposes many of the political strategies to hamper judicial nominations and appointments.)
He sees the judicial-congressional dialogue as an inefficient one that prevents thoughtful, unified crafting of policies. This can - as in the case of the California Supreme Court ruling on gay marriages - disrupt a historical legislative-popular dialogue and other, more organic processes.
This reason seems persuasive to me.
Yet I believe Ben also thinks that a legal society should be contained and as organic (democratic?) as possible. None of this Platonic guardianship for him. This is an expanded version of the idea that I have articulated above about legislative-popular dialogues. This is also why he dislikes the influence of foreign law in the US. He generally has pretty low regard for international treaties and agreements. (Although his writings suggest a cautious attempt not to trample on too many feet in this controversial arena, and he generally tries to read US law in conformity with international commitments anyway.) This is why he opposes Justice Breyer's advocacy for citing (and perhaps using, though I'm not clear on this point) foreign law precedent in domestic court decisions. It certainly seems coherent to think that, as American law evolves, it should evolve according to the standards of the governed rather than the standards of foreign peoples who are not under its jurisdiction anyway.
However, I am not altogether persuaded by this point. While I admit its coherence, I am just honestly more of a Platonist than Ben, in a narrow sense. I tend to think that, while it is important that a court's decisions favor its people's standards, I am not generally excited about codifying the standards of one group of people - say the majority - in law that forces others to comply. Accordingly, I am willing to cite whatever authority (even if it is abroad) that favors civil liberties over the substantive will of the governed population. (Of course this doesn't extend to the codification of foreign substantive practices.)
Our views diverge even more on the issue of executive power. Especially in the conduct of war, Ben scorns the attempt of the courts to intervene in executive decisions. Certainly the comparative lack of information and expertise of the courts is beyond doubt. Moreover, the threat of internal divisiveness is real: a power struggle between two equal branches during a time of national crisis could be disastrous to efficient and effective action.
More specifically, Ben and I may differ on how severe the national conflict must be before we defer to the executive. While Ben is content to let the executive rule with many freedoms in any time of "war," I'm only ready to start tipping the balance of power when we approach a genuine "national crisis." We may technically be "at war" in the current counterterrorism initiative, but I think many Americans find the label "war" to be an exaggeration insofar as there seems to be no imperative threat to our national integrity (as opposed to mere security). I am torn, because I know that even the greatest, integrity-threatening al Qaeda plot might only be anticipated as a threat to security. But I generally agree with the civil liberties activists, especially with regard to Guantanamo.
Many of us are willing to concede that the Gitmo detainees may pose a nontrivial threat to national security, individually. Yet Ben also regards the hassle to the executive in providing full civilian trials as a threat to national security, and thus worthy of deference to the executive. Even this is a tricky point, since he wants to provide increased procedural safeguards for the detainees. More than anything, I think he wants the rules settled beforehand, so they are predictable for the executive's use.
Thus the contentious issue is about as simple as the way we weigh national interests versus civil liberties. Many of us value civil liberties for all people so much that we are willing to give up a little security for their sake (Benjamin Franklin notwithstanding). When Ben asks the question, "What if the number of dangerous individuals is 120 rather than 5?" I think this evades the tougher question: "What if the number of dangerous individuals is 60?" That number is probably the more realistic one, anyway.
Ultimately, I think Ben is not substantively far from the views of many of us. The problem is that, in order to combat the extreme rhetoric of human rights groups, he often adopts his own extreme rhetoric. Yet even that rhetoric is underpinned by some genuine convictions about the trustworthiness of our government.
First, Ben harbors a deep-seated fear of judicial power. He senses sinister motives around every dismissal for want of jurisdiction, every constitutional question left unanswered - nearly every ruling on process rather than the merits. At the same time, he scorns any judicial interference on a detailed, policy-making level.
Many would - as Seth Waxman does - contend that this approach is contradictory. Ben wants the courts to do both less and more. Yet there is no necessary contradiction: Ben merely wants the courts to evaluate the adherence to rules, and not to administer those rules themselves. Therefore he gets nervous when courts are less than fully transparent and thus leave open to themselves the possibility of crafting further, and more detailed, rules. In fact, he acknowledges this in his book with a chapter entitled "The Necessity and Impossibility of Judicial Review."
Yet, while I see no contradiction, I still think that Ben's fears may be gratuitous. After all, he trusts the executive with more open-ended authority. The courts have, historically, paused before doing much more than craft very abstract rules, and even these do not depart too much from popular, slowly evolving sentiment. I think the court's ruling in the series of Gitmo cases reflects not an attempt for them to "carve a seat for themselves at the table." I actually think that judges do not hunger for power in the same way that politicians may. They are already influential, and are usually satisfied to simply deliver the final word on cases. While I think the opponents of judicial activism may be right that judges will decide cases based on their preconceived notions about outcomes - thus taking the opportunity that arises to decide an issue as they personally see fit - I'm not so sure that judges are thinking about the bigger picture of power.
But I think Ben may have some valid points. What is it about the structure of the courts that gives Ben pause to delegate authority to them? Since judges are usually appointed not elected, it could be their lack of democratic underpinning. (Yet at the same time Ben opposes many of the political strategies to hamper judicial nominations and appointments.)
He sees the judicial-congressional dialogue as an inefficient one that prevents thoughtful, unified crafting of policies. This can - as in the case of the California Supreme Court ruling on gay marriages - disrupt a historical legislative-popular dialogue and other, more organic processes.
This reason seems persuasive to me.
Yet I believe Ben also thinks that a legal society should be contained and as organic (democratic?) as possible. None of this Platonic guardianship for him. This is an expanded version of the idea that I have articulated above about legislative-popular dialogues. This is also why he dislikes the influence of foreign law in the US. He generally has pretty low regard for international treaties and agreements. (Although his writings suggest a cautious attempt not to trample on too many feet in this controversial arena, and he generally tries to read US law in conformity with international commitments anyway.) This is why he opposes Justice Breyer's advocacy for citing (and perhaps using, though I'm not clear on this point) foreign law precedent in domestic court decisions. It certainly seems coherent to think that, as American law evolves, it should evolve according to the standards of the governed rather than the standards of foreign peoples who are not under its jurisdiction anyway.
However, I am not altogether persuaded by this point. While I admit its coherence, I am just honestly more of a Platonist than Ben, in a narrow sense. I tend to think that, while it is important that a court's decisions favor its people's standards, I am not generally excited about codifying the standards of one group of people - say the majority - in law that forces others to comply. Accordingly, I am willing to cite whatever authority (even if it is abroad) that favors civil liberties over the substantive will of the governed population. (Of course this doesn't extend to the codification of foreign substantive practices.)
Our views diverge even more on the issue of executive power. Especially in the conduct of war, Ben scorns the attempt of the courts to intervene in executive decisions. Certainly the comparative lack of information and expertise of the courts is beyond doubt. Moreover, the threat of internal divisiveness is real: a power struggle between two equal branches during a time of national crisis could be disastrous to efficient and effective action.
More specifically, Ben and I may differ on how severe the national conflict must be before we defer to the executive. While Ben is content to let the executive rule with many freedoms in any time of "war," I'm only ready to start tipping the balance of power when we approach a genuine "national crisis." We may technically be "at war" in the current counterterrorism initiative, but I think many Americans find the label "war" to be an exaggeration insofar as there seems to be no imperative threat to our national integrity (as opposed to mere security). I am torn, because I know that even the greatest, integrity-threatening al Qaeda plot might only be anticipated as a threat to security. But I generally agree with the civil liberties activists, especially with regard to Guantanamo.
Many of us are willing to concede that the Gitmo detainees may pose a nontrivial threat to national security, individually. Yet Ben also regards the hassle to the executive in providing full civilian trials as a threat to national security, and thus worthy of deference to the executive. Even this is a tricky point, since he wants to provide increased procedural safeguards for the detainees. More than anything, I think he wants the rules settled beforehand, so they are predictable for the executive's use.
Thus the contentious issue is about as simple as the way we weigh national interests versus civil liberties. Many of us value civil liberties for all people so much that we are willing to give up a little security for their sake (Benjamin Franklin notwithstanding). When Ben asks the question, "What if the number of dangerous individuals is 120 rather than 5?" I think this evades the tougher question: "What if the number of dangerous individuals is 60?" That number is probably the more realistic one, anyway.
Ultimately, I think Ben is not substantively far from the views of many of us. The problem is that, in order to combat the extreme rhetoric of human rights groups, he often adopts his own extreme rhetoric. Yet even that rhetoric is underpinned by some genuine convictions about the trustworthiness of our government.
Tuesday, June 3, 2008
Lithwick v. Wittes
Well, it was perhaps more of a conversation than a debate, but it was provocative.
Some important points:
The realization that, in creating a legal system, we do calibrate our laws to the situation. We would not want to have trials in which no one was convicted, and thus we may end up changing our laws in ways to achieve that. Ben points out a useful contrast with the Nuremberg trials and those at Guantanamo: in Nuremberg, any trial was a concession, whereas at Gitmo our baseline is a civilian trial.
Lithwick did not actually have a point of clash with Ben's view (part of this, of course, is because Ben is rather moderate and likes the image of the radical more than the argument of him - unlike many people). However, she staunchly held that, "after waterboarding is in the picture, all bets are off" because you can't salvage anything from the previous legal procedure - essentially, you can't put on trial any of the tortured detainees. I don't quite understand this argument, because she also agrees that we shouldn't have wholly civilian trials state-side.
Ben made a great point that Scalia tends to have as much - or more - empathy with victims as do the liberal justices on the Supreme Court. He simply defines victimhood differently than the rest of us might.
I always admire that Ben is able to catch liberals in their rhetoric, when they have latched onto a side of an issue because of the particulars of the short-term, rather than because it is right in the details, the philosophy, or the long-term. That I truly respect.
Some important points:
The realization that, in creating a legal system, we do calibrate our laws to the situation. We would not want to have trials in which no one was convicted, and thus we may end up changing our laws in ways to achieve that. Ben points out a useful contrast with the Nuremberg trials and those at Guantanamo: in Nuremberg, any trial was a concession, whereas at Gitmo our baseline is a civilian trial.
Lithwick did not actually have a point of clash with Ben's view (part of this, of course, is because Ben is rather moderate and likes the image of the radical more than the argument of him - unlike many people). However, she staunchly held that, "after waterboarding is in the picture, all bets are off" because you can't salvage anything from the previous legal procedure - essentially, you can't put on trial any of the tortured detainees. I don't quite understand this argument, because she also agrees that we shouldn't have wholly civilian trials state-side.
Ben made a great point that Scalia tends to have as much - or more - empathy with victims as do the liberal justices on the Supreme Court. He simply defines victimhood differently than the rest of us might.
I always admire that Ben is able to catch liberals in their rhetoric, when they have latched onto a side of an issue because of the particulars of the short-term, rather than because it is right in the details, the philosophy, or the long-term. That I truly respect.
Wednesday, May 28, 2008
The Nth Viewing of a Play
As I told my father a while ago, I think the true value of a play can only be understood upon the third or fourth (or nth) viewing. When you watch a play for the first time, you struggle just to grasp the language, the characters, and the plot. No doubt this is partly why Shakespeare infamously punishes the (even momentarily) wayward concentration - by zipping past its comprehension. Forget grasping the deeper message that first time. It is only after viewing multiple productions that a playgoer can detect the nuances of the director's interpretation.
Yet I think the true masters of literature understood this about their audiences (or readers). (Clearly I would not include T.S. Eliot among these masters.) They attempt to give their audiences a leg up in comprehension by simplifying plots, purging all extraneous details, and using intelligible language.
Although I didn't immediately realize this, I believe that Shakespeare's recycling of commonly known plots was the typification of this genius (though of course the plots are no longer considered a comprehension aid for modern audiences). If one already knows the plot (think the short blurbs in programs at Shakespeare plays) then she can concentrate on the artistic devices like emphasis and tone that clue her into the artist's message. Every simplification is a leg up to profundity. I used to fear that the limited breadth of the Western canon would inevitably lead to either blind adulation or disillusionment. Now I recognize that it is, at least in part, a great aid to our artistic communication. After all, none of us could speak much if our vocabulary comprised millions of words.
As I have often commented to others, I've slowly come to realize that near-objective aesthetic beauty exists. The glaring illustration of this was, for me, the viewing of the Annunciation in the Uffizi Gallery in Florence. Standing in one of many similar galleries, surrounded by dozens of drab-colored Christian scenes painted by mediocre technicians (see the long faces and two-dimensional perspective), I was preparing to rush through to the next room to hasten the end. Then suddenly, in the corner, I saw a painting that gave me faith in not only Renaissance art but universal aesthetics: an arresting image of The Enunciation, Gabriel declaring to Mary that she is pregnant with Jesus. The vivid colors and - most of all - the lifelikeness of the scene are striking, and differentiate the panting from all others in the room. I literally froze as though to hear Gabriel's words. I had finally found a real Renaissance artist, and I called to Lauren Henry from across the room to proclaim this. Lauren got as close to rolling her eyes as she is capable of doing: "That's because it's the only da Vinci in the room." My personal favorite artist was none other than everyone's favorite artist: Leonardo da Vinci.
That moment caused for me a radical shift in my interpretation of art. I realized that art is purely about communication, and that some artists are simply objectively better at getting through to their fellow men. Thus I've begun to articulate the need for a grade-school class in classical art. Each student would be assigned some works of just one artist, to examine independently and write on the meaning of these works to them personally. Certainly it is possible that the answer to that investigation would be: they mean nothing to me, personally. And that would, of course, have to be an acceptable answer, so long as it was thoughtfully articulated. But I doubt that it would ever be the student's thoughtful conclusion - because the classics usually communicate something to everything, if only because of the clarity of their artistic expression.
Yet the modern art movement would beg to differ. It has denounced rhyme, meter, metaphor, and (imo) aesthetics. Certainly they are right to intone that these classical rules hold no intrinsic value. But I think they are wrong to claim that adherence to them is categorically rule worship. Rather, I believe that many of the great artists were well aware of the contingency of the rules - but merely recognized that they were aids to comprehension and communication. If an audience finds poetry pleasantly lyrical, they may be more likely to listen to and appreciate its substance. Essentially, form is not a hindrance to substance.
Unfortunately, the rebellion against form often replaces substance. The message of much modern art seems to be: Fuck the academy! While that's a fine refreshing sentiment, exhibiting a healthy self-awareness, it is not exactly an unspoken - or enlightening - one. You can see a fuzzy red rectangle mounted on a museum wall only so many times before you get the picture. Abandoning traditional form is fine - but only if you take seriously two conditions: First, you should become masterful in one of the old forms, so you can convince others that you speak from experience of the failures of the old, and not from a shallow iconoclastic position. Second, you should propose a new system of communication to replace the old one. I think Pablo Picasso is a fabulous example of a revolutionary painter who met both of these conditions. Perhaps, from what I've encountered of him, e.e.cummings is, too.
Of course, acknowledging the value of the classics does not mean ascribing to them the final word. But it does mean that subsequent artists must at least acknowledge their role in the conversation - and, perhaps, learn from their technical mastery.
Yet I think the true masters of literature understood this about their audiences (or readers). (Clearly I would not include T.S. Eliot among these masters.) They attempt to give their audiences a leg up in comprehension by simplifying plots, purging all extraneous details, and using intelligible language.
Although I didn't immediately realize this, I believe that Shakespeare's recycling of commonly known plots was the typification of this genius (though of course the plots are no longer considered a comprehension aid for modern audiences). If one already knows the plot (think the short blurbs in programs at Shakespeare plays) then she can concentrate on the artistic devices like emphasis and tone that clue her into the artist's message. Every simplification is a leg up to profundity. I used to fear that the limited breadth of the Western canon would inevitably lead to either blind adulation or disillusionment. Now I recognize that it is, at least in part, a great aid to our artistic communication. After all, none of us could speak much if our vocabulary comprised millions of words.
As I have often commented to others, I've slowly come to realize that near-objective aesthetic beauty exists. The glaring illustration of this was, for me, the viewing of the Annunciation in the Uffizi Gallery in Florence. Standing in one of many similar galleries, surrounded by dozens of drab-colored Christian scenes painted by mediocre technicians (see the long faces and two-dimensional perspective), I was preparing to rush through to the next room to hasten the end. Then suddenly, in the corner, I saw a painting that gave me faith in not only Renaissance art but universal aesthetics: an arresting image of The Enunciation, Gabriel declaring to Mary that she is pregnant with Jesus. The vivid colors and - most of all - the lifelikeness of the scene are striking, and differentiate the panting from all others in the room. I literally froze as though to hear Gabriel's words. I had finally found a real Renaissance artist, and I called to Lauren Henry from across the room to proclaim this. Lauren got as close to rolling her eyes as she is capable of doing: "That's because it's the only da Vinci in the room." My personal favorite artist was none other than everyone's favorite artist: Leonardo da Vinci.
That moment caused for me a radical shift in my interpretation of art. I realized that art is purely about communication, and that some artists are simply objectively better at getting through to their fellow men. Thus I've begun to articulate the need for a grade-school class in classical art. Each student would be assigned some works of just one artist, to examine independently and write on the meaning of these works to them personally. Certainly it is possible that the answer to that investigation would be: they mean nothing to me, personally. And that would, of course, have to be an acceptable answer, so long as it was thoughtfully articulated. But I doubt that it would ever be the student's thoughtful conclusion - because the classics usually communicate something to everything, if only because of the clarity of their artistic expression.
Yet the modern art movement would beg to differ. It has denounced rhyme, meter, metaphor, and (imo) aesthetics. Certainly they are right to intone that these classical rules hold no intrinsic value. But I think they are wrong to claim that adherence to them is categorically rule worship. Rather, I believe that many of the great artists were well aware of the contingency of the rules - but merely recognized that they were aids to comprehension and communication. If an audience finds poetry pleasantly lyrical, they may be more likely to listen to and appreciate its substance. Essentially, form is not a hindrance to substance.
Unfortunately, the rebellion against form often replaces substance. The message of much modern art seems to be: Fuck the academy! While that's a fine refreshing sentiment, exhibiting a healthy self-awareness, it is not exactly an unspoken - or enlightening - one. You can see a fuzzy red rectangle mounted on a museum wall only so many times before you get the picture. Abandoning traditional form is fine - but only if you take seriously two conditions: First, you should become masterful in one of the old forms, so you can convince others that you speak from experience of the failures of the old, and not from a shallow iconoclastic position. Second, you should propose a new system of communication to replace the old one. I think Pablo Picasso is a fabulous example of a revolutionary painter who met both of these conditions. Perhaps, from what I've encountered of him, e.e.cummings is, too.
Of course, acknowledging the value of the classics does not mean ascribing to them the final word. But it does mean that subsequent artists must at least acknowledge their role in the conversation - and, perhaps, learn from their technical mastery.
Saturday, May 10, 2008
Thinking in Paragraphs
It's hard to let go of the individual words. There are so many endlessly interesting details of spelling, vocabulary, grammar, and syntax. After the words come the sentences, which we want to diversify and complicate, with semicolons and complex clauses. But as Oakeshott says, these are the platforms that eternally distract the philosopher. The true secret of writing is to embrace the idea behind a paragraph and to write it in one thrust, leaving the careful wording for later revisions.
It's about taking a step back from how the idea sounds to make sure the idea is conveyed. I spent years of my education analyzing the way that I communicate, without stopping to consider whether I was communicating anything in the first place. The coherence of the argument through a paragraph and the entire piece is the most important aspect of any writing. This is the writer's opportunity to confront his writing from the reader's perspective. And honestly, the reader cares most about getting the main idea.
I've increasingly realized that this philosophy applies widely outside writing. If marathon runners were to think hard about each step before taking it, they would never run an entire rce - let alone win it. If those jumping over the rocks at the tide pool were to consider each jump, they would end up splashing in the salt water half the time. Walking without individual steps and writing without individual words requires having faith in your subconscious to cover the minutiae.
I know a rare few people who can think in paragraphs, but these are the ones who are truly creative, inhumanly inspirational. They are able to put aside the mechanics and open themselves to profundity. If I am ever to write a good book, I know it must be one that is thought in paragraphs, in which each thought is ordered and complete. You cannot string together thousands of independent sentences and hope for a coherent work - no matter how smooth your transitions.
Essentially, self-consciousness is comforting because it makes us feel like we are being reflective and meticulous and philosophical. But it kills inspiration.
It's about taking a step back from how the idea sounds to make sure the idea is conveyed. I spent years of my education analyzing the way that I communicate, without stopping to consider whether I was communicating anything in the first place. The coherence of the argument through a paragraph and the entire piece is the most important aspect of any writing. This is the writer's opportunity to confront his writing from the reader's perspective. And honestly, the reader cares most about getting the main idea.
I've increasingly realized that this philosophy applies widely outside writing. If marathon runners were to think hard about each step before taking it, they would never run an entire rce - let alone win it. If those jumping over the rocks at the tide pool were to consider each jump, they would end up splashing in the salt water half the time. Walking without individual steps and writing without individual words requires having faith in your subconscious to cover the minutiae.
I know a rare few people who can think in paragraphs, but these are the ones who are truly creative, inhumanly inspirational. They are able to put aside the mechanics and open themselves to profundity. If I am ever to write a good book, I know it must be one that is thought in paragraphs, in which each thought is ordered and complete. You cannot string together thousands of independent sentences and hope for a coherent work - no matter how smooth your transitions.
Essentially, self-consciousness is comforting because it makes us feel like we are being reflective and meticulous and philosophical. But it kills inspiration.
Sunday, April 6, 2008
Utility
Secularly speaking, God is what gives us faith. God is the positive parts of human nature. God is:
Those moments when you hear laughter breaking out beautifully.
Those moments on West Wing when Josh pulls off a perfect witticism.
Those moments when you watch musicians' fingers flitting over their instruments.
Those moments when you look out the plane window and see the majestic mountains.
Those moments when you see the softened eyes of admiration of the usually-stoic.
Those moments when you see the underdog triumph: those 4 Jamaicans with their bobsled.
Those monuments like Republique in Paris.
Those vaguely British wafts of mist across the New England scare-crow trees of winter.
Those revelation's like Oakeshott's on human conduct.
Those books like L'Etranger.
Those speeches like Obama's on race.
Those photos like Han's.
Those masterpiece films like Vertigo.
Those communal acts like Wikipedia.
Those paintings like Leonardo da Vinci's The Enunciation.
Those perfect questions like Shelly Kagan's "What's new?"
The realization that objectivity is possible.
Is this utility? Or Kant's sublime? Or just chills up the spine? Is this what drove Augustine's homilies? It sure as hell is a better motivator than hell.
Those moments when you hear laughter breaking out beautifully.
Those moments on West Wing when Josh pulls off a perfect witticism.
Those moments when you watch musicians' fingers flitting over their instruments.
Those moments when you look out the plane window and see the majestic mountains.
Those moments when you see the softened eyes of admiration of the usually-stoic.
Those moments when you see the underdog triumph: those 4 Jamaicans with their bobsled.
Those monuments like Republique in Paris.
Those vaguely British wafts of mist across the New England scare-crow trees of winter.
Those revelation's like Oakeshott's on human conduct.
Those books like L'Etranger.
Those speeches like Obama's on race.
Those photos like Han's.
Those masterpiece films like Vertigo.
Those communal acts like Wikipedia.
Those paintings like Leonardo da Vinci's The Enunciation.
Those perfect questions like Shelly Kagan's "What's new?"
The realization that objectivity is possible.
Is this utility? Or Kant's sublime? Or just chills up the spine? Is this what drove Augustine's homilies? It sure as hell is a better motivator than hell.
Sunday, February 24, 2008
Trail to Guantanamo
When I look at the results of the Gitmo detainee database, I feel a strange pride. There's something about feeling every fiber of your being over a long time span interwoven into a factual process, into every numerical component of a statistic. You have in some way achieved numerical representation. You didn't fabricate the data yourself, but derived it from empirical reality, so you have not contrived a fantasy. Therefore you are not looking at a monolith of your imagination, but your related thought processes intertwined with reality.
Such are the only profound thoughts of a researcher.
Such are the only profound thoughts of a researcher.
Monday, February 18, 2008
Why didn't they tell us?
It's a cold feeling when you realize that they didn't tell us because they can't. But surely there's something objective about it, there's something that you can detect in it, some systematic process that all engaged, Hegelian beings understand and follow? They seem to understand one another well enough. Surely they could at least try to impart that. But if they tried to tell us, we would'nt understand. You realize that though the objective good might be out there, it's inaccessible to us except through experience - through the same repetition of experiences. It's so sad to recognize that the reason the literature is still out there is not because the world itself hasn't changed, but because the world itself can't change - that's a task for the individual, and new individuals always appear. It's even more sad to recognize that you can't fully appreciate and recognize what a book has to say until you've experienced it.
Here is where Tommy comes in. The Buddhists similarly have a procedure of particular objective practices that they've passed down over centuries, but that still achieve the same individual results. But the ritualists, who like their intrinsically worthless but traditional practices, try to hide the objectivity as mere opinion. Perhaps in a more conspiratorial, Nietzschean way, they are engaged in an attempt to make us like them
Why couldn't someone tell me how to solve by perceptual problems? Because I couldn't articulate them into a question myself. By the time one can, they don't need the answer any more. There is no advisor, because they know nothing more than the details of their particular program, all the objective things that you can get online. You can't go to people for general counseling, you must go in with a question, put people on their guard for an attack, for a responsive action that responds to you, rather than a mere performance.
Here is where Tommy comes in. The Buddhists similarly have a procedure of particular objective practices that they've passed down over centuries, but that still achieve the same individual results. But the ritualists, who like their intrinsically worthless but traditional practices, try to hide the objectivity as mere opinion. Perhaps in a more conspiratorial, Nietzschean way, they are engaged in an attempt to make us like them
Why couldn't someone tell me how to solve by perceptual problems? Because I couldn't articulate them into a question myself. By the time one can, they don't need the answer any more. There is no advisor, because they know nothing more than the details of their particular program, all the objective things that you can get online. You can't go to people for general counseling, you must go in with a question, put people on their guard for an attack, for a responsive action that responds to you, rather than a mere performance.
Saturday, January 12, 2008
Repression by Free Market
During a visit to the Thai King's exhibit of contemporary artwork in the ancient, belabored Thai style, I commented to a fellow visitor about the tragedy that such an art form would prove unsustainable under Western pressures for productivity. I proffered the comment carelessly, expecting a sympathetic affirmation. The answer I received, however, took the comment as an opening spar: "Personally, I don't care that this would never happen in a market economy. If there's no demand, there's no value."
This reverberated through my entire system as inordinately dogmatic, even dangerous. Especially in art as the expression of human creativity, I have always thought that no tiny piece of diversity should be suppressed, no matter the censor or cause. After all, the market is supposed to be the guardian of diversity. The idea that the majority or the consuming population should determine what ideas should exist and therefore justify the death of others confers what I consider an undue moral authority on the market. This is the classic Millian social dialogue in its purest form.
First, the market is easily swayed by prevailing views. This is easily demonstrated by the existence of varying markets across the planet. However, this is not necessarily an adequeate check against the arbitrary disappearance of certain expressions or thoughts, since they may become caught in a contrary market, and there is anyway quite a feedback on demand in weaker markets from supply in stronger ones.
But why need we fight to preserve these crafts anyway? Unless they have intrinsic value, the arbitrary decision to exclude them should scarcely matter, regardless of the agent of exclusion. At the Thai exhibit, I was particularly struck because I considered the inimitable intricacy of the art to be an intrinsically good characteristic. However, in all honesty, perhaps my fellow visitor's comment was based on the opposite view. The key was that consensus was lacking. If only one person thinks the product is intrinsically good, and they aren't strong enough to convince others of the same truth, why need the market paternalistically foster it?
What bothered me was the frightening reality that the selection criterion here was not the intrinsic good of a product - which is, in my view, subjective anyway - but the believer's ability to sell it. It's unclear to me that one's skill as a salesman or debater are indicative of the caliber of one's judgment. The chief problem here is the paradox that, in art, many demands need pre-existing supply and many supplies need pre-existing demand. One thinks immediately of Howard Roark and his employer in Rand's The Fountainhead: their architecture was in a class all its own, edging them from the NYC limelight. Their faith that a clientele would naturally emerge was hopelessly optimistic to say the least.
Of course, every government lacks the resources to prop up every nascent product. Rather, I think what is needed is a certain openness of mind - a realization that the market's declaration is neither infallible nor sacred. I admit this is unsatisfactory as a solution, but I think it is practically necessary to tolerate even the least plausible ideas without dogmatic repression. After all, this is how I was able to see gold textured so beautifully that a barking deer seemed to have fur that looked so real and soft that I wanted to reach through the glass to stroke it.
This reverberated through my entire system as inordinately dogmatic, even dangerous. Especially in art as the expression of human creativity, I have always thought that no tiny piece of diversity should be suppressed, no matter the censor or cause. After all, the market is supposed to be the guardian of diversity. The idea that the majority or the consuming population should determine what ideas should exist and therefore justify the death of others confers what I consider an undue moral authority on the market. This is the classic Millian social dialogue in its purest form.
First, the market is easily swayed by prevailing views. This is easily demonstrated by the existence of varying markets across the planet. However, this is not necessarily an adequeate check against the arbitrary disappearance of certain expressions or thoughts, since they may become caught in a contrary market, and there is anyway quite a feedback on demand in weaker markets from supply in stronger ones.
But why need we fight to preserve these crafts anyway? Unless they have intrinsic value, the arbitrary decision to exclude them should scarcely matter, regardless of the agent of exclusion. At the Thai exhibit, I was particularly struck because I considered the inimitable intricacy of the art to be an intrinsically good characteristic. However, in all honesty, perhaps my fellow visitor's comment was based on the opposite view. The key was that consensus was lacking. If only one person thinks the product is intrinsically good, and they aren't strong enough to convince others of the same truth, why need the market paternalistically foster it?
What bothered me was the frightening reality that the selection criterion here was not the intrinsic good of a product - which is, in my view, subjective anyway - but the believer's ability to sell it. It's unclear to me that one's skill as a salesman or debater are indicative of the caliber of one's judgment. The chief problem here is the paradox that, in art, many demands need pre-existing supply and many supplies need pre-existing demand. One thinks immediately of Howard Roark and his employer in Rand's The Fountainhead: their architecture was in a class all its own, edging them from the NYC limelight. Their faith that a clientele would naturally emerge was hopelessly optimistic to say the least.
Of course, every government lacks the resources to prop up every nascent product. Rather, I think what is needed is a certain openness of mind - a realization that the market's declaration is neither infallible nor sacred. I admit this is unsatisfactory as a solution, but I think it is practically necessary to tolerate even the least plausible ideas without dogmatic repression. After all, this is how I was able to see gold textured so beautifully that a barking deer seemed to have fur that looked so real and soft that I wanted to reach through the glass to stroke it.
Tuesday, January 8, 2008
Thai Culture?
I've been preoccupied during the last week with a question posed to me very soon after I entered this country: What do you think of Thailand? It's a simple question, but the task of answering it involves a complex characterization of an entire nation.
Thailand's culture is sort of Las-Vegasesque, a description confirmed by the webpages for Vegas versions that spring up when I Google certain tourist sites here. The colors are vibrant pinks and yellows, the presentations are glitzy with glimmering sequins, gold, and silks, and MTV (or ice cream truck music) provides the background for every bus ride, telephone call, and restaurant dinner. Golden Buddhist shrines lurk in middle of shantytowns and over the rear-view mirrors of taxicabs. The culture is very physical, in-your-face: slapstick comedy, dancing, massages; the prevalence of sex tourism appears to be no coincidence.
But there is also the harmonious side to Thai culture. Somehow drivers on the highway are able to weave confidently between the hoards of motor bikers and other cars that use the yellow lanes painted on the road as suggestions rather than rules - accidents are supposedly rare here. Enormous masses are funneled through small entryways, without undue frustration. Despite jostling through crowded sidewalks, I have made elbow-contact with fewer people in the last two weeks than I would in one walk in the UK. I've seen more people sitting idly in groups on plastic chairs, just smoking or people-watching, than I have since reading literature set in 1930s rural America. The pace is much slower.
As a result, inefficiency is rampant. At our tournament, check-in for a hundred people devolved into an hour-long ordeal of individuals filling out forms at the reception desk, problems handled on a case-by-case basis. Stalls crowd together in malls or along streets, with individual sellers and lines in front of good food stands. Roads are planned so that one must drive half a mile past their destination, then u-turn back and drive toward their exit.
For everything but the amazingly high-tech sky train public transit system, the Central Planner seems to be conspicuously missing, both in culture and government. Even the architecture is haphazardly constructed, with Grecian columns randomly thrown on top of modern facades with colonial window frames; one rarely sees uniform design or color in any neighborhood, or even in shopping districts. Street signs often are not marked. Most street trash recepticles are hanging bags placed by individual stall- or shop-keepers, not by the state. Public restrooms often collect 3 baht for the privilege of using them. All of Thailand reeks with the individualism of the marketplace.
The inequalities resulting from government neglect and economic underdevelopment are also glaring. Next to the highways, solid mansions rise in the swampy jungle just next door to the squalor of the shantytowns. Zoning is almost unheard of outside the central city (and almost, inside it). Filthy makeshift stalls selling various pawned goods and manned by individuals missing teeth and shows lean against decently clean laundromats with printed signs and fresh and clean owners. No one seems to bat an eye. However, it makes me wonder whether the gated segregation from but abstract sympathy for poverty that I have observed among the wealthy in America - which actually drives many people, whether the older through charitable donations and foundations or the younger by pursuing public interest careers - is perhaps valuable anyway. Or at least, it seems to offer some prospect for change that seems impossiblt from the callous matter-of-factness of the wealthy Thai, confronted by poverty so close to home every day.
But I think Westerners often forget the downsides of our rules and bustle. Once you emerge from the ever-intrusive ad hoc commercial advertising, hawkers selling everything from tuk-tuk rides to riverboat tours, the Thai easiness seems to translate into a very deep kindness and awareness of others. As I walk quickly down a street, a slow woman in front of me will graciously step aside to let me pass; those whom I apologize to on the street will stop and turn to face me, saying no problem; one person asked about directions will call a conference of five to answer the question; yogurt purchased at any 7-11 receives a spoon in the bag, while Coke receives a straw; taxi drivers at the Henry's gate joke with the security guards whom they've never met. People are also very trusting (partly due to the language barrier) - any excuse will get you into a locked hotel room.
However, I fear that the Thai may prostitute their culture to Western tourists. They often try to truss up their culture, as was done at the Worlds closing ceremony. Few people travel to their National Forest besides tourists, who are driven from site to site in over-priced tourist trucks. They also tend to translate their business communications into poor and - worse - vague English, naming businesses things like Great Insurance and Food for Fun. They also don't seem to care much about the precision of the translations, suggesting that they are not trying to convey a nuanced message about themselves to foreigners. It's unclear to me whether they view the glamorization and translation of their own culture as a compromise for the sake of business or not.
Perhaps it would've helped if I had spoken in-depth to any Thai resident, beyond the occasional haggling and request for directions...
Thailand's culture is sort of Las-Vegasesque, a description confirmed by the webpages for Vegas versions that spring up when I Google certain tourist sites here. The colors are vibrant pinks and yellows, the presentations are glitzy with glimmering sequins, gold, and silks, and MTV (or ice cream truck music) provides the background for every bus ride, telephone call, and restaurant dinner. Golden Buddhist shrines lurk in middle of shantytowns and over the rear-view mirrors of taxicabs. The culture is very physical, in-your-face: slapstick comedy, dancing, massages; the prevalence of sex tourism appears to be no coincidence.
But there is also the harmonious side to Thai culture. Somehow drivers on the highway are able to weave confidently between the hoards of motor bikers and other cars that use the yellow lanes painted on the road as suggestions rather than rules - accidents are supposedly rare here. Enormous masses are funneled through small entryways, without undue frustration. Despite jostling through crowded sidewalks, I have made elbow-contact with fewer people in the last two weeks than I would in one walk in the UK. I've seen more people sitting idly in groups on plastic chairs, just smoking or people-watching, than I have since reading literature set in 1930s rural America. The pace is much slower.
As a result, inefficiency is rampant. At our tournament, check-in for a hundred people devolved into an hour-long ordeal of individuals filling out forms at the reception desk, problems handled on a case-by-case basis. Stalls crowd together in malls or along streets, with individual sellers and lines in front of good food stands. Roads are planned so that one must drive half a mile past their destination, then u-turn back and drive toward their exit.
For everything but the amazingly high-tech sky train public transit system, the Central Planner seems to be conspicuously missing, both in culture and government. Even the architecture is haphazardly constructed, with Grecian columns randomly thrown on top of modern facades with colonial window frames; one rarely sees uniform design or color in any neighborhood, or even in shopping districts. Street signs often are not marked. Most street trash recepticles are hanging bags placed by individual stall- or shop-keepers, not by the state. Public restrooms often collect 3 baht for the privilege of using them. All of Thailand reeks with the individualism of the marketplace.
The inequalities resulting from government neglect and economic underdevelopment are also glaring. Next to the highways, solid mansions rise in the swampy jungle just next door to the squalor of the shantytowns. Zoning is almost unheard of outside the central city (and almost, inside it). Filthy makeshift stalls selling various pawned goods and manned by individuals missing teeth and shows lean against decently clean laundromats with printed signs and fresh and clean owners. No one seems to bat an eye. However, it makes me wonder whether the gated segregation from but abstract sympathy for poverty that I have observed among the wealthy in America - which actually drives many people, whether the older through charitable donations and foundations or the younger by pursuing public interest careers - is perhaps valuable anyway. Or at least, it seems to offer some prospect for change that seems impossiblt from the callous matter-of-factness of the wealthy Thai, confronted by poverty so close to home every day.
But I think Westerners often forget the downsides of our rules and bustle. Once you emerge from the ever-intrusive ad hoc commercial advertising, hawkers selling everything from tuk-tuk rides to riverboat tours, the Thai easiness seems to translate into a very deep kindness and awareness of others. As I walk quickly down a street, a slow woman in front of me will graciously step aside to let me pass; those whom I apologize to on the street will stop and turn to face me, saying no problem; one person asked about directions will call a conference of five to answer the question; yogurt purchased at any 7-11 receives a spoon in the bag, while Coke receives a straw; taxi drivers at the Henry's gate joke with the security guards whom they've never met. People are also very trusting (partly due to the language barrier) - any excuse will get you into a locked hotel room.
However, I fear that the Thai may prostitute their culture to Western tourists. They often try to truss up their culture, as was done at the Worlds closing ceremony. Few people travel to their National Forest besides tourists, who are driven from site to site in over-priced tourist trucks. They also tend to translate their business communications into poor and - worse - vague English, naming businesses things like Great Insurance and Food for Fun. They also don't seem to care much about the precision of the translations, suggesting that they are not trying to convey a nuanced message about themselves to foreigners. It's unclear to me whether they view the glamorization and translation of their own culture as a compromise for the sake of business or not.
Perhaps it would've helped if I had spoken in-depth to any Thai resident, beyond the occasional haggling and request for directions...
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