Saturday


Kierkegaard and Russell

The human mind is a strange and complex entity, and while the mind possesses unappreciated subtlety (of the kind I attempted to describe in The Human Overview), rigorous thinking does not come naturally to it. Rigor is a hard-won achievement, not a gift. If we want to achieve some measure of conceptual clarity we must make a particular effort to think rigorously. This is not easy. If you let the mind do what comes naturally and easily to it, you will probably not be thinking rigorously, and you will probably not attain conceptual clarity.

But what is rigor? To ask this question puts us in a position not unlike Saint Augustine who asked, “What, then, is time?” If no one asks me, I know what rigor is. If I wish to explain it to him who asks, I do not know. What distinguishes rigorous thinking from ordinary thinking? And what distinguishes a rigorous life from an ordinary life? Is there any relation between the formal and existential senses of rigor?

As a first and rough approximation, we could say that rigor is the implementation of a precise idea of precision. Whether or not a precise idea of precision can be applied to the human condition, a question that I have addressed in The Human Condition Made Rigorous, is a question of whether the formal sense of rigor is basic, and existential rigor is an implementation of formal rigor in life.

Kierkegaard concerned himself with what I am here calling existential rigor, i.e., the idea of living a rigorous life. One of the central themes that runs through Kierkegaard’s substantial corpus is the question of how one becomes an authentic Christian in an inauthentic Christian society (though this is not how Kierkegaard himself expressed the problem that preoccupied him). Kierkegaard expresses himself in the traditional Christian idiom of suffering for the truth, but Kierkegaard’s suffering is not pointless or meaningless: it is conducive to existential rigor:

“My purpose is to make it difficult to become a Christian, yet not more difficult than it is, nor to make it difficult for stupid people, and easy for clever pates, but qualitatively difficult, and essentially difficult for every man equally, for essentially it is equally difficult for every man to relinquish his understanding and his thinking, and to keep his soul fixed upon the absurd; it is comparatively more difficult for a man if he has much understanding — if one will keep in mind that not everyone who has lost his understanding over Christianity thereby proves that he has any.”

KIERKEGAARD’S CONCLUDING UNSCIENTIFIC POSTSCRIPT, Translated from the Danish by DAVID F. SWENSON, PROFESSOR OF PHILOSOPHY AT THE UNIVERSITY OF MINNESOTA, Completed after his death and provided with Introduction and Notes by WALTER LOWRIE, PRINCETON: PRINCETON UNIVERSITY PRESS, p. 495

The whole of Kierkegaard’s book Attack Upon Christendom is an explicit attack upon “official” Christianity, which he saw as too safe, too comfortable, too well-connected to the machinery of the state. In Kierkegaard’s Denmark, no one was suffering in order to bear witness to the truth of Christianity:

“…hundreds of men are introduced who instead of following Christ are snugly and comfortably settled, with family and steady promotion, under the guise that their activity is the Christianity of the New Testament, and who live off the fact that others have had to suffer for the truth (which precisely is Christianity), so that the relationship is completely inverted, and Christianity, which came into the world as the truth men die for, has now become the truth upon which they live, with family and steady promotion — ‘Rejoice then in life while thy springtime lasts’.”

Søren Kierkegaard, Attack Upon Christendom, Princeton: Princeton University Press, 1946, p. 42

And from Kierkegaard’s journals…

“Could you not discover some way in which you too could help the age? Then I thought, what if I sat down and made everything difficult? For one must try to be useful in every possible way. Even if the age does not need ballast I must be loved by all those who make everything easy; for if no one is prepared it difficult it becomes all too easy — to make things easy.”

Søren Kierkegaard, The Soul of Kierkegaard: Selections from His Journals, 1845, p. 93

Kierkegaard is full of such passages, and if you read him through you will probably find more compelling instances of this idea than the quotes I have plucked out above.

Kierkegaard called into question the easy habits of belief that we follow mostly without questioning them; Russell called into question the intuitions that come naturally to us, to the human mind, and which we mostly do not question. Both Kierkegaard and Russell thought there was value in doing things the hard way, not in order to court difficulty for its own sake, but rather for the different perspective it affords us by not simply doing what comes naturally, but having to think things through for ourselves.

Russell’s approach to rigor is superficially antithetical to that of Kierkegaard. While Kierkegaard was interested in the individual and his individual existence, Russell was interested in universal logical principles that had nothing to do with individual existence. William James once wrote to Russell, “My dying words to you are ‘Say good-by to mathematical logic if you wish to preserve your relations with concrete realities!'” Russell’s response was perfect deadpan: “As for the advice to say goodbye to mathematical logic if I wish to preserve my relation with concrete realities, I am not wholly inclined to dispute its wisdom. But I should push it farther, & say that it would be well to give up all philosophy, & abandon the student’s life altogether. Ten days of standing for Parliament gave me more relations to concrete realities than a lifetime of thought.”

Nevertheless, beyond these superficial differences, both Kierkegaard and Russell understood, each in his own way, that the easy impulse must be resisted. A passage from Bertrand Russell that I previously quoted in The Overview Effect in Formal Thought makes this point for formal rigor:

“The fact is that symbolism is useful because it makes things difficult. (This is not true of the advanced parts of mathematics, but only of the beginnings.) What we wish to know is, what can be deduced from what. Now, in the beginnings, everything is self-evident; and it is very hard to see whether one self-evident proposition follows from another or not. Obviousness is always the enemy to correctness. Hence we invent some new and difficult symbolism, in which nothing seems obvious. Then we set up certain rules for operating on the symbols, and the whole thing becomes mechanical. In this way we find out what must be taken as premiss and what can be demonstrated or defined.”

Bertrand Russell, Mysticism and Logic, “Mathematics and the Metaphysicians”

And elsewhere…

“There is a good deal of importance to philosophy in the theory of symbolism, a good deal more than at one time I thought. I think the importance is almost entirely negative, i.e., the importance lies in the fact that unless you are fairly self conscious about symbols, unless you are fairly aware of the relation of the symbol to what it symbolizes, you will find yourself attributing to the thing properties which only belong to the symbol. That, of course, is especially likely in very abstract studies such as philosophical logic, because the subject-matter that you are supposed to be thinking of is so exceedingly difficult and elusive that any person who has ever tried to think about it knows you do not think about it except perhaps once in six months for half a minute. The rest of the time you think about the symbols, because they are tangible, but the thing you are supposed to be thinking about is fearfully difficult and one does not often manage to think about it. The really good philosopher is the one who does once in six months think about it for a minute. Bad philosophers never do.”

Bertrand Russell, Logic and Knowledge: Essays 1901-1950, 1956, “The Philosophy of Logical Atomism,” I. “Facts and Propositions,” p. 185

For Russell, the use of symbols in reasoning constitutes a reformulation of the intuitive in a counter-intuitive form, and this makes it possible for us to struggle toward the truth without being distracted by matters that seem so obvious that our cognitive biases lead us toward deceptive obviousness instead of toward the truth. There is another name for this, defamailiarization (which I previously discussed in Reversing the Process of Defamiliarization). Great art defamiliarizes the familiar in order to present it to us again, anew, in unfamiliar terms. In this way we see the world with new eyes. Just so, the reformulation of intuitive thought in counter-intuitive forms presents the familiar to us in unfamiliar terms and we see our reasoning anew with the mind’s eye.

Intuitions have their place in formal thought. I have in the past written of the tension between intuition and formalization that characterizes formal thought, as well as of the place of intuition in philosophical argument (cf. Doing Justice to Our Intuitions: A 10 Step Method). But if intuitions have their place, they also have their limitations, and the making of easy things difficult is a struggle against the limitations of intuition. What Kierkegaard and Russell have in common in their conception of rigor is that of making something ordinarily easy into something difficult in order to overcome the limitations of the natural and the intuitive. All of this may sound rather arcane and confined to academic squabbles, but it is in fact quite directly related to the world situation today.

I have often written about the anonymity and anomie of life in industrial-technological civilization; this is a familiar theme that has been worked through quite extensively in twentieth century sociology, and one could argue that it is also a prominent element in existentialism. But the human condition in the context of our civilization today is not only marked by anonymity and anomie, but also by high and rising standards of living, which usually translates directly into comfort. While we are perhaps more bereft of meaning than ever, we are also more comfortable than ever before in history. This has also been studied in some detail. Occasionally this combination of a comfortable but listless life is called “affluenza.”

Kierkegaard’s defamiliarization of (institutionalized and inauthentic) Christianity was intended to make Christianity difficult for bourgeois worldlings; the militant Islamists of our time want to make Islam difficult and demanding for those who would count themselves Muslims. It is the same demand for existential rigor in each that is the motivation. If it is difficult to understand why young men at the height of their prowess and physical powers can be seduced into extremist militancy, one need only reflect for a moment on the attraction of difficult things and the earned honors of existential rigor. The west has almost completely forgotten the attraction of difficult things. What remains is perhaps the interest in “extreme” sports, in which individuals test themselves against contrived physical challenges, which provides a kind of existential rigor along with bragging rights.

Extremist ideologies offer precisely the two things for which the individual hungers but cannot find in contemporary industrialized society: meaning, and a challenge to his complacency. An elaborately worked out eschatological conception of history shows the individual his special place within the grand scheme of things (this is the familiar ground of cosmic warfare and the eschatological conception of history), but this eschatological vision is not simply handed for free to the new communicant. He must work for it, strive for it, sacrifice for it. And when he has proved himself equal to the demands placed upon him, then he is rewarded with the profoundly satisfying gift of an earned honor: membership in a community of the elect.

This view is not confined to violent extremists. We meet with this whenever someone makes the commonplace remark that we don’t value that which is given away for free, and Spinoza expressed the thought with more eloquence: “All noble things are as difficult as they are rare.” Anyone who feels this pull of difficult things, who desires a challenge, who wants to be tested in order to prove their worth in the only way that truly counts, is an existentialist in action, if not in thought, because it is the existentialist conception of authenticity that is operative in this conception of existential rigor.

We have tended to think of pre-modern societies, mostly agrarian-ecclesiastical civilization, with their rigid social hierarchies and inherited social positions, as paradigmatic examples of inauthentic societies, but we have managed to create a thoroughly inauthentic society in the midst of our industrial-technological civilization. This civilization and its social order may have its origins in the overturning of the inauthentic social order of earlier ages, but, after an initial period of social experimentation, the present social order ossified and re-created many of the inauthentic and hierarchical forms that characterized the overthrown social order.

Inauthentic societies are awash in unearned unearned advantages. I wrote about this earlier in discussing the urban austerity of Simone Weil, the wilderness austerity of Christopher McCandless (also known as Alexander Supertramp), and comparing the two in Weil and McCandless: Another Parallel:

“…the accomplishments of the elite and the privileged are always tainted by the fact that what they have attained has not been earned. But it is apparent that there are always a few honest individuals among the privileged who are acutely aware that their position has not been earned, that it is tainted, and the only way to prove that one can make it on one’s own is to cut one’s ties to one’s privileged background and strike out on one’s own.”

There is a certain sense in which the available and ample comforts of industrial-technological civilization transformed the greater part of the global population into complacent consumers who accept an inauthentic life. There is another name of this too; Nietzsche called such individuals Last Men.

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Friday


Ueno 1

Ueno Kōen is a large park in Tokyo where several major museums are located, including the Tokyo National Museum. The latter was my reason for coming to Ueno Park. On Tumblr I wrote that, “A national museum is the record of a civilization seen through the lens of a nation-state.” In the case of an island nation-state like Japan, its geographical boundaries were well-defined long before Japan emerged as a nation-state in the contemporary sense, so there is a significant continuity between pre-national Japan and Japan as a nation-state. Indeed, Japan could be termed a “civilization-state” — an idea that was introduced by Martin Jacques in order to try to define the relationship between the People’s Republic of China and Chinese civilization (cf. A Point Of View: Is China more legitimate than the West?).

Ueno 2

This politicized conception of civilization makes national museums particularly interesting to me, and so I make a practice of seeking them out whenever possible. However, when I arrived at Ueno Kōen I discovered that the park is also the home of the Tokyo Metropolitan Art Museum, which is currently hosting a temporary exhibition of fifty-one El Greco paintings, El Greco’s Visual Poetics. Yesterday at the Edo-Tokyo Open-Air Architectural Museum I noticed a posters advertising a major exhibition of El Greco paintings currently on show, and I made a mental note to look this up and see if I could find it; it found me when I arrived at Ueno. The pull of El Greco proved the stronger, so I went to the Tokyo Metropolitan Art Museum first.

Detail of a painting from the Tokyo National Museum.

Detail of a painting from the Tokyo National Museum.

The ticket to enter the El Greco exposition was 1,600 Yen, so it was rather expensive as museums go. Despite the price, once I entered the exposition space I was surprised to see how crowded it was. One almost had to shoulder one’s way through the crowd in order to get up close to any of the pictures. I was even more surprised how quiet everyone was. In an interconnected series of rooms housing 51 paintings and hundreds of viewers milling about trying to get close to the paintings, the atmosphere was so quiet that one felt self-conscious coughing or clearing one’s throat. El Greco has long been a favorite of mine; I felt his presence at a show of icons that I viewed in Iraklion in 1993, and saw some of his most significant work in Toledo in 1998. Since then I have encountered individual paintings in many museums (for example, I wrote about an El Greco painting in Norway at the National Museum) but never before had a see an entire exhibition dedicated to El Greco’s ouvre.

A painting in the Tokyo National Museum.

A painting in the Tokyo National Museum.

The El Greco exhibition made a point of showcasing El Greco’s artistic development by showing paintings from early and late in his career side by side, sometimes the two contrasting paintings being of the same subject, as with the two portraits of Diego de Covarrubias. Of the two portraits, the earlier is more conventional and more superficially lifelike, but lacking the inner life — we might even say, lacking the inner disquiet and turmoil — of the later picture, which is pale almost to the point of a deathly pallor, i.e., exactly what one expects from a mature El Greco painting. The two paintings of The Adoration of the Shepherds, again, early and late, are as different as night and day — indeed, the earlier seems to depict the scene during the light of day, and the later to depict the same in the dark of night, illuminated from within by the life and spirit of the figures. I was especially interested in the painting “The Glory of Philip II” (which came from El Escorial, though I don’t recall seeing it there when I visited in 1994), which was remarkable in its medieval conventionality, and not at all what one expects from El Greco. Artists (and all creative individuals, for that matter) achieve greatness through the elimination of the conventional and schematic. Yet it may be necessary to begin with the conventional and the schematic in order to overcome it.

Another detail from another painting in the Tokyo National Museum.

Another detail from another painting in the Tokyo National Museum.

After spending a couple of hours entranced by El Greco I left and walked a few minutes away to go to the Tokyo National Museum, my original object in coming to Ueno Park. After the experience of some of the most intense Western art, I saw what the Tokyo National Museum itself calls “Highlights of Japanese Art” — in other words, some of the most intense art of the Japanese tradition. This is another way to work toward the elimination of the conventional and the schematic — to see the world through the eyes of a distinct and alien tradition. One recognizes the objects depicted, but not the style in which they are portrayed. Everything is both familiar and unfamiliar at the same time. It is difficult to say whether or not this is a process of defamiliarization, as it is difficult to say whether or not the experience corresponds to the idea that to see is to forget the name of the thing one sees. Is to forget the name to forget the identity, or is to hold fast to the identity while forgetting only the formal linguistic apparatus by which we grasp the identity? Both interpretations are valid in their own sphere, and each represents a distinct idea — a distinct idea of the potential radicalism of perception.

Also from the Tokyo National Museum.

Also from the Tokyo National Museum.

Make of the experience what you will, interpret as you please, see it through the lens of whatever idea best illuminates it, but this is precisely why I seek out the great museum collections. As I wrote above, a national museum is already a record of civilization seen through the lens of a nation-state. In viewing the collection we see it through our own lenses, which may correct, may magnify, or may distort the intended image. Only know that it is an image, and do not mistake the image for anything other than what it is. No one looking upon El Greco can forget that they look upon an image. There is no pretense of naturalism. This is the ideal perspective to bring with one when one goes to visit a national museum.

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Outside the Tokyo National Museum.

Outside the Tokyo National Museum.

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Tuesday


The Russian formalist literary critic Viktor Shklovsky introduced the term “defamliarization” to indicate that function of literature and art which is to make the familiar strange in order to see that which is most common in a new light. It is not only art that serves this function. Science often serves in the capacity of defamiliarization and forces us to see familiar aspects of the world in new ways. Travel may be considered a personal form of defamiliarization. I touched on this earlier in Being the Other when I wrote:

“…the ignorant traveler bumbles through the business of ordinary life in a foreign country, though the business of ordinary life feels quite extraordinary. The extraordinariness of the everyday is another familiar feature of travel, and this can be expressed in ways that are both illuminating and embarrassing.”

If travel is a form of defamiliarization, then returning from travel constitutes a kind of refamiliarization. I often thought of this when returning from my earlier travels, when I would be away for a month at a time, as it always felt difficult to resume the mundane details of mundane life; even after the most spartan and ascetic travel — and if I described my early travel to you, I think you would agree that it was pretty spartan — one does not easily fit back into one’s life at home. Thus travel is not only a defamiliarization of the world, it is also a defamiliarization of oneself.

If that weren’t enough, travel also involves a process of defamiliarization with one’s own expectations for travel. A bus stop is not an auspicious place to be dropped off in a new and unfamiliar country, but it is likely that the traveler will find himself or herself unceremoniously dropped off at a bus stop or staggering out of train station and wondering what comes next. The important thing here is that this is precisely what is new: one doesn’t know what comes next.

The expectations that a new traveler has for a distant land — derived from a lifetime of travel posters, glossy brochures, full color magazine spreads, films of the exotic unknown, and travel memoirs both witty and insightful — are likely to be disappointed by the same infrastructure of industrialized civilization that makes international travel quick, convenient, affordable, and accessible. The disruption to one’s schedule by travel is reduced to a day of sitting on an airplane and being shuttled between various lines and waiting rooms and officials examining papers.

Upon arrival at one’s destination, one travels through the outlying industrial development that inevitably surround airports, and after this one is treated to a view of the extensive suburbs that have swelled all the cities of the industrial age. It may not be until the next day, when one emerges from one’s hotel after a night recovering from the previous day’s travel, that one comes to the historic center of an ancient city and finally begins to see the objects of touristic pilgrimage, which by now seem rather small and insignificant when surrounded by a metropolis that has but little relationship to one’s tourist intentions. The only place that I can recall that was immediately striking upon stepping out of the train station was Venice, and that was in 1989 — by now its character may well have changed.

The refamiliarization of returning home involves this same process in reverse order: one detaches and disentangles oneself from the landscape and the people and the way of life to which one has quickly become accustomed, and indeed even fond of — itself a painful process, as it often feels like a betrayal of oneself to leave that which one has sought and finally found, so that departure feels like exile rather than being the opposite of exile — and one passes by degrees back into the infrastructure of industrialized civilization, back from the countryside, into the center of a capital city, then through its suburbs and its outlying industrial districts until one at last arrives at the forlorn landscape of an airport, with its steel and glass buildings and its asphalt tarmac… the very picture of bleakness and desolation, if ever there was an uninviting spectacle welcome one on one’s journey “home” (which we must now put in scare quotes because the prospect of return no longer feels like home).

The airport, a waystation for touristic pilgrims, has all the anonymity and neutrality one would expect from a transient space not intended as a place for any kind of familiarity at all, but rather a place to make the transition from the familiar to the unfamiliar, or from the unfamiliar back to the familiar.

If the airport were not already enough of a shock, then there is the abrupt re-insertion into the matrix of ordinary life and work, the telephone ringing, errands to run, obligations to meet, and a life to be lived that no longer feels like one’s own.

Which is the more profoundly jarring and disturbing experience — defamiliarization or refamiliarization?

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