Preview the Centretruths eBook version of A QUESTION OF BELIEF
Op.
07
A
QUESTION
OF BELIEF
Philosophical
Dialogues
Copyright
©
2011 John O'Loughlin
________________
CONTENTS
1.
A
'Work of Art'
2.
War
and Peace
3.
A
Question of Belief
4.
Historical
Perspectives
_______________
A
'WORK
OF
ART'
MARTIN:
(Turns
to his host's bookcase) I must say, John, you're certainly in
possession of
a much smaller collection of books than I would have expected! Why, I'd have thought, by the many works you
appear to be familiar with, that you were the possessor of at least
five-hundred books, not a mere forty!
JOHN:
Oh,
I
must have collected about five-hundred books over the past six or seven
years. But, eventually, I threw most of
them away.
MARTIN:
(Raises
his brows in surprise) Why on earth did you do that?
JOHN:
Simply
because
I had absolutely no intention of re-reading them.
It seems to me that unless one is going to
re-read one's books - and not just once but a number of times - there
is little
or no point in one's keeping them. I
have no desire, these days, to be a collector for the mere sake of
collecting. If I formerly had a tendency in that
direction, I outgrew it over a year ago.
MARTIN:
Hmm,
so
these 'favourite' books, which apparently constitute your chief
reading
material, presumably represent all of your current literary and
philosophical
tastes, do they?
JOHN:
No,
but
they certainly represent a sort of quintessential distillation of
all the
books I have ever read. The ones you see
there don't necessarily represent all
of
my
tastes. For it occasionally happens that
I add a book or two when I have grown tired of re-reading everything,
and I
also borrow from the local library quite regularly.
But they do, at any rate, amount to the bulk
of my current tastes. Unlike most
book-addicts, I'm not interested in retaining anything that isn't
approximately
pertinent to my current lifestyle. As I
change, so my book collection changes with me.
Where I once grew out of toy soldiers, water pistols, Lego
bricks,
bicycles, and football programmes, I now grow out of particular books. I no longer keep anything that isn't more or
less pertinent to my intellectual requirements.
MARTIN:
I
see! So Joyce's Ulysses
and Tolkien's The Lord of the Rings are
both
that
- more or less pertinent to your intellectual requirements or, as
you also
said, your current lifestyle?
JOHN:
Yes
and
no. Though, to be honest with you, I
would say 'no' more than 'yes', insofar as I make exceptions for what I
consider to be the really great books.
To my mind, they are above criticism.
They deserve to be revered as examples of outstanding creativity. In fact, I keep them in the spirit that
someone else might keep a great painting, some expensive jewellery, or
a
collection of important letters. I have
absolutely no desire to part with that which, by dint of its
outstanding
creative ingenuity and intellectual magnitude, must always remain
indisputably
great. But there aren't too many such
'classics' in my collection, as you can see for yourself.
MARTIN:
(Scans
the titles) Yes, aside from The
Will
to
Power by Nietzsche, Ulysses and The Lord
of the
Rings are the two most voluminous-looking books on your shelf. But I am
surprised, all the same, that you should be in possession of only one
book by Gide, Hesse,
and
Sartre! As for Henry Miller, Knut
Hamsun, and John Cowper Powys - well, I'd
have
thought that you would surely be interested in owning more than just
one book
by each of them?
JOHN:
What
you
see there isn't merely an incomplete selection from these authors
but, on
the contrary, my final and complete selection.
The books representative of each author are the only ones that I
can now
bear reading. As for the others, yes,
I've been through them all, I have even admired them all at one time or
another. But I wasn't sufficiently
impressed, in the final analysis, to regard them as indispensable. For example, my favourite
MARTIN:
And
you
would regard these as their 'best' books?
JOHN: Well, I would certainly regard them as the
ones which mean the most to me. In
actual fact, I've read about fifteen of
MARTIN:
So
out
they went?
JOHN:
Yes. And the same principle was duly
applied to all the other authors as well!
They served my purposes for a time, but only
for a
time, since I was heaven-bent on transcending them.
Indeed, it was during the course of this
'purge', if I may so call it, that I hit upon the rather unusual idea
of my
book collection signifying a sort of 'work of art', that's to say,
something
possessing significance above and beyond the mere presence of a fairly
haphazard collection of diverse books.
Thus this small assortment before you is, in my eyes, a kind of
'work of
art', where everything has its allocated place, its reason for being
there, and
its link with the other books in the collection. But
it
is a 'work of art', however, that can
be changed or modified from time to time, as occasionally happens when
I either
remove or incorporate another book.
MARTIN:
I
must
confess, this sounds rather crazy to me!
I don't see how any collection of books, no matter how
fastidious its
collector may be, can possibly be regarded in such a light. Why, a work of art involves skill, beauty,
imagination, individuality!
JOHN:
Yes,
and
so, too, believe it or not, does this collection of books, though
admittedly to a lesser degree. However,
I don't wish to seem pretentious or to be taken too literally here. I don't, by any means, desire to see my
bookcase in a public gallery at an exhibition of modern art or anything
of the
kind, since that would undoubtedly tax the public's imagination and
patience to
an unacceptable degree - at least from the standpoint of commercial
sponsorship. No, I'm merely trying to
impress upon you my intention to turn a collection of books into
something
meaningful, integrated, even thought-provoking.
In fact, it's just as important for one to consider what isn't
there as
to consider what is.
MARTIN:
I
must
say, that sounds frightfully esoteric!
JOHN:
Perhaps
it
does. But for anybody with
any knowledge of literature and philosophy, for anybody with a similar
taste
and temperament to myself, it is bound to
provoke
certain relevant speculations and thereby mean
something.
MARTIN:
(Smiles
to himself) Well, it was a pretty ingenious, not to say original,
idea! But how on earth did you come-up
with it in the first place?
JOHN:
Tentatively. I had been confined to bed
for several weeks with glandular fever.
I hadn't been feeling terribly strong, and, being disinclined to
read
for any length of time, I tentatively hit upon the idea of having a
clean-out
with regard to my books. Now at that
time - November of last year to be precise - they totalled some
three-hundred-and-fifty, the bulk of which was shared between famous
and highly
influential authors like Henry Miller, Hermann Hesse,
Jean-Paul
Sartre,
John Cowper Powys, James Joyce, and Albert Camus. Well, not
having much else to do, and feeling rather bored with the painful
existence I
was then leading, I crawled out of bed, slowly unloaded the shelves of
my
bookcase, dragged all the books to the bedside, crawled back into bed,
and with
a certain trepidation, as though I were about to embark on a very
momentous
undertaking, began flicking through one book after another principally
with a
view to 'weeding out' what I considered to be the second-rate, the
irrelevant,
the tedious, and the outmoded. After a
few days of this 'weeding out' process, a time during which my health
seemed to
take a marked turn for the better, I had reduced my collection by about
three-hundred books. I had decided to
dispose of eighteen by Miller, fourteen by Hesse,
eleven
by
Sartre, six by Powys, four by Joyce, and so on, right the way
through
the entire range of my collection, which eventually left me with
approximately
what you see before you today, minus one or two late additions. Admittedly, during the course of this
'purge', this almost pathological compulsion to compensate myself for
all the
boredom I had suffered at the mercy of my illness, I made a few serious
mistakes - namely, by throwing out books which I subsequently, though
belatedly, realized I ought to have kept.
But they couldn't have amounted to more than about fifteen out
of the
entire three hundred, so I'm not particularly worried.
Besides, if I really felt like it, I could
always purchase them again somewhere.
MARTIN:
Yes,
and
at more expense! But which
books would they be?
JOHN:
Oh,
I
can't remember them all now ... Joyce's Poems
Pennyeach,
Camus' Exile and the Kingdom,
Cocteau's Opium,
Powys' Visions and Revisions, Miller's The Wisdom of the
Heart,
and a few more like that, I guess.
Anyway, most of those I retained are still with me and,
fortunately,
they're the ones which have brought me so much agreeable literary
preoccupation. It is a curious thing,
but a majority of authors only manage to write one really good book in
their
entire career, a work which seems to tower above everything else
they've
written, and which one can't help regarding, in spite of oneself, as
their best
book. Now one isn't necessarily
justified in regarding it so highly; for such an attitude may often
amount to
little more than the by-product of personal prejudice or taste. But there is still room for an element of
objectivity in these matters. For
instance, I sincerely regard The Meaning of Culture as John
Cowper
Powys' best book. Now I haven't read
more than eight or nine of his books altogether, but, even so, those I
did read
clearly struck me as the ones most worth reading. Perhaps
I
should qualify that statement by
underlining the difference between his fictional and philosophical
outputs. The former, from what I've seen
of it,
doesn't particularly appeal to me. I
speak mainly from the standpoint of the latter.
And The Meaning of Culture, regarded as a theoretical
work, seems
to me to fairly dwarf his other philosophical creations.
I absolutely revere it for its wonderfully-flowing
prose, its imaginative, expansive and skilfully-handled vocabulary, its
profound insight into culture, especially literature, and its general
outspokenness as, to me, the 'bible' of an important new creed. Take away every other Powys tome if you will,
but leave me this one!
MARTIN:
(Looking
at the shelf upon which the tome in question stands) It appears to
be the
only one of his works that you've got anyway.
How many times have you read it, by the way?
JOHN:
About
six
times in the past two years.
MARTIN:
And would that make it your most re-read
book, then?
JOHN:
No. Being a comparatively recent
acquisition, it probably still has a number of re-readings to go. But since I'm only twenty-five, I haven't
really had the time-span, as yet, in which to re-read certain adult
books all
that many times. Still, if memory serves
me well, I must have read Sartre's Nausea
at least eight times,
Wilde's De Profundis and Other
Writings seven
times, Baudelaire's Intimate Journals six times, Hamsun's
Mysteries five times, Henry Miller's Tropic of Cancer
four times,
and Bertrand Russell's Unpopular Essays three
times. And I dare say that, if I live to
be much
older, I shall occasionally read them all again! However,
the
most sensational enthusiasm
induced by any book led to my re-reading Montaigne's
Essays
five times in the space of three months and, scarcely less
sensationally,
Joyce's Ulysses three times consecutively!
I was so disheartened when I first got to the
end of these two books that I just had to go back to the beginning and
start
all over again. And each time I re-read
them, I seemed to enjoy them more and more!
MARTIN:
I'm
certainly
surprised to hear that you read Ulysses
three times
consecutively. Why, I couldn't even get
into it once, at least not properly! But
being of Joyce's nationality, I suppose you were better able to
appreciate it
than me.
JOHN:
Well,
that
may or may not be. But I could only
really appreciate Ulysses. You won't find
any of his other writings on my shelves, though, to some extent, it's
basically
a question of personal taste again.
However, as to what I was saying earlier about a majority of
authors
only doing one thing really well, it seems to me quite indisputable
that the
books I have mentioned, i.e. the ones on the shelves,
mark a
high-point in their respective authors' careers. As
long
as they've each written at least one
work which I can regard as outstanding, then, as far as I'm concerned,
they
have justified their reputations as great authors.
But it's almost inevitable that, no matter
how good a man's writings may generally happen to be, there will always
be
something which stands apart from the bulk of his work and demands our
acknowledgement of its greatness. And
this exceptional book will fairly dwarf all the rest!
MARTIN:
(Briefly
scans the shelves) Yes, that may well apply to Hamsun's
Mysteries. But as to
Henry Miller's Tropic of Cancer, I'm not so sure.
But you evidently have your reasons ...
JOHN:
One
need
only compare that with a majority of his subsequent books, to
acquire a
fairly accurate scale of relative values.
Almost everything of any importance after Tropic
of
Cancer, with the notable exceptions of Quiet Days in Clichy,
The Colossus of Maroussi, and The
Air-Conditioned
Nightmare, was based on reminiscence or autobiography
appertaining to his pre-Paris years - a thing, you'll doubtless agree,
which
can't help but 'tone down' a writer's enthusiasm and creative
inspiration. But in the first published
book, one finds,
curiously enough, a level of enthusiasm and creative inspiration - not
altogether dissimilar, incidentally, from the qualities to be found in Hamsun's Hunger - which he was never
able to equal,
let alone surpass, in his later work.
Admittedly, he was getting older all the time, so it was only
natural
that he should increasingly reminisce.
But, as far as the literary side of his work is concerned, his
greatest
literary achievement was consummated in Tropic of Cancer. For me, that epitomizes the genius of Henry
Miller!
MARTIN:
Hmm,
every
person is entitled to his views, I suppose. Nevertheless
I
do sympathize with your choice
of Gulliver's
Travels for Jonathan Swift. Very
few
people would disagree with you
there!
JOHN:
But,
then,
very few people really know that Swift wrote anything else anyway.
MARTIN:
That
strikes
me as a palpable exaggeration!
JOHN:
Well,
have
you read anything else by him?
MARTIN:
No,
as
a matter of fact I haven't. But I
don't see how that can have anything to do with it.
JOHN:
On the contrary, it has a lot to do with it! If you haven't read anything else by him,
then you don't really know what he wrote.
After all, what's in a title?
Would you know what Tropic
of
Cancer was all about
just by knowing of the title?
MARTIN:
No,
I
suppose not. Though, in getting back to
the subject of Miller's book again, I'm quite surprised that you can
apparently
appreciate both that and
works like The
Meaning
of
Culture, De Profundis ...,
and
Unpopular Essays. For there would
seem to be little or no connection between them.
JOHN:
I
can
assure you, Martin, that there is a very strong connection between them! For a cultured taste
doesn't 'beat about the bush' where intimations of creative greatness
are
concerned. And such greatness has
many diverse and apparently contradictory manifestations!
To stick to one manifestation for too long
would eventually prove insufferable. But
each man is quite different. Wilde has
his views on art, Powys has his, and so does Miller.
Now when you've read them all - and quite a
few others besides - you select what is relevant to you, what will
augment,
corroborate, and clarify your own views - assuming, of course, that you
happen
to have any. But if you expect the views
and technical approach of one man to be exactly the same as another,
then
you're going to be somewhat disappointed!
Similarities, extensions, affinities there will always be. But if one man were to say it all, if one man
were to provide a definitively sacrosanct treatise as to what art
should or
shouldn't be, who on earth would possibly have anything else to
contribute
after him? It's not for the writer of
today to repeat the aesthetic or moral views of the writer of
yesterday, still
less for the writer of tomorrow to copy those of today!
There is no eternal art, no more than there
is any eternal science, politics, or religion.
Where a theory applicable to the works of a former generation is
no
longer applicable today, it must be swept aside to make way for the new. Human attitudes change, even if the basic
human archetypes remain the same. And
although, contrary to Spengler's
prognosis, art is
unlikely to become entirely obsolete, it's certainly likely to be
modified in
the course of time.
MARTIN:
Yes,
I
see your point. And I also see that
you are more of a thinker than an artist, more conceptual than
perceptual. Which is why, I suppose, you
can appreciate
such seemingly unrelated books as Tropic
of
Cancer and De Profundis....
JOHN:
You
are
indeed right to say 'seemingly'.
For, in reality, there exists a great deal in common between
them. It seems to me that you are inclined
to allow
style, epoch, class, and nationality to override the profounder
affinities
which exist between such books.
Nevertheless, what you say about my being more of a thinker than
an
artist is really quite true. In fact, I
would even go so far as to say that I'm not really an artist at all. For my real allegiance is to the philosophers,
which is probably the main reason why I now admire the philosophical
side of
Wilde's work, including such lesser-known writings as The
Rise
of
Historical Criticism and The Critic as Artist,
more
than
any other. But
since I don't generally prefer the Hippogriff or the Basilisk to the
Truth, so
I'm not opposed to a certain amount of crude realism. When, however, I've had enough of Miller and
Joyce, I am glad of Tolkien or Wilde. And when I've had enough of them, I am glad
of Schopenhauer or Russell. There is
nothing odd about oscillating between one type of influence and
another, from
truth to illusion and back again. But
there is certainly something odd about being too wholly partial to one
or the
other. For man is definitely not meant
to live by truth or illusion alone!
MARTIN:
Then
you
must be a philosopher-artist, and not just a philosopher.
JOHN:
Maybe,
though
I don't, as yet, see any strong evidence of art - aside, that
is,
from the technical considerations which I choose to maintain in my
writings. I have absolutely no intention
of writing a poem, a play, or a novel - not at this stage in my career,
anyway. But if I aspire to recording
philosophical truths in my working hours, that doesn't mean to say I
can't
appreciate aesthetic illusions in my spare time. As can be verified by my
collection of books, and not only in the sense that I have endeavoured
to turn
it into a sort of 'work of art'.
MARTIN:
(Scans
the bookshelves anew) Hmm, I can see that your little collection is
a
mixture of fiction and philosophy, so it would appear to confirm your
intentions or predilections fairly conclusively. I
very
much doubt, however, that there are
all that many people who would care to read philosophy all the time,
even among
the philosophers themselves. The four
books here by Camus, for instance, provide
one with a
perfect example of the philosophical artist, even if the four titles by
Nietzsche don't.
JOHN:
Yes,
Camus was more of an artist than
Nietzsche, who, by
contrast, you might refer to as an artist-philosopher.
Still, it's very easy to be misled by what a
man does and thinks, considering that some of the time one thinks
exactly the
opposite of what one is doing, if you will permit me a double paradox. But whether a man dupes himself into
believing the contrary or not, we are all dualists, we all live
according to
the dictates of opposing influences. So
if we aspire to the wine of truth in one context, we must pay for it
with the
bread of illusion in another. The
philosophical artist and the artistic philosopher aren't necessarily
more
dualistic than either the philosopher or the artist, though they may
well
appear so at face-value. Give a
philosopher too many sober truths to deal with, and he will soon turn
to
illusion for that nepenthe which the truth is denying him.
Give an artist too many beautiful illusions
to create and he will soon seek oblivion in truth!
There is no getting away from that fact, and
that is the main reason why Steppenwolf
has become one of my
favourite novels. For Hesse
knew only too well how human nature must forever
oscillate between two poles or, rather, numerous antitheses, and that a
man
shouldn't allow himself to become unduly annoyed or worried by the fact. However, in the Steppenwolf, poor
Harry Haller was almost continuously divided against himself and
suffered
accordingly. Instead of the cultured man
and the philistine changing places in a more or less natural fashion,
the
change-over - to the extent it happened at all - took place against
Herr
Haller's deepest wishes. For, ideally,
he would rather have remained the cultured man.
But the philistine, or beast in him, refused to be cheated out
of its
legitimate influence, and continued to intervene nonetheless. In short, Herr Haller's personality was
insufficiently integrated, his dual components rarely worked together
as a
team; for the one attempted to destroy the other, and the resulting
conflict
would perhaps have led him to suicide, had he not stumbled upon the
courtesan Hermine who, together with
Pablo, Maria, and the Magic
Theatre, duly brought about his psychological re-integration and
self-acceptance as a whole man. All men
are dual-natured, but the Steppenwolf signifies the crisis of
a man
whose dualism has, largely through force of circumstances, lost its
'harmony'
and consequently become an insufferable discord. It
was
indeed necessary, in the end, that
Haller's personality, which included his specific obsession with
himself
through the way he had come to view his plight, be left behind when he
entered
the 'Magic Theatre' of his unconscious, in order that his instinctive
inclinations
and archetypes, so long bottled-up, might subsequently manifest
themselves in
their rightful, albeit duly-distorted, perspective.
MARTIN:
How
complex! Fortunately for me, my
knowledge of dualism is mostly confined to the practical rather than
the theoretical
sphere. I can certainly recall having
seen the film of that novel though, and a very excellent production it
was,
too! There aren't too many films that I
would rate above it.
JOHN:
I
entirely
agree with you. For here was a
film that, with due respect to
MARTIN:
It
is
certainly more contemporary than ... Dorian
Gray, not to mention Dr
Jekyll and Mr Hyde, which is another of those novels treating of the
human
dilemma in relation to split-personality, or the dualism within the
self, and
probably remains the all-time classic in the genre, transcending even
Goethe's Faust.
JOHN:
An enterprising suggestion, but one which,
in my opinion,
rather exaggerates the literary importance of Stevenson's tale, which
lacks the
moral and metaphysical sophistication of great philosophical literature. Still, an interesting analogy nevertheless,
even if less pertinent than The
Picture
of Dorian Gray
which, on account of the importance I attach to The Steppenwolf,
is now absent from my book collection.
MARTIN:
(His
eyes scanning the shelves again) As I
can see.
JOHN:
Well,
I
should think that you are fairly tired of this subject by now. We haven't been in each-other's company all
that long and all we have discussed, aside from 'Steppenwolfian'
dualism,
is
my collection of books!
MARTIN:
On
the
contrary, it is a subject that deeply interests me.
When I return home, this evening, I shall
wade through my own books and duly dispose of those which I consider to
be
superfluous to my needs or designs. Then
I shall be able to create my own 'quintessential distillation' or, to
quote you
again, 'work of art' for future discussion with somebody else. This is an approach to collecting which is
rather appealing, you know!
JOHN:
I
only
wish it would appeal to more people.
For I'm pretty sick and tired of wading through other
book-collectors'
mounds of mostly third-rate works!
WAR
AND
PEACE
MARK:
(Quotes
aloud from a letter by a female correspondent in a newspaper which he
has just
taken from the pocket of his jacket) 'This is yet another example
of the
cloud of violence that has invaded the modern screen and turned cinema
into a
den of vice. It would be better for
everyone if such disgusting films were banned and their respective
writers,
directors, producers, and actors/actresses either imprisoned or made to
pay a
heavy fine. Then we might have more
peace in the world and less unrest on the streets of our major cities.'
- Well,
what do you make of that? It certainly
sounds as though the correspondent was deeply offended by what she saw
at the
cinema the other week, doesn't it?
PHILIP:
I
suppose
she is one of those elderly spinsters who, in lacking a family
of her
own, imagines that it's her duty to protect the welfare of society
instead. Either that, or she's one of
those happily married mothers who, in condemning cinema, imagines she
is
protecting the welfare of her family by inoculating them against the
celluloid
iniquities of the contemporary world!
MARK:
She
has
signed herself a Miss Edith Connors, so she might well be one of
those
elderly spinsters. But whoever she is,
her moral squeamishness and sense of social responsibility evidently
got the
better of her that time! (He resumes quoting aloud from her letter)
'The
film
authorities should be condemned for not having banned it, and the
censor
condemned for not having been fastidious enough in his application to
the
spiritual welfare of the public at large.' - So she argues towards the
end of
her bad-tempered and slightly irrational letter, which must have upset
or
angered, not to say bemused, quite a few people, not least those who
have seen
or intend to see what she calls this 'Callous, brutal, and highly
immoral
film'!
PHILIP:
I
pity
the censor. For he is often torn
between those, on the one hand, who criticize him for censoring too
much and
those, on the other hand, who criticize him for censoring too little,
so that
he is rarely popular with anyone. To
some extent, he is a sort of Christ-like figure who must bear the 'sins
of the
world' on his shoulders, in order that others may go free of them. For he is periodically subjected to both the
wrath of the public and the writers, directors, actors, et cetera,
whose hard
work he may occasionally be obliged to censor.
In addition, he is a sort of psychic sewer and/or drainage
system through
whom all the accumulated pictorial and aural filth of the human mind
must pass
before a film can be deemed eligible for public consumption. However, it's
well-worth drawing attention to the fact that one sometimes experiences
far
worse scenes in one's nightmares than ever one is likely to see at the
cinema,
and that one's dream life, far from respecting moral scruples, will not
hesitate to inflict pictorial atrocities upon one which would almost
certainly
be censored if shown on film! One need
only bear in mind the horrific nature of certain of one's past
nightmares, and
the rather sobering effect they had on one, to realize that nothing
shown on
film can really compete with them, not even in the sometimes more lurid
context
of video. For one very rarely breaks out
into a cold sweat after having just viewed a horror film, the way one
frequently does after having just woken-up or, more probably, woken
oneself up
from a spine-chilling nightmare! Even
that seemingly responsible correspondent whose letter you have just quoted, has probably witnessed far worse scenes
in her
minuscule dream-life than anything she saw at the cinema the other week. Indeed, there are certain dreams which are so
ugly, so monstrous, so merciless to both
oneself and
those within the dream sequence, that one is ashamed of having dreamt
them,
dreams of which the day-time censor in us is obliged to quash the
memory in the
interests of one's self-respect. And
there can't be a person on earth who could pretend to not having had
occasional
experience of those kinds of dreams!
MARK:
A
statement
which leads me to understand that, since we don't have a
censor in
our dreams, there would seem to be no reason why we should have one in
connection with films.
PHILIP:
No,
I
don't think you ought to construe that idea from my words.
For the world of dreams is an entirely
private affair, against which the individual is virtually powerless to
intervene, whereas the world of films is an entirely public affair for
which,
as with all such affairs, society must take some responsibility. Hence it's only proper that some form of
censorship should be imposed, where thought necessary, on that which
may
influence the collective psyche of a people in a detrimental manner. And not only for the benefit of those to whom
a film is shown but, no less importantly, for the benefit of those who
made it,
since without the threat of censorship, their work might well
degenerate into
something unspeakably banal, tedious, and predictable, while the actors
might
be exploited more ruthlessly and shamelessly than would otherwise be
the
case. But, even so, modern censorship is
by no means over-conservative or over-fastidious in its attitude to
what should
or shouldn't be shown and, as the example of that irate letter-writer
will
attest, it is sometimes sharply criticized by those who somehow feel
that it
should be more stringent and discriminating than currently seems to be
the
case. However, no matter what one does
or says, one can't please everyone, and it's highly probable that if a
majority
of violent films were made less violent for the sake of those who
belong to
Miss Connors' disapproving class, you would then encounter a whole
barrage of
accusative letters from people who were either bored or offended by the
absence
of suitable excitement. So, in the long
run, it's up to the film industry to do what it is in a position to do,
irrespective of the hostile criticisms it may receive from those who
think they
know better! As Baudelaire so well
expressed it in his Intimate
Journals: 'The world only goes round by
misunderstanding. It is by universal
misunderstanding that all agree. For if, by ill-luck, people understood each other, they
would never
agree'.
MARK:
Yes,
that
quotation is certainly apposite in the context under discussion,
isn't
it? Still, there seems to be an
increasing number of letters in this and other papers from people who
are
sincerely offended by all the violence, sex, foul language, and crime
portrayed
both at the cinema and on television/video these days.
Now, although I can't entirely sympathize
with them, I believe that in some cases they have a fairly valid point. After all, is there anyone who hasn't been
offended by a film or part of a film at some time in his life, even if
not very
deeply? And is a person necessarily a
wimp or an old-fashioned prig simply because he finds a particular film
unduly
offensive and subsequently complains about it in the press? It appears absolutely indisputable to me that
immorality of one kind or another has become, over the past two or
three
decades, increasingly prevalent in society, in consequence of which the
world,
and the Western part of it not least, is now subjected to the
contemplation of
more intentionally brutal, vulgar, sensationalist films than at any
time since
the dawn of cinema.
PHILIP:
Yes,
it's
undoubtedly true that the West is being subjected to the spectacle
of
increasingly violent films these days.
But I think you must also remember that modern society isn't
fundamentally the most exciting of societies and that, to a certain
extent,
violent films help compensate for a lack of excitement in other
contexts by
providing a surrogate excitement of their own.
MARK:
In other words, without a steady barrage of
brutal films,
society would be more boring than at present?
PHILIP:
No,
without
a steady barrage of brutal films it would probably be more
violent than
at present. The film industry isn't an
isolated phenomenon which has little or no effect on society as a
whole, but a
highly integrated part of it, something that helps make
contemporary society what it is.
Consequently its removal would not mean that, deprived of this
sublimated species of entertainment, society would necessarily become
more
boring, but that it would have to find an alternative mode of
excitement
elsewhere. And one can only assume that
such an alternative mode would take the form of actual rather than
simulated
violence. After all, you mustn't forget
that we still live, if only just, in a humanistic age, and that film
provides a
catharsis for pressures which might otherwise be vented on actual
people, and
probably in the most brutal fashion. For
man is neither an angel nor a demon, but a paradoxical combination of
both!
MARK:
Yes,
that
may be, but I'm not at all convinced that the cinema does in fact
provide
a viable catharsis, or that simulated violence, insofar as it is
simulated, is
as psychologically convincing as would be the bloody spectacle of an
actual
gladiatorial combat between well-armed men in a specially-designed
arena. I am quite confident that the
ancient Romans
would have obtained more excitement or satisfaction from watching
suitably-trained men actually killing one another, than a modern cinema
audience can ever hope to obtain from watching a film with
suitably-trained
actors pretending
to kill one another. Consequently I'm
strongly inclined to believe
that the psychological inadequacy of the spectacle of simulated
violence on
screen only serves to perpetuate real violence off
it,
because
too
many people, instead of being appeased by the gruesome spectacle
before
them, only have their appetite for violence whetted all the more, with
the
unfortunate outcome that they foolishly strive to emulate and even
surpass
their favourite actors.
PHILIP:
I
think
that is one of the most misguided notions in existence, and one,
moreover, which seems to imply that actual gladiatorial combats would
be more
psychologically beneficial to the public than the contemplation of
simulated
violence on the screen! But we still
live, to repeat, in an age of humanism, not of paganism, and so it's
therefore
unthinkable that people should revert to killing one another on a
regular
basis, just for the sake of entertaining somebody else!
MARK:
Naturally,
I
didn't intend to imply that society should
literally
revert to gladiatorial murder in such pagan fashion, but simply that,
as a
vehicle for authentic catharsis and the attendant sublimation of
certain
violent impulses in man, film is ultimately an inadequate device which
only
serves to encourage actual violence by setting a bad example. This fact has been demonstrated time and time
again!
PHILIP:
True,
there
are
people who endeavour to imitate their film heroes or who are
sadly influenced by various sordid aspects of the world portrayed on
screen,
whether big or small, but, in all fairness, I would hesitate to number
them
among the majority of regular film-viewers, or, for that matter, to
credit them
with very much intelligence. They are
fundamentally the type of people who, if they weren't encouraged to
indulge in
violence by the latest brutal film, would find some other pretext for
indulging
it instead! But I can tell you that not one
of the war
films I have ever seen has made it imperative for me to start a war
with
somebody as soon as I left the cinema or, alternatively, to plan a war
with
somebody during the subsequent weeks.
And if that sounds a little too fantastic, then let me bring the
context
nearer the realms of plausibility by informing you that, after viewing
the first
Death
Wish movie and certain other similar portrayals of urban
terrorism, I had not the slightest desire to either mug or rape anyone,
but
only a strong desire to forget about most of what I had seen! And, in saying this, I'm by no means speaking
from a minority viewpoint.
MARK:
Well,
maybe
that is true as far as the more sensible people are concerned. But it is still a fact that the minority to
whom it doesn't apply are more numerous than you might care to believe. And, of course, it's also true to say that,
even with the formidable presence of the film industry and its possible
cathartic overtones, there is still a lot of actual
violence
in contemporary society, such as can be found, for example, at football
matches, nightclubs, and political demonstrations, not to mention the
racial
tensions, the expanding crime figures in certain fields, the regular
terrorist
activities which cloud our age and against which the so-called
cathartic
effects of film are virtually powerless.
PHILIP:
Indeed. But it is also worth remembering
that a majority of people aren't regular cinema-goers, since
contemporary
populations are so large and varied, in their interests, that the
excitement
afforded certain people by one species of commitment or entertainment
would be
largely irrelevant to the needs of those tens of thousands, if not
millions of
people who are regularly entertained or preoccupied by another. So it would be quite foolish to blame the
cinema for the violence traditionally associated with football matches
or,
alternatively, to blame footballers or even football hooligans for the
violence
commonly associated with certain political demonstrations, or, again,
to blame
political demonstrations for the violence which sometimes occurs at
nightclubs,
and so on. All one can be certain of is
that there are worlds within worlds, and that each of these worlds has
its own
specific brand of violence and, doubtless, its own incentive for
indulging in
it. But violence of one form or another
there will probably always be, and it is quite silly of anyone to
presume that
society is imperfect in consequence.
After all, we are men, not angels or machines, and so a certain
degree
of violence is always legitimate, even though it may take numerous
guises and
sometimes give one the impression, when viewed subjectively, that
society is a
mess. But one ought to be thankful,
during peace time, that there is really so little serious damage done
through
violence. For a majority of people
somehow manage to survive from one day to another, and the violence
which does
occur is usually - exceptions to the rule notwithstanding - of a
relatively
superficial nature. Of course, I don't
wish to give you the impression that things are better than they really
are or,
for that matter, to condone the violence which sometimes takes place,
even
these days, at or around certain football matches.
But I'm fully aware that things could be much
worse than they are, so that to exaggerate such sporadic outbursts of
brutal
activity as do occur is to turn one's back on human nature and
expect the
impossible - namely no violence whatsoever, which can only be described
as a
gross self-deception! Thus whilst I can
understand that society should take certain measures to curb football
hooliganism, it seems utterly preposterous to me that it should
endeavour to
stamp-out violence altogether, since if the will to brutality is
successfully
thwarted in one context, it will sooner or later break-out with
redoubled might
and quickly establish itself in another - a situation which will
eventually
give rise to worse problems. But
football hooliganism isn't, by any means, the only kind of violence to
which
contemporary society has been subjected, though, on account of the
general
popularity that football enjoys amongst a large proportion of the male
population
in most countries, we needn't be surprised if it should traditionally
have been
one of the principal kinds, especially in the days before all-seater stadia
became a mandatory
requirement for the top clubs and people were packed together like
sardines. However that may be, we should
distinguish between legitimate violence, which is approved by the
State, and
what one might call illegitimate violence, which isn't approved by it. Now in football it's the players who, up to a
point, enjoy the former, while the more unruly elements of the opposing
supporters engender the latter. And such
is the case right the way through society, with legitimate and
illegitimate
types of violence accompanying each other to the alternating response
of
approval and disapproval, acceptance and rejection, encouragement and
discouragement.
MARK:
So
you
evidently believe that there will never come a time when violence
is
entirely stamped out of human society?
PHILIP:
Yes,
as
long as we remain men and don't turn into lopsided monsters or
mechanized automatons, there will always be some kind of violence, even
if only
in the context of computer games. For an
over-peaceful society would be a danger to both itself and the coming
generations, who would inherit the accumulated repressions of their
forebears
and thereby be at risk of becoming more violent than they might
otherwise have
been. A man who aspires to being more
good or placid or kind or whatever than he ought legitimately to be, is
really
behaving irresponsibly, since responsibility has close connections with
the
extent to which one faces-up to the human condition and accepts human
nature
for what it is, i.e. for the dualism it is, instead of foolishly
endeavouring
to impose one's own rather perverted criterion upon it, to the
detriment of
both oneself and the society in which one lives. You
might
know that the expression 'to run
amok' was derived from an historical situation in Malaysia where men
who had
been highly respected, peaceful, and law-abiding citizens until their
middle
years suddenly 'ran amok', with dagger or cleaver in hand, and murdered
as many
people as possible, to the utter astonishment of all those who had
known of
their previous exemplary conduct! Yet
this strange phenomenon could be regarded as the inevitable penalty
such men
seemingly had to pay for having denied themselves as human beings, for
having
been much too one-sided, much too partial in their attitude to
morality, and
thus for having gradually created too many repressions fatally
contradictory to
human nature. And so, in order to
restore a balance and thereby safeguard what little sanity they still
possessed, an immutable law of their being coerced them into committing
a major
evil which, paradoxically, would somehow atone for all the minor evils
they had
hitherto avoided or repressed.
MARK:
Thus
the
men who mistakenly thought they ought to be angels were ultimately
compelled to become demons, before they could recover their basic
humanity and
thereby exist, no matter how briefly, as a combination of both?
PHILIP:
Yes,
that
is probably the case. And so
it's a profound lesson to us that we should acknowledge the
irresponsibility of
a man who either despises or lacks the courage to face-up to human
nature, and
is subsequently compelled to accept it the hard way - through direct
participation in some monstrous outrage!
But that is only one way of looking at the problem, since it
could also
be caused by the fact that the society in which such a man lives
imposes far
too many social constraints upon him, and thereby forces him into an
unnaturally one-sided, over-placid role.
In fact, I am strongly inclined to believe that this was the
main reason
behind such sporadic outbursts of violence as that to which I have just
alluded, because the Orient, through the traditional influence of its
major
religions, has hitherto put more emphasis, in general terms, on
placidity and
gentleness than the Occident, and such an inclination has often led to
fatal
consequences not only in Malaysia but in India, Burma, and Tibet, where
the
accumulated repressions brought about by years of dedicated service to
Buddhist, Hindu, or similar ideals ultimately broke through the façade
of
gentleness, in various ostensibly righteous citizens, and subsequently
led to
mass murder and/or rape. Indeed, you may
remember from the history books concerning India and its British rulers
that
the latter often had a difficult task in controlling the periodic
outbreaks of
violence which took place within the indigenous population under the
guise of
religious sectarianism but which, on a profounder evaluation, were
probably the
result of the ethical constraints that had been imposed upon them from
time
immemorial and could no longer be maintained with any great success. And so religion served as a useful pretext
for the shedding of innocent blood, much as though a blood sacrifice
was the
price that had to be paid by the long-term devotees of such ethical
constraints.
MARK:
True,
and
if it is not religion it's politics, equality, or freedom -
something, in
other words, that will provide an adequate excuse for brutality and
thus
justify its continuance.
PHILIP:
Precisely! And not
without reason. For society is
just as entitled to the use of a collective persona, or mask, as its
individual
members to the use of a personal one, and so must it always be! Our cynicism in the face of such collective
pretexts as religion, politics, sport, et cetera, does little to
undermine
their basic validity. For our
self-respect is not geared to violence for the sake of violence but to
violence
with a cause and, except in those comparatively rare instances of
people who
are the victim of some form of pathological derangement, it will always
prevent
us from acting contrary to our self-interest.
Hence it is not surprising, as Eugene Ionesco
noted in his Journal
en
Miettes, loosely
translatable as 'Fragments of a Journal', that people will never
entirely
'demystify' themselves, even though many of them may pretend to have
done
so. But, as far as the overall psychic
hygiene of a nation is concerned, there can be no pretext so
efficacious as
war, since it is the ultimate pretext for enabling various peoples to
murder
one another with a relatively clear conscience, and to do so, moreover,
in the
interests of a future peace.
MARK:
So
you
are evidently not a pacifist?
PHILIP:
No,
because
I don't see how human beings can possibly circumvent the basic
dualistic drives to which they are eternally subject, by dint of their
common
human nature. It's as difficult to
imagine a life without war as to imagine one without nightmares,
diseases,
deaths, or crimes. Now although we may
loathe the prospect of war as much as if not more than the prospect of
one or
another of these alternative evils, we are ultimately as powerless to
prevent
its occurrence as to prevent their occurrence - certainly while things
remain
in an open-society framework, at any rate!
We may make as many resolutions and plans as we like, but sooner
or
later the Law of Averages will swing back towards us and engulf us in
its
inexorable logic. Yet it is as logical
that people should become inordinately idealistic just after the
conclusion of
a major war - and thereupon make brazen statements about eternal peace
or a war
to end all wars, et cetera - as that they should become inordinately
realistic
or, more correctly, naturalistic just before the beginning of one. For, in the former case, the demon in man has
been temporarily placated and the angel has come to the fore, whereas,
in the
latter case, the demon has been temporarily repressed and the angel has
become
oppressive, thus creating a tension which can only be relieved through
violence.
MARK:
Then
you're
suggesting that too much war and peace would be equally
detrimental to
man's psychic equilibrium, and would amount, eventually, to a
caricature of
both?
PHILIP:
Yes,
which
is why society becomes increasingly violent just prior to a major
war and increasingly peaceful just after one, as can be verified by a
study of
recent history. But, controversial
though some of what we're saying may be, I don't seriously believe that
there
will ever be a complete cessation of war, whatever its subsequent
transmutations, not even if and when the people of this planet join
together
under the protection of a central administrative body with a monopoly
on armed
force, because the world in only a tiny part of the Galaxy, of which
the Sun is
but a minor star, and the Galaxy itself is only a tiny part of the
Universe,
about which our knowledge is, as yet, comparatively limited. So it seems probable to me that, after the
cessation of world wars, mankind will then enter an epoch of
interplanetary
wars, from which epoch they may well proceed to one of galactic wars,
after
which, assuming mankind survives in any recognizable form, they might
even
proceed to an epoch of intergalactic wars, and finally to one of
universal
wars, the greatest of them all! But even
if this last hypothetical development isn't liable to occur for several
centuries, if ever it does, there is no reason for us to assume that,
with the
cessation of world wars, this planet will be immune to the influence of
other
solar systems, the nearest of which probably being the first to produce
a
planet on which the life forms of another species may well wage martial
conflict with the earth.
MARK:
But
what
reason or reasons would the inhabitants of a nearby solar system
possibly
have for waging war with future generations of people here on earth?
PHILIP:
As
many
reasons, I dare say, as people on earth have hitherto had for
waging war between
themselves, the most important doubtless being the need to placate a
dualism
which requires unremitting fidelity from its multitudinous subjects,
and has
little or no use for a lopsided pacifism.
After all, it's as impossible to conceive of advanced life-forms
who
aren't dualistic but can still exist ... as to conceive of advanced
life-forms
who are dualistic but can't exist. One
can only assume that if advanced beings do
exist on
various other planets in different solar systems, then their existence
would be
on a similar basis to that which makes it possible for us to exist
here, and
with similar metaphysical obligations.
However, in attempting to answer your question more concretely,
I can
quite imagine an interplanetary war being sparked off by such things as
a
mutual or unilateral fear of the other planet's power, a dispute over
territorial rights in space, the need of one planet to colonize another
in
order to secure more land for its teeming populations, or because it is
being
threatened with extinction through the cooling or gradual
disintegration of its
sun, or because it has run out of suitable natural or other resources
and is
thereby threatened with widespread disease and starvation, or because a
future
Helen of Troy is abducted by a 'foreign' power, to the great dismay of
the
'robbed' power, or because both powers are competing for similar
galactic
spoils, and so on. Hence the patterns
that we have seen emerge between two or more countries on earth, over
the
centuries, could quite conceivably be repeated on a larger scale
between two or
more planets in this galaxy, with similarly violent consequences for
the
opposing sides. Yet war isn't a thing
that one can depend upon to occur at such-and-such a date, but is
something
which usually strikes peoples 'out of the blue', as though triggered by
the
most unlikely event. For, with the best
will in the world, the precautions which a group of nations may take to
prevent
its occurrence may only serve, in the long run, to provoke it or, at
any rate,
prove an inadequate safeguard against the wheel of chance and the blow
of fate
which suddenly beleaguer them from unexpected quarters.
MARK:
Yes,
that
wheel of chance and blow of fate could well strike our divided
world at
any time now, particularly if the leading nations continue to amass
weapons and
missiles with the same intensity as they have shown over the past three
or more
decades! For one can't help feeling
that, sooner or later, the vast stockpiles amassed by each side will
coerce the
powers concerned into justifying their military expenditure,
technology,
training, development, et cetera, by making use of the infernal means
at their
disposal. In other words, a
representative conscience of the peoples concerned will make it
perfectly clear
to their national vanity that they're not amassing warheads, say, for
the mere
sake of it, since that would be sheer insanity, but in order to protect
themselves against external encroachments, should they suddenly find
their
country hurled into a nuclear conflict.
And so it is virtually inevitable, if the peoples concerned
aren't to go
completely mad, that such a war will eventually come to pass. Otherwise, they'll have so many weapons and
missiles at their disposal that they won't know where to put them all,
and the
workers who manufacture them will be coerced into assuming that their
hard work
is entirely gratuitous, and may well end-up becoming neurotic or going
mad. Then, of course, the tax payer will
be angered by the fact that so much of his hard-earned money is being
continually wasted on superfluous military considerations and that many
of the
formerly important warheads for which he had paid through the nose are
regularly being rendered obsolete by the invention and development of
still
better ones, so that, with a little prompting from his unconscious, he
will
rebel in some way against the existing regime and thereby bring about a
state
of internal crisis, which would not be the best thing for national
security!
PHILIP:
Indeed,
I
entirely agree with much of what you are saying, especially with
regard to the virtual inevitability of another major war.
For I don't see how the
major nations can possibly refrain, eventually, from justifying their
military
expenditure, et cetera, in the usual fashion.
Like Bertrand Russell, whose essay The
Future
of
Mankind is most relevant in this context, I don't
see how
the peoples directly afflicted by the tensions engendered by
ideological
division can possibly tolerate the perpetuation of such tensions for
ever - tensions
which can only worsen with the passing of time.
So much as I may abhor the prospect of a nuclear war, I can no
more
convince myself that it will never happen ... than I can convince
myself that a
divided earth would successfully be able to defend itself against a
strong
alien aggressor should the armies of a hostile planet subsequently
decide to
invade it, since a divided planet, much as it may be adequately
prepared for a
world war, would certainly be ill-equipped to deal with an
interplanetary one.
MARK:
Because
it
would refuse to become an integrated whole in the face of alien
opposition?
PHILIP:
No,
not
entirely. For even with the best
intentions in the world it would be unable to become an integrated
whole in
that event, since an ideological confrontation between capitalism and
socialism, or liberalism and some form of communism, no matter how
democratized, would still exist even then.
But, more importantly, because its current warheads are not
programmed
and designed for an interplanetary war, i.e. to repel an attack from
outer
space, but only for a war fought solely on this earth.
So it's inconceivable that it would be able
to adequately defend itself, should such a situation arise in the
foreseeable
future. Only once a world war had been
fought and the victorious side duly brought the losers under the rule
of a
central administration, could the surviving people of this planet begin
to turn
their attention towards the creation and development of interplanetary
warheads, in order that they may be equipped to deal with an attack
from outer
space. Admittedly, such speculation may
seem a trifle farfetched, if not unrealistic, at present, but it is of
the
utmost importance to the future security of this planet that it should
evolve
to a point where, with the cessation of world wars, such seemingly
farfetched
speculation will subsequently become fact, and the world be obliged to
establish an ideological polarity not within itself, but in relation to
the
inhabitants of a nearby solar system.
MARK:
You
seem
highly optimistic, I must say, not only about the probable
establishment
of a future world administration but, no less incredibly, about the
prospects
of people surviving a nuclear war - the worst possible kind of war? Surely there is every reason to believe that
Western civilization will be entirely destroyed, should the worst come
to the
worst and the most powerful nations on earth release their pent-up
barrage of
nuclear warheads!
PHILIP:
Admittedly,
I
may appear highly optimistic, but I can assure you that I'm doing my
utmost
to be highly realistic! Whether a world
administration could be established after a nuclear war, is open to
debate. For we cannot be sure that any
future world
war would be conclusive, or that it wouldn't lead to yet other such
wars. But with modern technological
advances
pushing ahead as quickly as at present, both on earth and in space,
coupled to
the increasing pace of man's psychic evolution these days, it seems
rather
unlikely that a world administration will be all that long in coming. However, as to the survival of the human kind
should such a war come to pass, I know for a fact that some peoples,
including
the Swiss and the Swedes, have taken extensive precautions to ensure
that as
many of their citizens as possible are safeguarded by the use of
underground
shelters, shelters which are equipped with every convenience and stored
with
sufficient provisions to last their inhabitants several years. And in these elaborate shelters, people will
be almost completely immune to the physical shocks and deprivations of
the
outside world.
MARK:
But
those
protected by such ingenious underground shelters won't really
amount to a
very large percentage of the human race, will they?
PHILIP:
No,
that
is perfectly true. But, even so,
the world is so large that it is by no means inconceivable that a large
percentage of the human and animal populations would in any case escape
death
or injury by dint of living in fairly remote regions of the earth or,
alternatively, in fairly densely-populated countries not directly
implicated in
the conflict, countries which could only be peripheral targets, if at
all, to
the main adversaries. But even in
countries
most directly involved in our hypothetical conflict, it's quite
probable that a
significant percentage of their populations would also escape death or
injury,
for reasons similar to those already mentioned.
MARK:
But
even
if people living in the less densely-populated areas of, say, the
United
States aren't directly or immediately affected by enemy missiles, isn't
it
likely that they would eventually succumb if not to economic chaos then
almost
certainly to radioactive pollution of the atmosphere, to the
large-scale spread
of nuclear fallout?
PHILIP:
Yes,
of
course it is likely that many people would become a victim to
spreading
radiation. But it's just as likely that
radiation wouldn't spread everywhere and that, with the accelerated
pace of
evolution usually induced by the exigencies of modern warfare, a viable
technique would be devised for countering its spread and simultaneously
neutralizing its effect. After all, one
of the most advantageous consequences to emerge from the Second World
War was
the development of rockets, which have since enabled man to reach the
moon and
discover important things about his planetary environment, things which
may
well play a far more important role in the affairs of the earth than we
are yet
prepared to acknowledge. So it is as
well to bear in mind that 'out of evil cometh good'.
For when it is a matter of life-and-death,
the human kind can be forced into developing technological
possibilities which
they would never have thought themselves capable of in peace time. However, the extent of man's ingenuity or
resourcefulness would certainly be called into play again if the nature
and
duration of the conflict so demanded.
Hence it is not altogether impossible that better systems of
defence
would be evolved during the conflict than had existed in peace time. But it could well be that, in the event of a
nuclear war actually taking place, a majority of the opposing missiles
would be
so effectively intercepted before
they had
hit their targets, that something along the lines of a conventional war
would
consequently be imposed upon the main combatants, with a further
consequence
that less people would be detrimentally affected by it than might
otherwise be
the case. However, speculation aside, it
is my firm conviction that there would be survivors, and that they
would
witness the dawn of a new age.
MARK:
An
utterance,
if I may say so, which makes it seem as though war is an
ultimate
necessity, with a definite place in the evolution of civilization and a
beneficial consequence to those who survive it!
PHILIP:
Indeed,
in
the final analysis, war is ultimately necessary, as can be seen from
a close study of history and the fundamentals of human nature. For it always takes place for a definite,
valid reason, and to suppose that there will ever be an age when, no
matter
what transmutations it may subsequently undergo, progress will have
rendered it
entirely obsolete, is as fatuous, short-sighted, and irresponsible as
to
suppose that there will ever be an age when nightmares, diseases,
worries,
accidents, pains, and physical deformities will likewise have been
rendered
obsolete. No matter how far we men
evolve, over the coming centuries, we shall always be subject to a dual
integrity, to good and evil in relative doses, since it's just as
impossible
for us to be wholly good as to be wholly evil.
Progress may do a lot to change our various lifestyles, but it
will
never change our fundamental nature, which is entirely beyond its power. Admittedly, science fiction may show us a
world whose inhabitants know nothing of war, violence, sickness,
hatred, et
cetera, because science fiction is more of an art than a science and
therefore
has a right to create imaginary worlds beyond the realms of
plausibility. But although it points the
way to the future
in some respects, it by no means does so in every respect, with a
consequence
that many of the so-called 'advanced' civilizations you read about or
watch on
television aren't as indicative of ethical and social progress as might
at
first appear. On the contrary, they're
usually the imaginative presentation of their author's conscious or
unconscious
idealism. For I don't seriously believe
that one would ever encounter a civilization anywhere in the Universe
that had
no regular experience of evil and no grammatical equivalent, in
consequence,
for the word 'vicissitude'.
MARK:
Yes,
you
are probably right, although it would be untrue to imagine that all
sci-fi
authors indulge in that kind of utopian portrayal, because one also
encounters
so-called 'advanced' civilizations which have been warring on one
another for
years and know every conceivable vicissitude.
But you're undoubtedly right to assume that one could
occasionally be
misled by such authors into taking something for a perfect society
which, in
reality, would be anything but
perfect. Or, alternatively, into taking
something for progress which, in reality, would be anything but
progressive. I suppose that is the
danger inherent in the kind of idealism which imagines itself the
nearest thing
to perfection when, in reality, it is really a lopsided, crack-brained,
highly-dubious concept that would undoubtedly bring ruination upon
anyone who
was foolish or naive enough to seriously believe in it!
Indeed, it's the old story of the perfect
society always being somehow vastly different from the society in which
normal
circumstances oblige one to live - a utopia that, if one could ever
experience
it for any length of time, would prove to be a hundred times worse than
everyday reality.
PHILIP:
And
just
as many people fail to understand in the concepts of Heaven and
Hell that,
from a human point of view, eternal bliss and eternal torment would be
equally
execrable in the similarity of their respective extremities, so a large
number
of them fail to appreciate that, strange as it may seem, life isn't
being
ruined by the intermittent prevalence of nightmares, wars, floods,
hardships,
diseases, brutalities, storms, frustrations, fears, doubts, angers,
earthquakes, et cetera, but protected from the ruination that would
otherwise
befall it if, by some remote chance, it were
to become
too one-sided.
MARK:
An utterance, if I may say so, which has all
the wisdom of a
Montaigne behind it and all the insight of
a
Nietzsche in front of it!
PHILIP:
A
very
flattering remark, Mark, but one which your incomparable charm
compels me
to accept, and partly on account of the fact that I have recently been
reading The
Maxims
of François de la Rochefoucauld,
that
great
seventeenth-century French moralist, and encountered one which
read:
'Though we believe on occasion that we detest flattery, it is only the
flatterer's manner that we find detestable.'
MARK:
Well,
it's
not often that I indulge in flattery, particularly with you!
PHILIP:
No,
and
I, for one, very rarely grant you the opportunity to flatter me! However, in returning to what I was saying
about science fiction, I didn't intend to give you the impression that
all
sci-fi authors indulge in a sort of bogus utopian speculation which,
did they
but know it, does a disservice to the concept of progress, but simply
that one
can encounter rather unconvincing portrayals of social progress within
the
realm of science fiction. Yet, in some
respects, society never changes. There
is, to cite Nietzsche, an 'eternal recurrence' which grants a given
pattern of
vicissitude to every age, and which always recurs so long as organized
societies continue to exist. Of course,
man has often dreamed, in his hard-pressed life, of a millennial
utopia, a time
when all the obstacles to his ultimate happiness will have been finally
overcome and he will wallow thereafter in a sort of earthly paradise,
where
nothing can ever go wrong and no external evil assail him.
But such a paradisiacal utopia is never
likely to come about, not even after the world has been unified under a
central
administration and the possibility of subsequent world wars been
averted. For it's not man's fate to
inherit the bliss
of an earthly paradise, but to recognize the truth of his dual nature. Now just as modern man has overcome many
problems to which his ancestors succumbed, only to find himself beset
by
problems of which they never even dreamed, so future man will overcome
many of
our problems, only to find himself beset by problems unknown to us,
since this
is the eternal law of vicissitude, so to speak, which makes every age
to some
extent the double and equal of every other.
Naturally, life can be very cruel.
But if it were all kindness, none of us would be able to
tolerate living
it. Yet that is really idle conjecture,
because none of us will ever be eligible to sample a life that was all
kindness
anyway since, by its one-sided nature, it would run completely contrary
to
life. But if we persist in imagining
that an eternal peace on earth will bring us the Utopian Millennium,
and
thereby constitute the ideal human society, we shall only have
ourselves to
blame when we eventually discover, to our considerable dismay, that our
souls
are suffering more from the effects of the extended peace than they
would
otherwise have suffered from the experience of periodic wars. Or, put another way, when we eventually
discover that the so-called peace we are living through isn't as
peaceful as it
should be, due to the fact that the immutable dualism of our deepest
selves is
re-channelling our aggression, frustration, discontent, hatred, et
cetera, into
everyday society on a level which virtually turns that society into a
battleground, and gives to our various relationships, both private and
public,
the overtones of a civil war.
MARK:
You
mean
that no amount of self-deception can prevent our fundamental
nature from
being itself and somehow finding an approximate balance within the
confines of
a given context, because an extended peace eventually has the effect of
engendering a subterranean civil war and, conversely, an extended war
the
effect of engendering a subterranean military peace?
PHILIP:
Yes,
the
subterranean civil-war aspect of those populous societies which
haven't experienced an official war for some time can be seen, all too
poignantly, in the recent increase of civil disquiet - the
proliferation of
terrorism, assassination, kidnapping, football hooliganism, vandalism,
racial
tension, rape, industrial unrest, political instability, unemployment,
et
cetera, all of which can only reach a sickening level in an age when
the
lengthy absence of a tangible external enemy - or the difficulty of
creating
one - makes it virtually imperative for a nation to turn its bellicose
attitude
inwards and to find its chief enemies or scapegoats within
itself,
with the unfortunate consequence that, instead of pulling itself
together for
its own good, such a nation is gradually compelled to tear itself
apart,
thereby creating serious social, economic, and political hardships. Hence you can see why too much peace, i.e.
too long a period without a tangible external enemy, is inevitably
detrimental
to the internal security and integrity of a densely populated nation. Just as too much solitude is likewise
detrimental to the internal security and integrity of certain
individuals, who
may well implode. For, in the one case,
the object of hatred has to be found within itself, whilst, in the
other case,
it has to be found within the self, both cases
ultimately leading
to a very unhealthy situation! It
remains to be seen, thereafter, how long the nations concerned can
persist in
tolerating their respective internal conflicts, both in an economic and
a
social sense, before circumstances eventually compel them to avert the
prospect
of either wholesale anarchy and revolution or, worse again, civil war,
by
provoking hostilities with a foreign power.
Then perhaps they will have every reason to direct their
attentions away
from their domestic squabbles and towards issues of a far wider and
more
consequential import, thereby diverting aggression outwards. So, strange as it may seem, there is no
reason to believe that it is war which is the real threat to the
survival of
organized society so much its long-term absence, and that one shouldn't
be
misled by the peaceful examples of small countries like Switzerland and
Luxembourg into imagining that their traditional neutrality in the face
of
European war has brought them greater sanity.
For with a small and thinly-populated country it isn't so much
unparalleled wisdom that keeps them neutral ... as the fact that their
comparative military weakness virtually precludes them from declaring
hostilities. And one would do well to
bear in mind that they doubtless suffer from their neutrality in a way
which it
would be difficult for those who have experience of a major war to
understand. However, nationality aside,
some men are much more outwardly placid than others and are thereby
deceived by
their condition into assuming that war is unnecessary, into taking what
may be
their own highly cultured viewpoint for the norm, and thus entirely
overlooking
the fact that, for a majority of men, matters are really quite
otherwise. Such placid types have often
got into trouble
with the state for their pacifism, and more than a few have even been
imprisoned in times of war, when their persistent peace propaganda
threatened
the overall security of the nation far more than enemy bombs or guns
ever
did. But peace propaganda, in any age
and in whatever form, only serves to make it perfectly clear that,
broadly
speaking, it isn't natural for human beings to be perpetually at peace,
since,
if it were so, they wouldn't require such propaganda in the first place. In fact, they wouldn't require anything of
the kind at all.
MARK:
So
anti-war
propaganda is superfluous?
PHILIP:
On the contrary, it is highly useful,
because it helps to
create a pro-peace psychology in people which, up to a point, is by no
means a
bad idea. But, like everything else, it
has a time and a place, and there are times and places when it becomes
more of
a hindrance to society than an aid. Such
as, for example, during the course of a major war, when the untimely
use of
such propaganda could contribute towards bringing about a capitulation
which
would inevitably prove detrimental to the future interests of the
country
concerned. However, there is a species
of anti-war propaganda available today which is perfectly valid in
light of
what could happen to the world, should the major powers subsequently
decide to
use the nuclear weapons at their disposal.
For, in that event, there would hardly be a war at all but,
rather, an
instantaneous elimination of vast populations.
Paradoxical though it may appear, we must differentiate between
war as
something that breaks-up peace and, in the final analysis,
authenticates it,
and a foolhardy launching of nuclear missiles at vast populations of
civilian
life, to the ultimate detriment not only of the millions of innocent
people who
would be killed or maimed, but also to the ultimate detriment of the
opposing
armies, whose millions of well-armed, well-trained men would then
become
utterly superfluous. I mean, what is the
point of the capitalist/socialist, or liberal/communist, opponents
having vast
armies equipped with the best possible weapons, if their nuclear
warheads are
going to do all or most of the damage, and thereby render the
technology,
military expertise, and 'art' of soldiering largely if not entirely
superfluous? For, when all's said and
done, nuclear weapons could become the greatest possible danger to both
war and
peace alike!
MARK:
You
mean
that whilst a conventional war might not be a bad thing for the
world as
we know it, an indiscriminate nuclear war would render conventional war
obsolete, turning the civilian populations into corpses even before
their armies
had reached their respective battle lines?
PHILIP:
No,
I
mean that an indiscriminate nuclear war would hardly be war at all
but,
rather, an experiment in clearing this planet of life in the quickest
possible
time! Now while war, as I understand it,
may ultimately be of some use to mankind, the threat of total
extinction
certainly isn't! So it's of the utmost
importance to differentiate between them and to hope, in the honourable
names
of evolution, progress, civilization, culture, humanity, et cetera,
that, in
the event of a third world war, the belligerent nations will have
enough sense
to keep their most lethal weapons safely under lock-and-key in honour
not only
of their respective armies, navies, and air forces, but, more
importantly, of
all life on this planet, no matter what its shape, colour, or size,
which isn't
directly or even indirectly involved in the conflict, and which may one
day
rise, phoenix-like, from the ashes of a divided world.
So whilst I'm not entirely opposed to war, I
am certainly opposed to that which would put an end to both war and
peace for
ever!
MARK:
Yes,
so
am I. Though, despite what you said
earlier about the possibility of survivors, I still don't see how the
world
could escape such a dreadful fate, in the event of another world war. For even if the main parties to it initially
made a pact not to use their most lethal weapons, or only to target
enemy
military installations and troop concentrations with comparatively
less-lethal
ones, it's highly doubtful that they would honour such a pact as the
war became
more bitter and their respective losses and grudges against one another
mounted, with the passing of time.
PHILIP:
Quite
so! Since it is natural for the
main combatants to become increasingly unreasonable as they suffer more
from
each other's aggression, their strategic positions perhaps even
deteriorating
to a point where anything is deemed permissible. But,
as
I also remarked earlier, it isn't
altogether impossible, in the event of a nuclear escalation, that most
of the
opposing missiles would be successfully intercepted before
they
reached their targets and, furthermore, that anything approximating to
a large
bomber would be shot down before it could do any serious damage over
enemy
territory, thus making the dropping of large bombs a much more
difficult and
hazardous task than the firing of large missiles. But
war
of one kind or another there will
probably always be, and if the world population isn't to become so
large that
it becomes more of a danger to the survival of homo
sapiens than anything else, then it is important that it should be
periodically checked or reduced by what can only be described as the
fairest
means available, since personal grudges are set aside with the
indiscriminate
elimination of enemy strangers who happen to belong to a different
race, creed,
or ideology.
MARK:
Indeed,
I
agree that human population must be periodically reduced or, at any
rate, controlled. But, all the same,
there is a vast difference between reducing it for its own good and
almost
entirely eliminating it! For, whatever
the means employed, there would certainly be far more people killed in
a third
world war than had ever been killed in any previous one.
PHILIP:
Yes,
that
is probably true. But you
mustn't forget that there are far more human beings in the world today
than at
any earlier time in history, and that if they continue to multiply over
the
next thirty years as they have been doing over the past thirty, then
not only
will they be the chief danger to themselves, but the chief danger to
every
other species of life on this planet as well!
So, difficult as it may seem to us, it's virtually imperative
that a
future war should cause more fatalities than any previous one did, if
it isn't
to become a mere caricature of them.
Nature, remember, is greater than we, it works through and above
us, and
usually it ensures that its various offspring are kept within
reasonable
population bounds, that the inter-predatory principles of the animal
kingdom
apply equally well in other kingdoms, too!
Now although our vanity as men may occasionally lead us to
imagine that
we are not subject to it, our nature as men mostly proves the contrary. For we can no more ignore its influence than
can those species who commit mass suicide when their numbers become too
great,
or those species who regularly prey upon
certain other
species in the interests of both their own survival and the maintenance
of an
ecological balance.
MARK:
But
surely
the recent fall in the birth rate in this and various other
densely-populated countries throughout the world is sufficient proof
that
nature has devised a way of reducing human populations in a peaceful
way at
last?
PHILIP:
Perhaps. But in such a way as to render
modern life a sterile thing, to make us aware that it has other ways of
overcoming us and proving to us that, for all our material benefits,
our lives
aren't as healthy as they could be or, indeed, should be.
For it indicates that the will to expansion,
the will to greater life, is gradually atrophying, and that the lives
of a
majority of its younger adults can't be worth much when they are either
disinclined or unable to propagate at a steadily and slowly increasing
rate. It's almost as though many young
couples were secretly afraid to have children these days, and not only
because
the cost of raising a family would, under current economic conditions,
prove
too high, but also because they sense that the world is overcrowded
enough
already, and that their offspring would only necessitate the feeding of
yet
more 'superfluous' mouths. But you know
what the times are like, how expensive everything is, what economic
difficulties there are, how much unemployment there is, what housing
shortages
there are, what uncertainty about the future there is, how overcrowded
our
cities are, and consequently what a lack of incentive there is for so
many
would-be parents to start a family. So
it's hardly surprising that the average birth rate should have fallen
in recent
years. However, in getting to the point
of your question, this social trend is, after all, nothing to be
particularly
pleased about. For it's not a way that
nature has devised of overcoming war and thereby bringing about a more
peaceful
and stable society. On the contrary, it
is a way that nature has devised for bringing home to us the
inadequacies of
our existing society, with its dreadful overcrowding and the
detrimental
consequences this problem inevitably engenders.
We began, if you recall, by discussing domestic violence, i.e.
violence
on the cinema screen, football hooliganism, vandalism, et cetera, and
since
then we have digressed to discussing war, human nature, society, and
population, which, believe it or not, brings us back to where we began
... with
that irate woman's letter in the newspaper, complaining about a film
she had
seen, one that was evidently too immoral for her ostensibly altruistic
sensibilities to stomach. And yet a
great deal of the alleged immorality of modern society is, in all its
various
guises, a direct consequence of the size of that society.
As has been pointed out many times in the
recent past, not least of all by Carl Jung in a brilliant essay
entitled The
Relations
Between
the Ego and the Unconscious, the larger the society the
greater the amount of immorality to be found in it.
For morality mainly depends upon the moral
sense of the individual, and where there are too many people living in
close
proximity, the immorality of the herd mentality comes to play an
increasingly pervasive
role, as can be seen in football hooliganism and vandalism, to name but
two
manifestations of contemporary anti-social behaviour.
Thus the greater the crowd, organization,
city, et cetera, the smaller becomes the individual, who simultaneously
experiences
a reduction of self-respect, personal responsibility, and
self-determination,
to the detriment of both himself and, often enough, the society in
which he
lives.
MARK:
Which
is
presumably to say that if the largest cities are always the most
immoral
places on earth mainly on account of their size, of the anti-social
behaviouristic influence they exert on different people in different
ways,
depending on their intelligence or temperament, then it's incredibly
stupid of
people to expect them to be otherwise, to imagine that their
inhabitants could
become more moral and less violent if only they tried a little harder?
PHILIP:
Exactly! That's just it!
For it is as stupid of one to completely
overlook the behaviouristic influence of a large city - and to
thereupon
imagine that a majority of people could be other and better than they
are if
only they wanted
to be - as it would be to expect a man who had been thrown to
the sharks to escape being eaten alive!
In fact, the point you made about different people, different
temperaments and types of people, being influenced in different ways,
only goes
to prove that the woman who was annoyed by the film she saw is just as
much a
victim of anti-social behaviour as anyone else, since the letter in
question
was anything but pleasant and shows, once again, how ostensibly moral,
self-righteous people can indulge in evil without even realizing it,
simply
because they imagine the thing they're complaining about to be worse
than
themselves! But when you really come to
think about it, a person who is annoyed by a given film, and
consequently
provoked into writing an abusive letter about it to the newspapers, is
little
different from a person who is annoyed by a football supporter of an
opposing
club, and consequently provoked into abusing him in his own rather more
brutal
or vulgar fashion. The former, as an old
woman with middle-class prejudices, is simply not in a position to act
like a
hooligan, whereas the latter, as a young man with working-class
prejudices, is
simply not in a position to act like a prig!
But in both cases - and needless to say in
countless
others as well - there is an object which provokes hatred and, as might
be
expected, an angry subjective response to it.
MARK:
Hence
the
usual misunderstandings between the different types of people as to
the
exact nature of right and wrong, and consequently the usual kinds of
social
hypocrisy as a result of it.
PHILIP:
Ahem! More like the usual kinds of
social self-deception as a result of it!
For, whether we like it or not, it's regularly the case that
people are
duped by their behaviour into sincerely believing themselves to be in
the
right, and that, in considering the apparent evils of others, they
completely
overlook their own evils, with the inevitable consequence that 'they
know not
what they do'. But we needn't get
ourselves unduly annoyed about it as this juncture, nor pretend that we
are
necessarily any better. For we are not
here, after all, to make ourselves better but to realize what we are,
and thus
to live according to the essential dualistic law of our being. And if this law demands that we occasionally
be deceived as to the nature and extent of our respective moral
inclinations,
well then, we have no real option but to obey it and be deceived, since
it
isn't in our powers to entirely escape it.
However, let's not talk any more about this truth or, for that
matter,
about any other truth, since it's as impossible for man to live by
truth alone
as to ignore truth too long and live, and we are both in need of a
lengthy
reprieve from its rather stern features!
Come, let us listen to some music
instead! It gives one wonderful illusions. Or, should I say, delusions of
self-moralizing grandeur?
MARK:
More
like
a reprieve from the Devil's advocate, if you ask me!
A
QUESTION
OF
BELIEF
DAVID:
(Picks
up a book from his friend's desk) Good God, I didn't know that you
were
into astrology! How long have you been
studying it?
KELVIN:
Only
a
few weeks, I'm afraid. Although,
with certain reservations, I've been fairly
interested in
the subject for some time now. In
fact, I borrowed that Modern
Textbook
of Astrology from the local
library. It's a most informative and
charming work by Margaret E. Hone.
DAVID:
It
certainly
looks detailed. In fact, much
more so than the few books that I
have bothered to read on
astrology. However, I must confess that
I wasn't convinced. There is something
about astrology and astrological supposition which leaves me cold. Perhaps I have other superstitions?
KELVIN:
What
makes
you so sure that it's a superstition?
DAVID:
Well,
it
isn't exactly a science, is it?
There seem to be so many vague conjectures involved with the
interpretation of planets and signs that one is left with scarcely
anything
concrete to stand on. Why, for instance,
should one believe that a planet called Mars necessarily has any direct
connection with war? Or that a planet
called Mercury should likewise have any direct connection with
communication? If the ancients chose to
honour the then-known planets with such fancy names, that by no means
proves
that those planets actually possessed the qualities or attributes
usually
associated with them! How can a mass of
inert matter possibly have anything to do with love or war or
communication or
whatever? One might just as well re-name
the planets and give them quite different attributes, as believe in the
authenticity of the traditional ones!
What difference would it make to Mars, for example, if I were to
rename
it Gold, and thereupon declare that, henceforth, all those people born
under
its influence would have a marked predilection for collecting precious
things
and/or making money? Doubtless the
planet would continue on its way as before, but astrologers would be
compelled
to alter their predictions, assumptions, and solicitations in
accordance with
the symbolic attributes of its new name.
Now if I were to extend this re-naming to all the other known
planets as
well, then astrologers would be obliged to abandon virtually everything
they
had formerly believed about them. They
would be forced into adopting an entirely new approach to their
interpretations.
KELVIN:
Yes,
your
argument sounds quite feasible if one merely assumes that the
planets
only received their names in a rather arbitrary manner, i.e. that an
ancient
astronomer thought he might as well call the second planet from the sun
Venus
as anything else, or that he might as well call the fourth planet from
it Mars
as anything else, and then add the respective attributes of the Roman
gods to
them. But it is quite inadequate if one
also considers the possibility that the planets only received their
names after
the
general tendencies of their respective influences, or 'principles', had
been
taken into account. In other words, it
seems more than likely that people born under the sway of a given
pattern of
planetary influence were later found to possess certain basic
character-traits
which somehow corresponded to this periodically recurrent pattern and
which, on
deeper investigation, could be assumed to derive from one planet in
particular
- namely, the one most prominent at the time of their birth. Hence a name and attendant quality were then
given to that planet which accorded with what was believed to be its
general influence,
and some of the people subsequently born under a similar pattern were
later
analysed in the same light, in order that budding astrologers and
established
astronomers might confirm the reappearance of certain basic character
traits
peculiar to them.
DAVID:
What
makes
you so confident that the ancients actually bothered to study the
behaviour of such people or, for that matter, to name the planets only after
they had
investigated what they believed to be their respective influences?
KELVIN:
The
realization,
I suppose, that one shouldn't underestimate the ability
and
ingenuity of the ancients! Admittedly,
one cannot be absolutely certain, in the absence of proper historical
data,
that this was what actually transpired.
But where such men as Thales,
Pythagoras,
Anaxagoras, Plato, Aristotle, Hippocrates, Hipparchus,
Ptolemy,
Plotinus, Porphyry, and Maternus
are concerned, one can be quite certain that an arbitrary or
superficial
appreciation of the heavenly bodies wouldn't have satisfied them!
DAVID:
So
you
evidently believe that astrology isn't just a superstition but
something
that, although officially not a science, nevertheless aspires to the
truth?
KELVIN:
Yes,
I
would certainly say that there is some truth in it.
As you know, I'm not the easiest person to
convince where religious, extraterrestrial, or occult phenomena are
concerned,
and I certainly make no claims to a special esoteric knowledge of such
matters! But even though I may regard
astrological investigations, contentions, and suppositions with a
critical eye
and a sceptical detachment, I'm by no means dogmatically opposed to
them! Quite the contrary, it appears more
than
evident to me that many of those who are
such are
either partisan specialists too busy furthering their own cause to have
much
sympathy or time to spare on other causes or, alternatively, ordinary
people
who desire to have their ignorance of astrological practice regarded as
profundity, and who are only too ready, in consequence, to participate
in or
listen to the first argument against it which vindicates their
ignorance and
bolsters their self-esteem. But a
dogmatic denial founded on either partisanship or ignorance is hardly
sufficient to convince one of its legitimacy and validity - not,
anyway, from
an astrologer's viewpoint! Ultimately,
it is only the astrologers themselves whom one can take seriously, just
as,
with regard to medical science, it's only the doctors one can take
seriously. It would be a fine thing if
the validity of medical practice depended upon the judgements of
painters,
clerks, builders, or bus drivers, wouldn't it?
DAVID:
Maybe,
but
I have a distinct recollection of disappointment in mind concerning
a time when I once paid a visit to an astrologer and was duly informed
that
certain 'events' would occur to me in the near future, events
concerning money,
companionship, business, health, travel, et cetera, of an optimistic,
not to
say extremely promising, nature, which, not surprisingly, I was only
too
pleased to hear about. But do you know
what happened? Nothing!
None of them came true. My position
in life remained almost exactly
the same as before and, except for the appearance of my wife just over
a year
ago, it still hasn't changed very much to this day.
So I have a fairly good reason, I would
think, to be highly sceptical about the validity and authenticity of
astrology!
KELVIN:
Strange
to
say, the same kind of thing happened to me too.
But even so, it doesn't necessarily mean that
astrology is a hoax. For all we know, it
could simply mean that one was hoaxed by a quack astrologer, just as
one can be
hoaxed by a quack doctor. There are
doubtless a fair number of such people in the world, especially now
that -
partly on account of the decline of belief in Christianity -
spiritualism,
mysticism, occultism, and other kindred subjects are on the rise, and
the
metaphysical need or capacity in man is consequently being channelled
into
various esoteric, tangential, and traditionally 'unapproved' spheres. But the word 'quack' is, in itself, somewhat
misleading. For it could just as easily
have been the case that the astrologers whom we visited were relatively
inexperienced, that they hadn't acquired a thorough knowledge or grasp
of their
craft, and consequently made some serious mistakes in their
calculations. After all, even a
highly-trained and
long-experienced astrologer can occasionally make a mistake with regard
to his
computation, charting, aspects, progressions, interpretations, and the
like,
considering that no-one is infallible.
Of course, a conscientious astrologer probably realizes that the
reputation of his somewhat maligned profession is further jeopardized
if he
makes a mistake. But, there again, we
lay people have no reason to believe that astrology is a hoax if, in
fact, he
does make a mistake. Let us rather
assume, to begin with, that he was simply at fault, and then try our
luck
elsewhere. Besides, I'm only too
well-aware, at present, of how easy it would be for a relatively
inexperienced
person to make miscalculations, and I dare say that if you bothered to
investigate the astrological textbook you're still holding in your
hands, you,
too, would be quite amazed by the number of complex technical
considerations
which have to be taken into account.
Even with a D.F.Astrol.S., the
official
diploma of astrology, one is little more than a beginner if one hasn't
also had
regular professional experience in the matter.
DAVID:
Yes,
there
are certainly a lot more mathematical, geometrical, geographical,
and
planetary things to consider than I had previously imagined. The few books I have
read on
the subject were much more popular and correspondingly much less
technical than
this! They merely gave one the general
theoretical outlines of each sign and planet, and then drew-up a number
of fairly
commonplace remarks as to the supposedly fundamental nature of Librans,
Taureans, Scorpios, Virgos, Capricorns, and
so on, without
bothering to inform one exactly why
it was
believed that these signs signified particular inclinations. Fortunately, I can never be convinced of
anything unless I'm given ample proof of the reasons behind
such-and-such a
conclusion, and, as it happened, these books required much too much
faith or
trust for my liking. By the way, what is
your sign?
KELVIN:
Libra,
I
am afraid. Like Oscar Wilde,
Arthur Rimbaud, and Friedrich Nietzsche.
DAVID:
Good
God! Don't tell me you actually make a
point of knowing the signs of famous writers?
KELVIN:
I'm
afraid
so!
DAVID:
(Going
across to Kelvin's bookcase) Then what
was James
Joyce?
KELVIN:
Aquarius,
like
Stendhal and Schopenhauer - men of an intensely independent,
original, perverse, and freedom-loving turn of mind!
DAVID:
And
Emerson?
KELVIN:
Gemini,
like
de Sade.
DAVID:
And
Camus?
KELVIN:
Scorpio,
like
Gide, his early idol.
DAVID:
KELVIN:
Cancer.
DAVID:
Baudelaire?
KELVIN:
Aries.
DAVID:
Really? That is interesting!
And what about Carlyle?
KELVIN:
Sagittarius,
the
expansive ones. Like
Jim Morrison, author of The
Lords
and The New Creatures and lead
singer with The Doors.
DAVID:
I
see. And do they each correspond to
their respective signs as, apparently, they ought to?
KELVIN:
Yes,
by
and large, although with some reservations. I
don't
know the exact times of their
respective births, so it would be quite impossible for me to give you
an
accurate interpretation, even if I were qualified to do so, which, as
you're
probably aware, I'm most certainly not!
But, taking their respective signs into account, and using such
knowledge of astrology as I have
acquired
these past few weeks, I would certainly say that each of them
corresponds to
the general attributes of his sign as much as one might expect him to
do. For instance, I said of Joyce,
Stendhal, and
Schopenhauer that they were all Aquarians, didn't I?
DAVID:
You
did.
KELVIN:
Well,
without
going into details which you won't understand, they are of the
'Air Triplicity', i.e. Gemini, Libra, and
Aquarius, and may thus be regarded as
belonging to the predominantly
intellectual and communicative group. In
addition, they are of the 'Fixed Quadruplicity',
i.e.
Taurus,
Scorpio, Leo, and Aquarius, and may
accordingly be regarded as belonging to the group most resistant to
change. Lastly, Aquarius is a 'Positive
Sign', as are all the alternate signs from Aries to Pisces, and is thus
associated
with self-expression rather than self-repression. Now,
without
complicating the issue any
further, one can see that Joyce, particularly in light of his two major
works Ulysses
and
Finnegans Wake, was of an intensely
independent, original, perverse, and freedom-loving turn of mind - four
qualities, remember, which are inextricably bound-up with the
psychology of the
typical Aquarian. As indicated by the
'Air Triplicity', he was predominantly
intellectual
and communicative rather than, for example, spiritual, emotional,
dreamy, or
regal, as can easily be verified by the general trend of his work. Furthermore, the 'Fixed Quadruplicity'
indicates
a
tendency to fixity or resistance to change which, to take a single
example, we find exemplified by the length of time he spent writing his
two
major books. Then, of course, the
self-expression, particularly with regard to Ulysses, is only
too
evident, as is the rebelliousness - another strong Aquarian trait
which, in
Joyce's case, focuses much of its attention on both the Catholic Church
and the
social climate of
DAVID:
Schopenhauer
the
greatest philosopher of the modern age! Are
you
kidding? What about Nietzsche,
Bradley, James, Bergson, Russell, Sartre,
or Joad? Admittedly,
he
may be greater than most of
the established philosophers of this or the previous century. But to imply that he is greater than Nietzsche ...
KELVIN:
I
am
quite convinced of it actually, and would be prepared to go beyond
implication to a categorical assertion of the fact.
Of course, you are well aware that some of
Nietzsche's work greatly appeals to me, and I wouldn't wish to
underrate his
considerable influence on contemporary thought.
But the fact nevertheless remains that, by strictly
philosophical
standards, much of his work leaves something to be desired,
particularly when
analysed from a detached, deliberative, and scientific point-of-view! No, anyone who has studied The
World
as
Will and Representation in its entirety will be
aware of
something which should settle the issue of the relative merits of these
two
thinkers once and for all!
DAVID:
Oh,
and
what, precisely, is that?
KELVIN:
A
knowledge
of the fact that if one is to arrive at a fairly stable,
logical,
fair, and accurate conclusion about anything, the Will should be kept
in the
background as much as possible, so that the intellect, freed from the
distorting intrusions of passions, emotions, prejudices, feelings, et
cetera,
may range unhindered over the subject to hand, and thus arrive at
orderly and
objective findings. If the Will intrudes
overmuch, then the intellect may well be proportionately coloured or
distorted,
and an accurate or fair judgement of the issue at stake will be
virtually
impossible to achieve. One need only
think of how one's judgement is impaired by the emotion of anger, to
get a fair
understanding of what I'm driving at! In
this rather extreme case, the emotion is so violent that one is rightly
accused
of 'losing one's head' or of being 'blinded by rage'.
Thus for a purely objective, analytical,
philosophical appreciation of things, the Will must be subdued as much
as
possible.
DAVID:
I
see. But what connection, exactly, does
this have with Nietzsche?
KELVIN:
The very important connection that in
Nietzsche's works
there are far too many italicized words and exclamation marks in
evidence to
suggest that he wrote from a purely objective, will-less point of view. One cannot sprinkle exclamation marks all
over the text if the emotions are not deeply involved.
And if they are deeply involved - as would
certainly seem to be so in Nietzsche's case - then one cannot expect
the
intellect to remain unclouded by them, to escape the relative
distortion which
they'll engender. Hence exaggeration
will take the place of a cool appraisal of whatever is being discussed,
and the
true philosophical temper of detached objectivity will be rendered
virtually
impossible. We can learn all this from
ordinary day-to-day experience. But if
we are slow at learning from such experience, we must turn to
Schopenhauer, the
true philosopher, and see for ourselves that the man who formulated The
World
as
Will and Representation, the Parerga
and Paralipomena, and other such
outstandingly objective
works, usually knew how to keep his Will in place and to exploit his
Aquarian
temperament to extraordinary effect. By
comparison, Nietzsche was only partly a philosopher.
For, in addition to being a musicologist,
philologist, social critic, and autobiographer,
he
was
also a literary artist, and a rather
fine one
too! Few writers before him have
stirred-up the passions to such a high degree or given rise to so much
controversy, and, in the final analysis, it is always the artist, the
man of
passion, who pays tribute to the life-force by bringing a higher degree
of life
to others, regardless of whether or not he is to some extent
sacrificing the
truth.
DAVID:
But
even
if what you say happens to be true, you must remember that
Schopenhauer
was largely pessimistic, whereas Nietzsche was mainly optimistic and
therefore
much more acceptable to the public. In
many respects, Schopenhauer was a classical crank, the last and most
reactionary of the objective philosophers, and thus the natural enemy
of that
passionate subjectivity which Nietzsche was to pioneer as perhaps the
first of the
truly modern philosophers. In fact, less a philosopher than an expressionistic
anti-philosopher.
KELVIN:
Ah,
but
from what I was able to gather from a recent conversation with you,
it's
only the 'Penguin Classics' edition of his work, published under the
title Essays
and
Aphorisms, that you've read, the selection taken from the second
volume of
the Parerga and Paralipomena,
in
consequence
of which you lack a comprehensive knowledge of his oeuvre.
The idea of Schopenhauer the pessimist -
partly promulgated by Nietzsche in his lopsided defiance of everything
he had
formerly believed in - is much too prevalent these days and tends to
distort
his true image. In actual fact, only a
tiny percentage of Schopenhauer's entire output, probably no more than
a tenth
of it, is directly connected with pessimism. For by far the greater part of it deals with
purely objective considerations of such subjects as genius, madness,
idealism,
the senses, the intellect, metaphysics, art, music, poetry, history,
heredity,
love, religion, the thing-in-itself, Kant's philosophy, politics, and
so
on. So the actual part played by
pessimism - a by-no-means illegitimate or unreasonable part - is
scarcely
enough, in my opinion, to secure him the eternal epithet of 'pessimist'. By contrast, Nietzsche's so-called optimism
was really a self-preservative measure, a violent reaction against his
former
self, against a nihilistic, pessimistic, pathological, neurotic, and
deeply
painful state-of-mind which would probably have driven him to suicide
had he
not experienced a 'conversion' - analogous to Harry Haller's conversion
in Hesse's great Nietzschean
novel Steppenwolf
- and thereupon decided to adopt an amor
fati, a love-of-fate approach to life and,
accordingly,
turn his back on everything, including his youthful admiration of
Schopenhauer
and Wagner, which had constituted so deep a part of his former self. Unfortunately for him, however, he took his
love of fate too far. For his admirable
dictum that Man is something that should be overcome acquired a
perverse twist
and eventually became his personal fate, in that he literally
'overcame'
himself by suffering an irreversible breakdown which remained his fate
for the
last eleven years of his life.
DAVID:
Yes,
in
consequence, apparently, of a syphilitic infection he contracted as
a youth!
KELVIN:
That
may
well be, though I haven't found any mention of it in his many
autobiographical writings, including his letters, and am consequently
more
inclined to believe that he simply over-worked, since he not only wrote
Twilight
of
the
Idols, The Anti-Christ, The Wagner Case, Ecce Homo, Nietzsche
contra
Wagner, Dithyrambs and Dionysus, and numerous letters to friends,
publishers, editors, et cetera, in 1888, but, to cap it all, he wrote
by far
the greater part of what has subsequently become that immense tome The
Will
to
Power as well! No
wonder he suffered an irreversible breakdown in January 1889!
DAVID:
Yes,
but
when you consider the vast amount of work he got through in the
space of a
single decade, and then compare that to the comparatively small amount
of work
done by Schopenhauer over the best part of five decades, it's only too
obvious
that Nietzsche was by far the more creative, and thus highly gifted, of
the
two.
KELVIN:
Perhaps. Though it would probably have
been better for both him and us if he had written less and deliberated
more! But that wouldn't have been in
accordance, seemingly, with his fiery temperament!
Still, one oughtn't to allow quantity to take
over from quality. If today he is more
popular than Schopenhauer, it is primarily because his writings are
easier to
understand, because much of his work appeals to the emotions more than
to
reason, because of the 'mythic value' of his tragic life and collapse,
and
because of the many strong polemical points he made against his great
predecessor. As I said earlier,
Nietzsche was more of an artist, more spontaneous and excitable, and
certainly
less academic than a majority of theoretical writers either before or
since. So it's not particularly
surprising to me that he should command a wider public than
Schopenhauer. But that doesn't make him a
greater
philosopher! On the contrary, one can
see why the greatest philosophers are less well-known and appreciated
when one
bears in mind the complexity of their work.
Yet Schopenhauer's greatness also lay in the fact that he didn't
allow
his work to become too
complex but reduced the number of
technical expressions to a bare minimum, even if, by way of
compensation, he
inserted far more Greek and Latin citations than virtually any other
modern
philosopher, with the possible exception of Heidegger.
But there is a considerable difference
between writing authentic philosophy, which necessarily requires and
engenders
a certain level of complexity, and juggling with words in a manner that
suggests profundity, but is really designed to compensate for a lack of
it. If a man has something worthwhile to
say, he won't endeavour to hide it behind a mass of complications and
contradictions, like some contemporary philosophers, but will
communicate it to
his readers in the most appropriate manner possible.
I need hardly remind you that Schopenhauer
had no sympathy for the complicators, or
obscure
ones, and one can be sure that there are a fair number of
twentieth-century
philosophers who would have failed to please him on that account! Indeed, I would give anything to know what
his opinion of the works of certain more recent philosophers would be
if, by
some magical decree, we could enable him to return from the grave and
investigate some of the philosophical developments which have taken
place in
the meantime.
DAVID:
It's
just
as well, in my humble opinion, that he
can't come
back. For he would definitely be
annoyed, if not affronted, by various of
the remarks
Nietzsche made against him, especially those concerning his pessimism.
KELVIN:
Yes,
I
dare say he would. Although I am
also aware that some of Nietzsche's criticisms were fully justified! However, I think Schopenhauer would be more
puzzled by The
Anti-Christ and similar writings than by
anything else, particularly in view of the fact that Nietzsche had
studied The
World as Will and Representation and therefore ought to have known
about that
very fine essay entitled 'Man's need of Metaphysics', with its
acknowledgement
of the metaphysics of the people.
DAVID:
I'm
afraid
I don't quite follow you there.
KELVIN:
Well,
to
cut a long explanation short, let us just say that
metaphysics-proper
has to do with philosophy, metaphysics of the people, by contrast, with
religion. Thus there is a metaphysics for the Few and a metaphysics for
the Many.
DAVID:
Agreed!
KELVIN:
Well,
what
was a philosopher doing meddling with the metaphysics of the
people,
i.e. with Christianity, when, by rights, he should have accepted the
legitimacy
of such a metaphysics and consequently
turned his
attention back to philosophy?
DAVID:
Taking
revenge
on the priests, I suppose.
You must remember that philosophy has often been undermined and
perverted by the influence of the majority metaphysics, and that its
expositors
have often been persecuted, killed, outlawed, severely cautioned, or
made to
compromise themselves in a manner which, in the long-run, could only
have disastrous
consequences for both philosophy and religion.
However, in Nietzsche's case, you could say that philosophy was
standing-up for itself and simultaneously getting its own back on
religion. Instead of compromising himself
by serving
the interests of Christianity, as a majority of Western philosophers
had done
before him, Nietzsche purposely went out of his way to undermine and
slander
it, to eliminate the entire trend or tradition of philosophical
compromise, and
thus champion the rights of the Few, as opposed to those of the Many.
KELVIN:
Yes,
I
realize all that! But, even so,
it's as unworthy of one who writes for the Few to attack the
metaphysics of the
Many as ... of one who writes for the Many to attack the metaphysics of
the
Few. It is unworthy of a true
philosopher because, in light of the intellectual differences which
exist
between men, both kinds of metaphysics are equally justified and, no
matter
what guise they may take, there must always be one kind of metaphysics
that
interprets the Truth - insofar as we're capable of understanding it -
in a
direct, or factual, way and, conversely, another kind of metaphysics
which
interprets the Truth in an indirect, or allegorical, way.
Now Schopenhauer wasn't, strictly speaking, a
Christian. Nevertheless he knew well
enough that the common people were entitled to a
metaphysics
different from philosophy, which granted them aspects of the Truth in a
simplified, non-factual, figurative kind of way. With
The
Anti-Christ, however, it's as
though Nietzsche, as a philosopher, was writing for the Many against
their
metaphysics rather than for the Few against an earlier philosophy. In other words, there is a contradiction
involved, quite as though, in ‘revaluating all values’, Nietzsche
unconsciously
confounded the values of philosophy with those of religion and
thereupon
divided himself between them. But the
philosopher's proper task is not, as previously noted, to meddle with
the
metaphysics of the people, but to propound his own philosophy in
opposition to
and/or as an extension of one or more of the various philosophies which
have
preceded him. Admittedly, to some extent
Nietzsche did in fact do so. But he
wasn't enough of a philosopher to prevent his emotions and prejudices
from
taking the lead, from time to time, and, consequently, he was driven
into the
realms of artistic exaggeration and romanticism. Indeed,
I'm
not at all surprised that, as his
intellectual fatality gradually deepened and he realized where his true
inclinations lay, he subsequently turned against many of Schopenhauer's
viewpoints. For it's
only natural, after all, that one should endeavour to defend oneself
against
those who threaten to refute or contradict one's theories and, if
possible,
turn as many people away from their work as possible.
Now this is certainly what the mature
Nietzsche attempted to do as regards Schopenhauer and, to an even
greater
extent, the Scottish writer, Thomas Carlyle.
DAVID:
Really? But I thought that Carlyle was
against Christianity, an atheist who wanted people to throw off their
old
spiritual garments and emancipate themselves from the clutches of a
dying
society.
KELVIN:
No,
not
entirely. For although he may have
been against Christianity as it existed during his time, he certainly
wasn't
against a metaphysics of the people per
se, as Nietzsche would
appear to have been. Religion for
Carlyle wasn't something that could be done away with, in order that
people
might live happily ever after. For such
an assumption would have presupposed the impossible - namely, that the
metaphysical need in the average man could be eliminated.
No, it was precisely what appeared to be the
inadequacy of the then-current metaphysics of the people that Carlyle
was
particularly worried about. Thus he
wanted people to throw off the old, dead metaphysics and subsequently
step into
a new, healthier and better metaphysics.
Although he didn't have many useful suggestions to make as to
the exact
nature of this other - not, anyway, unless you take his socialistic
philosophy
of hard work as its cornerstone! One
finds in Chapter Five of Book Three of Sartor
Resartus the basis of his discontent
with the old
metaphysics and hope that, during the process of its ultimate
dissolution, a
new metaphysical integrity would arise out of it, phoenix-like, to
bring fresh
hope and life to an ailing society. With
Carlyle, there is no attempt to proclaim the 'death of God', as with
Nietzsche,
but, rather, a tendency to lament over the misuse and neglect of
Western man's
relationship to a deity, as apparent in his day. Thus
one
can quite understand why Nietzsche,
in his iconoclastic rage against everything Christian, became somewhat
contemptuous of Carlyle's insistence on the establishment of a new
metaphysics,
believing, as he must, that it would only lead to a resurrection or
prolongation of man's relationship to God - the very thing that he was
busily
undermining in Thus Spoke Zarathustra,
The
Anti-Christ,
Twilight of the Idols, and similar writings. With
Carlyle, the idea that 'God is dead'
wouldn't
have been a matter for rejoicing but, rather, for lamenting, since he
loathed
the mechanistic and utilitarian trends that were everywhere in
full-swing in
consequence of the Industrial Revolution.
Admittedly, Nietzsche wasn't exactly enamoured of them either! But his attitude to Christianity was even
more hostile, and ultimately suggested, unlike Carlyle, that religion
was
largely to blame for them.
DAVID:
Was
Carlyle
a genuine philosopher?
KELVIN:
No,
for
like most Sagittarians he was much too expansive to remain wholly
in the
mould of philosophy, unlike his great compatriot, David Hume, a
generation or
two before. One finds Carlyle branching
out into literature, biographies, travelogues, histories, criticisms,
essays,
letters, speeches, reminiscences, diaries, and so on, with a dash of
philosophy
thrown-in for good measure. As in the case, for example, of the Sartor Resartus
- a work which, for all its
theorizing, is predominantly literary.
No, genuine philosophers are rather few-and-far-between, which
is only
to be expected where such a difficult subject is concerned, and in a
world,
moreover, where the vast majority of intellectual writers are obliged
to earn
their living in a somewhat more commercial vein. Schopenhauer
was
fortunate enough to inherit
a large patrimony, following the suicide of his father.
But the vast majority of modern writers have
to struggle for a living, and philosophy is certainly not the best way
to go
about doing that! Of course, to be a
genuine philosopher, it isn't enough that one should only write in a
philosophical manner, with due attention to logical consistency. One has to write great philosophy, and not
just juggle with words. But I don't want
to go into the details of that subject here.
It suffices if we regard men like Hume, Locke, Kant, and
Schopenhauer as
genuine philosophers.
DAVID:
Hmm,
which
reminds me of what you contended earlier about Schopenhauer being
the
greatest of the moderns. I am inclined
to concede now that, in strictly philosophical terms, he was greater
than
Nietzsche and arguably greater than such philosophers as Berkeley,
Descartes,
Leibniz, Condorcet, Helvetius,
Spinoza,
Hegel,
and Mill. But as regards
Bertrand Russell, Sartre, Camus, Bergson,
Kierkegaard, Heidegger, and John Cowper Powys ... I'm not so sure. On what criterion do you base your
contention?
KELVIN:
On
a
number of criteria actually, the most important of which must surely
be that,
with a little indirect help from Hume and Kant, he evolved a rather
fine system
of philosophy and maintained a firm allegiance to it throughout his
professional life. Now Bertrand Russell
may well be the greatest British thinker since Hume, but he isn't by
any means
a pure philosopher, and he certainly hasn't evolved a systematic
methodology. There is a great deal of
the mathematician, scientist, general essayist, sociologist,
politician,
economist, autobiographer, and even artist
- he wrote
several short stories - about him. Now
although I have little doubt that a philosopher should comment on a
wide range
of topics, there is surely a limit as to how far he can comment on them
without
ceasing to be a philosopher.
Undoubtedly, Bertrand Russell is one of the greatest writers of
the
modern age, but, on serious reflection, I do not think that he is the
greatest
philosopher of it. He is much too
diversified for that! And as for
Jean-Paul Sartre, I would say that he is also much too diversified to
be
considered a genuine philosopher. As a
novelist, short-story writer, critic, essayist, playwright, biographer,
autobiographer, journalist, and editor, he
undoubtedly
ranks with the greatest writers of the twentieth century.
But I hardly think that his two principal
philosophical works, Being
and
Nothingness and A Critique of
Dialectical Reason, really qualify him to be regarded as the
greatest
philosopher of modern times either, even if he is arguably the greatest
late-twentieth century French philosopher.
Taking our previous estimation of a philosopher into account, it
seems
only fair to conclude that Sartre's various literary achievements have
no more
entitlement to a place in the world of philosophy than do the various
literary
achievements of anyone else. And the
same, of course, applies to Albert Camus,
a man whose
literary work far outshines his philosophical creations, including The
Rebel
and
The Myth of Sisyphus.
Besides, there is something about the so-called 'philosophy of
the
absurd' which is rather absurd in itself and which, in its apparent
supposition
that man is in the world but not of it,
accordingly
gives rise to a certain bewilderment.
DAVID:
Oh, and why is that, exactly?
KELVIN:
Because
I
don't understand how a person who was born into this world can
possibly fail to be of
it. If, however, one were transported
to the moon
one could certainly be said to be in that world or, at
any rate, on
that planet but not of it, because one would require,
amongst
other things, the use of a special breathing apparatus and
suitably-weighted
attire to be able to survive there. But
here on earth where, if one overrules the inconvenience of daily
pollution, one
can breathe perfectly well without requiring the aid of any artificial
breathing apparatus and, except in a very high gale-force wind, walk
about
without running the risk of coming unstuck from the pavement or grass,
and
floating off into space, it strikes me as quite absurd to suggest that
we are
not of it. Admittedly,
we're not earth, stones, rocks, trees, or lakes. But,
then
again, neither are any of our
fellow inhabitants - the animals, birds, fish, and insects - who are
all
creatures incapable of thinking about the absurd.
DAVID:
But
isn't
it highly probable that so much of this recent absurdist and
existentialist speculation is a direct consequence of Nietzsche's
dictum that
'God is dead' and that, as a result of this deplorable fact, or this
fatuous
notion, as you prefer, modern man finds himself trapped in a godless
world with
a meaningless universe all around him?
In short, that everything has become exactly what Carlyle feared
it
would - a sort of boundless mechanistic desert?
KELVIN:
Yes,
this
is an idea which has certainly played its part in
twentieth-century
philosophy. But it has also over-played
itself and, from what I've gathered during the course of my studies, I
doubt
very much that Nietzsche would now feel any great sympathy towards it. In Carlyle's case - yes, it would have a
definite appeal. However, for Nietzsche,
who overcame his nihilism and whose mature philosophy is largely
expressive of
one who rejoices in the fact that he has personally overthrown God and
thereby
set mankind on a new, independent, and self-reliant course, it could
only
engender repugnance. In this respect,
Bertrand Russell is a worthier disciple of Nietzsche than either Camus or Sartre, though he probably wouldn't
have wanted to
advertise the fact. However, one can
only base one's opinion of a given writer on what one has already read
by him,
irrespective of the likelihood that he may have changed his viewpoint
in the
meantime, and consequently become quite different from what one
superficially
imagines him to be, on the basis of a few long-published works. I dare say, for instance, that if Camus were alive today he would be writing along
quite
different lines from those to which he dedicated himself during and
just after
the Second World War. If I now had to
live through something similar to him, there would be a strong
possibility that
such a subject as the absurdity of modern life would have more
influence on me
than it does at present. But that is to
a large extent beside-the-point, and something one ought not to
consider too
thoroughly, if one wants to retain one's criticisms!
Curiously enough, it is usually only one's
favourite authors that one criticizes anyway, much as one criticizes
one's brothers,
sisters, parents, friends, lovers, et cetera, because they are the only
people
whom one is really in a position to criticize.
Indeed, when one is in a critical mood one criticizes even
oneself, and
sometimes more than one criticizes anyone else or, conversely, than
anyone else
criticizes one. Which
is sufficient proof of the fact that one shouldn't allow oneself to be
misled
into imagining that an author who criticizes something in the work of
another
author necessarily dislikes either him or his work.
After all, Nietzsche certainly criticized
Schopenhauer a lot in later years, yet no-one could have been more
enthusiastic
about Schopenhauer in his youth than him!
DAVID:
A
thing
which would indicate how much he changed over the years.
KELVIN:
Yes,
and
also the extent of his knowledge of Schopenhauer's work and thus,
by a
curious paradox, his dependence on it.
But to continue our discussion of the relative merits of the
various
philosophers, I think you can now see why I regard Schopenhauer so
highly,
particularly in light of his continuous, not to say exclusive,
commitment to
philosophy. Even John Cowper Powys is
only a minor philosopher by comparison.
For by far the greater part of his considerable oeuvre is of a
distinctly literary nature, and no more entitles him to be considered
the
worthy inheritor of Schopenhauer's crown than do the literary works of
Sartre
and Camus or, for that matter, of Arthur Koestler. As,
however, for Kierkegaard, Bergson,
Jaspers, Hussurl, James, Bradley, Moore, Joad,
Berlin, and Popper, each of whom is more strictly in the philosophical
tradition than any of the above-mentioned writers, the plot becomes
increasingly complex and the rivalry more intense, though I don't
seriously
believe that any of these men ultimately wins out, irrespective of the
intermittent flashes of genius from Bergson
and
Moore. Unfortunately, I must confess to
not having read a great deal of either Bradley or James, and that there
are
also some other modern philosophers, including Heidegger and
Wittgenstein, whom
I can scarcely bear reading at all! But
I don't think that fact would lead me to alter my opinion very much. These days it is so easy for the philosopher
to become swallowed-up by the psychologist, sociologist, behavioural
scientist,
biologist, educationalist, mathematician, essayist, and even artist ...
that
it's often exceedingly difficult to know exactly where the one begins
and the
other ends. But, despite the fact that
the roles and boundaries of philosophy are constantly being modified in
accordance with the dictates of the age, one should never forget that
the true
philosopher is always a rare product, and that he is usually
outnumbered at
least 100/1 by the scientists, educationalists, essayists, artists, et
cetera,
whose investigations may sometimes overlap with his own.
It is hard enough to find an age with an
abundance of great artists - say, poets and novelists.
But to find an age with an abundance of great
philosophers ... is virtually impossible!
Even the ancient Greeks, masters of the dialectic as they were,
only
produced three really outstanding ones, viz. Plato, Aristotle, and
Socrates,
and since then there has never been any shortage of people ready to
find fault
with them,
including
Schopenhauer and Nietzsche. In
truth, men are much easier to entertain
than to instruct, the reason being that entertainment is more closely
bound to
the perceptual than to the conceptual, and the perceptual is everywhere
the
root condition of things, against which the conceptual, and the highly
conceptual above all, is a sort of Christian 'rebirth' or Nietzschean
‘revaluation’. As soon as someone begins
to instruct one in philosophy, one is automatically put on one's guard
against
both correct and incorrect knowledge which appears to contradict one's
own
knowledge or nature or even lifestyle, and there is rarely any shortage
of
either! But we have discussed this
confounded subject of philosophy and the relative merits of
philosophers quite
long enough! I'm even beginning to feel
that I have convinced you of the validity of my argument, since you
haven't
bothered to interrupt me for some time.
You did say something about Nietzsche having changed so much,
but that
can hardly be regarded as an interruption.
DAVID:
No,
in
actual fact I was thinking about astrology again, wondering whether
Aquarius
isn't the best sign for a philosopher to be born under.
It certainly appears to have worked in
Schopenhauer's favour, doesn't it?
KELVIN:
Indeed
it
does, although it's altogether doubtful that he would have given the
idea much credence, being, by nature, far too scientifically-minded to
dabble
in matters which may have superstitious or occult connections. Besides, astrology was nowhere near as
popular or prevalent in the mid-nineteenth century as today, and I
don't think
you will discover any reference to it in his works.
However, it does seem that, with the decline
of faith in Christianity, subjects like astrology, numerology, and
palmistry
have acquired a new impetus in the world; though it must remain highly
unlikely
that any of them will ever become the official metaphysics of the
people, just
as it must remain unlikely that any of the new so-called 'religions'
will,
since they mostly lack the requisite ingredients for a genuine
metaphysics. Indeed, some of them patently
contradict one
another, as do spiritualism and a belief in reincarnation.
For if one believes in a spirit world, it
seems fairly evident that reincarnation is ruled out, since one can
hardly
return to earth in the guise of another creature, human or animal, and
remain a
disembodied spirit at the same time, or vice
versa. Thus there is always a
subterranean warfare
going on between the various beliefs which corresponds, as a sort of
polar
antithesis, to the polemical warfare going on between the various
political
parties at any given time, and which resembles the same sordid scramble
for
power. Although they may pretend
otherwise while they are weak and dispersed, most of the sects involved
would
certainly like to be 'in power', to be regarded as representative of
the
official metaphysics of the people, and to have dominion over all the
others -
assuming the others would still be countenanced. After
all,
that is solely in accordance with
human nature, with the ambitions, as it were, of the various sects. But, oddly enough, I am quite satisfied with
the situation as we find it today, i.e. with so many conflicting
beliefs and
sects that none of them has complete dominion over the others and no
reason, in
consequence, to instigate wholesale purges or public executions in the
name of
the Truth and against the many 'heretics' who somehow remain
unconvinced of its
authenticity. Even the official
metaphysics, as represented by Christianity, is much less powerful than
it used
to be, and consequently much more tolerant of heretics and unbelievers. Perhaps that is the chief reason why, in some
countries, it appears to be making a greater effort at bringing the
various
denominations into closer unity, in order to make an ecumenical 'last
stand',
as it were, in the face of increasing Aquarian opposition as a single
body,
rather than as a number of separate limbs as much torn apart by
inter-unitary
conflict as by extra-unitary opposition.
However, whether there will then be a sort of spiritual Blücher to assist it,
remains to
be seen.
DAVID:
Perhaps
that
'spiritual Blücher', as you so arcanely put it, will be the Second Coming, come
back to
aid the faithful and divide the chaff from the wheat?
KELVIN:
Yes,
although
you know better than anyone that I am essentially a man of
philosophy, rather than of religion.
DAVID:
But
if
Schopenhauer is still right about philosophy being of interest only
to the
Few, he is certainly wrong about religion being of interest only to the
Many,
as can be verified by the dwindling numbers of church-goers and true
believers. It is quite evident that the
vast majority of ordinary people are nowhere near as Christian-minded
as were
their ancestors. Naturally, there are
still people who can't get along without a belief in God, but one
hesitates to
name them among the majority. It's only
too obvious that Schopenhauer's so-called metaphysics of the people is
really a
rather arbitrary definition for that which, in the majority of Western
nations,
transpires to being a metaphysics of a minority and, often enough, of a
bourgeois minority at that! If Karl Marx
hasn't taken over from Jesus Christ, where the majority of people are
concerned, I really don't know who the hell has! Perhaps
we
ought to extend the horizon of contemporary
religion until it encompasses everything from mystical intuition to
psychedelic
hallucinations; from trust in the 'born leader' to conversations with
the dead;
from belief in reincarnation to an explanation of the heavenly bodies
in terms
of astrological determinism; from a worship of one's favourite artists
or film
stars to a pantheistic identification with nature; from a regular
perusal of
wise sayings or teachings to several minutes' daily quiet and
stillness, et
cetera. By the way, I should be
interested to learn, in light of what you were saying about the
conflicts and
contradictions between the various esoteric sects, whether you would
give more
credence to reincarnation than to spiritualism, or vice
versa?
KELVIN:
I'm
afraid
that I shall have to disappoint you, since I give no credence to
either.
DAVID:
Oh,
and
why, exactly, is that?
KELVIN:
Because
I
don't understand how a spirit can come back to earth in the guise of
another being, still less how a spirit, i.e. a 'will' in Schopenhauer's
sense
of the term, devoid of intellect and thus of verbal self-consciousness,
can
possibly communicate with the living. It
may well be that the Will, as spirit and kernel of our true being, can
survive
bodily death. But if it does so without
self-consciousness, as Schopenhauer reasonably maintained, then one
might as
well abandon the idea of survival altogether, since one won't know
anything
about it. What is the use of an Eternal
Will without a consciousness to guide it?
Indeed, there is adequate indication in the second volume of The
World
as
Will and Representation that the word 'soul', as significant of
a fusion
of will and conceptual consciousness, was anathema to Schopenhauer, and
that he
expressly forbade future philosophers to make use of it because, unlike
every
philosopher before him, with the possible exception of Hume, he clearly
saw the
individual divided into will and intellect, into thing-in-itself and
phenomenon, into eternal and temporal, into that which is primary and
that
which is secondary, in complete opposition to the hitherto-accepted
belief that
the Will proceeded from the intellect and thus formed a unity, or soul,
of
which the body was antithesis. Now
spiritualists may use the term 'spirit' as opposed to 'soul', but the
whole
idea of communicating with a spirit presupposes the existence in that
spirit of
a knowing consciousness, hence a 'soul' in the worst possible sense of
the
word, which is capable of delivering messages, through a medium, to
those
present at the séance, or spiritualistic gathering.
Now my objection to this is based on the
realization that even if spirits did exist, they could only do so
without
consciousness and therefore with no possibility of being able to
communicate
with the living. For one cannot deliver
verbal messages without the assistance of an intellect, and one
certainly
cannot use the intellect unless, as a function of the brain, it is
being kept alive
by the regular pulsation of the heart and the concomitant flow of blood
through
the cerebral and other arteries. And I
certainly don't see how an alien spirit, deprived of consciousness,
would be
able to usurp the domain of one's own spirit and thereby make use of
one's
intellect as a means to establishing the requisite
spiritual/intellectual
integrity of a communicative being.
Hence it appears absolutely inadmissible to me that one should
ever be
in a position to communicate with spirits.
DAVID:
Well,
you
have made a fairly strong point there. Although
my
knowledge of Schopenhauer isn't
as profound as yours, and therefore I can't remember very much of what
he wrote
on the difference between will and intellect.
But perhaps you would now like to expatiate on your objection to
reincarnation?
KELVIN:
All
right,
but only after I have put a question to you first?
DAVID:
Sure,
go
ahead!
KELVIN:
What
do
you seriously suppose a spirit to be?
DAVID:
You
mean,
how do I visualize one?
KELVIN:
Precisely.
DAVID:
Well,
I'm
not absolutely sure. I suppose
one usually thinks of wills, spirits, or whatever in terms of the human
form, a
sort of transparent body ranging from the height of a child to that of
a
fully-grown adult. Even Schopenhauer
contended, if I remember correctly, that the Will isn't limited to the
brain or
head because, objectively considered, the brain is merely a function of
it, but
extends throughout the entire body - indeed, that the body was really
the
objectification of the Will as perceived by the mind, and that the
heart was
its chief symbol. Yes, so one can only
imagine a dead person's spirit as taking his physical shape and size.
KELVIN:
It
interests
me the way you speak of a 'will' when considering the living
but
instinctively rename it a 'spirit' when speaking of the dead. It seems as though one cannot imagine the
Will surviving death.
DAVID:
Yes,
that
is an odd thing, and I'm not at all sure that Schopenhauer really
appreciated the distinction! But, tell
me, has my definition of a spirit satisfied you, and, if so, do you
agree with
me on what I can only regard as a rather dubious hypothesis?
KELVIN:
I
do,
insofar as we're only assuming that spirits exist for the sake of
argument. And so we find ourselves with
the prospect of a man-sized spirit on our hands, a spirit which has
come
adrift, as it were, from someone's dead body and, without the
assistance of
either a brain or any senses, is now trying to find its way back to
life, back
to the land of the living. How it can
get about without such assistance, I really don't know.
But we must assume, for the sake of
continuing our argument, that it can. Now it seems unlikely that this hypothetical
spirit, this man-sized spirit of a dead person, will endeavour to find
its way
back to life in this world by, as it were, 'gate-crashing' a living
person,
presumably someone of the same sex. For
where there is already a spirit or, rather, will in operation, there's
hardly
room or cause for another! So the only way
it can return to this delightful world is presumably as a new-born baby. Thus it must await its turn in the queue, so
to speak, along with the many other spirits adrift in limbo, for a
suitable
opportunity, and not endeavour to force any couple on earth to start a
family
or extend the size of their existing family against their will or
before they
are ready. Only when its time has at
last arrived, and copulation without contraception is leading to
positive
results, can it surreptitiously force its way into the vagina of the
potential
mother and, having reached the womb, link-up with the sperm cells or
incipient
foetus of the potential baby and subsequently reappear, approximately
nine
months later, in the guise of a new-born child.
The parents will, of course, recognize this child as their own,
and they
will think, if familiar with Schopenhauer's metaphysics, that its
intellect, as
the secondary function, came from the mother, whereas its Will, as the
primary
function, came from the father, thereby altogether ruling out the
possibility
that an alien spirit may have previously and unknowingly installed
itself as
the legitimate Will. Now as the child
grows up and gradually manifests the parental inheritance in all of its
various
guises, is perceived, for instance, to have the father's nose but the
mother's
eyes, the father's build but the mother's hair, the father's moral
predilections but the mother's understanding, the parents will never
for a
moment doubt that it is their legitimate offspring, that it was given
life by
them and by them alone! But those who
believe, against all reason, in reincarnation know better, don't they? They know that the child's spirit came from
elsewhere and surreptitiously installed itself without either of the
parents
being in any degree aware of the fact.
They wouldn't like the idea that the Will came from the father,
because
that could imply that the child had two Wills which, even according to
their
dubious logical standards, is quite impossible.
Thus they disregard the father's influence, even though
everything about
copulation suggests that his influence cannot be disregarded so easily.
DAVID:
Enough! I quite understand why you
object to reincarnation, even though you talk about it in such a
serious and
seemingly convincing manner! Indeed, I'm
rather surprised that I ever took an interest in the subject. For I did once upon a
time,
when I was a credulous young adolescent intent upon getting to the
'truth' of
such esoteric doctrines, no matter by what circuitous paths. What amazes me is that I didn't think about
those sorts of considerations at all, but just blandly swallowed
everything
with a studious disregard for their intrinsic fallibility.
But those days, thank God, are past, and I
doubt if I shall ever again fall victim to any degree of intellectual
acquiescence in such matters - not, that is, unless I'm unfortunate
enough to
become thoroughly senile in old age!
KELVIN:
Heaven
forbid!
DAVID:
Well,
having
got this far with our discussion, I suppose we ought to continue
from where we left off about the spirits, for I am quite interested to
hear
what else you have to say about or, more accurately, against
them. We are still conveniently assuming
that
spirits exist, but you are quite opposed to the idea that (1) they can
communicate with the living; and (2) they can return to life on this
planet in
the guise of another person. Thus we are
faced with the problem of ascertaining exactly what they can
do, and on
this point it seems that we get very little help from Schopenhauer. For although he contended that the Will is
eternal, he left us with no idea as to what it would be most likely to do
in eternity.
KELVIN:
Quite,
since
it isn't something about which the living are in a position to
speculate with any degree of accuracy.
But I should be interested to know, in asking you another
question, whether
you believe in ghosts?
DAVID:
Certainly
not! How many intelligent
people actually believe in ghosts these days?
Scarcely anyone!
KELVIN:
Then
you're
aware that spirits and ghosts are really one and the same thing,
and that the word 'spirit' is merely a more sophisticated term for a
ghost?
DAVID:
Yes,
I
guess so. But what does that have to
do with the eternality of the Will?
Surely you're not suggesting that the word 'will' has even
greater
dignity than 'spirit', and thus removes us twice over, in fairly
Platonic
fashion, from ghosts?
KELVIN:
Indeed
I
am! For, like you, I find it
difficult to believe in ghosts, and if 'ghost', 'spirit', and 'will'
are all
indicative of the same thing, then I must confess to finding it no less
difficult to believe in the eternality of the Will, despite my genuine
admiration for Schopenhauer's work.
Admittedly, like you, I can conceive of the Will as the cardinal
force
behind every human being. But I
certainly cannot conceive of Will as the cardinal force behind itself! An Eternal Will - as character, drives,
passions, emotions, et cetera - without a body to serve, appears as
ridiculously impossible to me as would a living body without a Will to
guide
it. After all, it's only the brain, with
the aid of the senses and intellect, which makes it possible for the
Will to
respond to the information it receives in
either a
positive or a negative manner. It is
only a high level of consciousness which makes it possible for the will
to feel
either pleasure or pain, love or hate, sympathy or anger, respect or
contempt,
certainty or doubt, enthusiasm or apathy, et cetera, and if this level
of
consciousness is removed from it, as appears to be the case at death,
then it
is very difficult to see how the Will - as drives, passions, emotions,
et
cetera - can continue to function in its proper capacity - indeed, how
it can
continue to function at all! As I said
earlier, once one is deprived of consciousness, one is as good as
extinct. For the idea of an Eternal Will
is of little consolation
if there isn't going to be a mind to witness it. Even
Schopenhauer
has his contradictions on
this point. For, having claimed
somewhere that the Will is eternal, he goes on to assert, somewhere
else, that
it's virtually synonymous with the heart, that age-old symbol of the
soul
which, as we all know, ceases to function at death.
Of course, one can always use the word
'eternal' in a more down-to-earth sense, as significant of that which
is always
to be found in men or animals from generation to generation and which
undergoes
no fundamental change in itself, unlike certain parts of the organism. But that wasn't what Schopenhauer was driving
at, when he considered the Eternal, nor does it explain the differences
in
character between people, which he also attributes to the Will. However, as to the Christian notion of the
'equality of all souls', taking the word 'soul' as synonymous with
'will' and
not with 'will and intellect', one finds a fundamental truth there in
that
every soul or will is capable of expressing itself in terms of the
various
emotions and passions known to man - for example, that love, hate,
anger,
jealousy, fear, trust, joy, sorrow, doubt, compassion, respect, hope,
contempt,
malice, benevolence, et cetera, are
known to
everyone, although they may not be known to everyone to exactly the
same
extent. But, then again, one cannot
claim that everyone has the same character or temperament.
So, since the character is clearly a product
of the Will rather than of the intellect, the 'equality of all souls'
is
evidently a rather limited proposition - limited, that is, if one
regards it
from a purely scientific viewpoint, as opposed to the social viewpoint
of its
psychological aid to the oppressed over the centuries.
As a panacea for the humble and downtrodden,
the ugly and stupid, it has undoubtedly worked wonders!
DAVID:
And
usually
to the dismay of the ruling classes!
Be that as it may, there is something about the different types
of
character which has started me thinking along astrological lines again. I mean if, as you learnt from Schopenhauer,
character, as a product of the Will, is a direct inheritance from one's
father,
how, then, do you reconcile that with astrology, with a belief which
quite
emphatically maintains that one's character is to a large extent
governed and
determined by the planetary pattern existing at one's birth? Surely there is a contradiction involved here
which is almost as unpardonable as the contradiction concerning
reincarnation. For one obviously cannot be
the inheritor of
two characters, any more than one can be the inheritor of two wills! Either one acquires one's character from
one's father or one acquires it from the planets.
KELVIN:
That
is
a very good point and, in nine cases out of ten, I'm quite sure that
a
mother would be more willing to ascribe this important acquisition to
the
planets than to her husband! Now
although, as previously remarked, I'm not a real devotee of astrology,
I am
quite prepared to accept the idea that the planets may have some
relation to
one's character, but a relation or 'synchronization', as the
astrologers are
now calling it, which is entirely different from what one inherits from
one's
parents and, more especially, one's male progenitor.
This latter relation I assume to be largely
moral, whereas the former relation I assume to be largely amoral,
though not
immoral. Any comparison with one's
father will indicate that in certain respects of character one is quite
similar, whilst in certain other respects one is quite dissimilar, and
this
dissimilarity, usually consisting of what may be termed 'surface
traits', can
be ascribed, I think, more to the time of year at which one was born
than to
the influence of one's mother, which, in any case, seems - if
Schopenhauer is
to be believed - largely to do with the understanding.
Indeed, one might assume from this that only
those sons who were born at the same time of year as their father, and
therefore under a similar planetary configuration, would most resemble
him in
character. Thus a father and son who
were both Leonean, and hence proud, creative, commanding, generous,
strong-willed, dignified, fixed in their opinions, and so on, might
further
resemble each other in their moral outlook upon the world, in their
respective
artistic or scientific predilections, their politics, religion, class,
responsibility, humour, and any other traits which might correspond to
the
father's hereditary bequests. But, even
so, the influence of the mother still has to be reckoned with, and if
she is an
unusually intelligent woman, then the chances are pretty high that the
son will
be somewhat cleverer than his father and that some of his moral
characteristics
will be proportionately modified.
DAVID:
Well,
from
what little I know about astrology, I would certainly say that you
are doing your best, as a certified Libra, to strike a balance between
the
influences of planets and father as regards the shaping of character. A less 'balanced' person would probably settle
for either one or the other, not both!
I, at any rate, would definitely be more inclined to put my
money on the
father's influence. But if I told you
that I was an Aries, I suppose you'd be able to concoct an excuse for
dismissing my opinion on the basis of its lopsidedness and one-pointedness of aim, and for reminding me, in
suitably terse
terms, that, as a pioneer and firebrand, I'm congenitally unfit for
subtle
discussion! And I dare say that, if I'd
been born on Mars on April 15th, I would be considered even more unfit
for
subtle discussion!
KELVIN:
Not
necessarily. For if you had been born on
Mars you wouldn't be an Aries at all.
DAVID:
Why
ever
not?
KELVIN:
For
the
simple reason that an Aries only exists in relation to our life on
earth. A person born on Mars would be
subject to quite different influences, no matter in what month he was
born. Instead of being influenced or
affected by Mars, he would be influenced by the Earth and by an
entirely
different configuration of planets.
Besides, as Mars takes almost two years to circle the Sun, there
would
have to be about twenty-three earth months or, alternatively, twelve 55
day
months to make a year on Mars, and that would necessitate the
introduction of a
different pattern of astrological signs and values, particularly in
view of the
fact that Mars has two moons.
Fortunately to say, no-one from this planet has yet been born
there. But with space-research
developments pushing ahead so quickly, it isn't altogether impossible
that
people may be born there in the not-too-distant future, and then
astrologers,
if any still exist, will be obliged to study the relative planetary
configurations from Mars, in order to ascertain the strongest
influences which
the Earth and other planets in the Solar System are likely to have on
such
people. There can be no doubt that, with
the rise of various space stations and air-conditioned outposts on
other
planets, today's astrology will appear elementary by comparison! Imagine, for instance, what difficulty an
astrologer would be faced with if, in the event of people being born on
Jupiter, he had to account for the influence of its twelve moons! And this is a planet which takes
approximately 11¾ earth years to circle the Sun!
DAVID:
I
don't
think that I'd want to be an astrologer, in those circumstances. And I don't think that anybody will ever be
born on Jupiter anyway, at least not for hundreds of years to come. It would be a strange thing, though, if there
were other highly developed beings in different solar systems
throughout this
galaxy who had also evolved a system of
astrology, but
one which, of necessity, was entirely different from our own. The mind fairly boggles at the thought of
what kind of influences they might be subject to, of how many planets
and moons
their solar systems might contain, and of what kind of names these
planets
might have! But I don't want to get
carried away by this sort of far-fetched speculation, when I already
find the
astrological speculation on this planet more than sufficiently
far-fetched! I must return to sensible
proportions, and not permit your perverse Libran imagination to carry
me
away. If people heard us talking like
this, they'd probably consider us mad!
Why, you'll be telling me next that if, in the future, I intend
to start
a family, I ought to choose the right time to make my wife pregnant so
that,
nine months later, she can deliver her child under the auspices of a
favourable
star or planetary configuration!
KELVIN:
My
dear
friend, that is a most excellent idea, and one of the best you've
given me
all afternoon! I suggest, for the sake
of variety, that you make her pregnant in late January or early April,
in order
to have either a Libran or a Sagittarian child or, failing that, in
late May or
early October, in order to have either an Aquarian or a Geminian
child. In all four cases you should be
guaranteed a high degree of natural intellectuality and
communicativeness
which, by keeping you both amused and instructed in later years, will
largely
repay you for your pains. Of course, you
may think there is far too much superstition involved with this
strategy and
that, by a common law of nature, one should
only make
one's wife pregnant when one genuinely feels the urge to do so. If that is the case, then I would advise you
to forget what I have just said and continue to go about your marital
duties in
a less methodical manner. After all,
there is always the possibility that your wife may give birth either
prematurely or belatedly, and thus ruin your astrological calculations
altogether, plunging you into a fit of despair at the prospect of
having to
raise someone you hadn't in the least bargained for - a young brat of
an Aries
or a hypocritical Virgo, a tight-lipped Taurus or an over-emotional
Scorpio. Yes, and there is even the
possibility that you may change your mind when it's too late,
regretting, on
deeper consideration, that you hadn't made your wife pregnant in early
October
rather than early April. In which case,
it's probably wiser to keep astrological considerations in the
background and
to follow your lascivious bent, whatever the consequences!
As the poet Gray once wrote: "Where
ignorance is bliss, 'tis folly to be wise".
DAVID:
Maybe. Although, as a married man who
shortly
intends to start a family, I must confess to being somewhat intrigued
by the
idea of planning ahead like that! But,
at the moment, I don't know enough about astrology to permit myself any
firm
decisions.
KELVIN:
You
could
always buy a few worthwhile books on the subject, or even go
along to the
local library and borrow some of the better astrological tomes to be
found
there. As a matter of fact, I'm
returning that Modern
Textbook
of Astrology quite soon, so if
you would like me to reserve it for you ...
DAVID:
(Returns
the book in question to his friend's desk) Yes, that would be an
excellent
idea! I shall have to go into this
business in some depth, just to be on the safe side.
I may not be one of the most superstitious of
people but, if some of the things you've said about astrology are true,
then,
as a potential father, I ought to grant the subject a little more
credence than
hitherto! Unfortunately, my interest in
astronomy has always precluded me from taking a strong interest in
astrology. But if, as you maintain,
everything connected with the world of man is dualistic, then I have
absolutely
no reason to presume that the planets are any exception, or that a
material
universe can exist without a spiritual, or occult, one behind it. My chief concern to-date has been with the
material, whereas it would seem that yours has been with the spiritual.
KELVIN:
A
fact
which, in astrological terms, doesn't in the least surprise me,
since
Aries is ruled by Mars, which is a predominantly 'material' planet,
whereas
Libra is ruled by Venus which, by contrast, is a predominantly
'spiritual'
one. Thus whilst, as a Libran, I may
endeavour to strike a balance between astronomy and astrology, it's
likely that
I shall be slightly more interested in the latter study, since it is
mostly
concerned with the spiritual influence of planets.
Indeed, radio and television waves have given
us ample proof, this century, of the spiritual influences at work on
this
planet, and one might just as well cite the moon's influence over the
tides as
the sun's influence over the growth of crops.
But a purely material interpretation of things is of no more use
to us
than a purely spiritual one. For in both
cases we're only given half the picture, not the whole, and so the
truth remains
unacknowledged. Now just as there exists
a spiritualism which is a discredit to the spiritual, so there exists a
materialism which is a discredit to the material, and which only
succeeds in
bringing the material interpretation into disrepute and in engendering,
as a
violent reaction, an equally disreputable spiritual interpretation. The only thing one can do to prevent oneself
swinging from one extreme to the other is to cultivate authentic
interpretations of both, and then keep them in as stable an equilibrium
as possible. For a misuse of the one
will subsequently engender a misuse of the other, and instead of
serving each
other, as indeed they should, they'll slander and undermine each other,
to the
ultimate detriment of both and, needless to say, to the lasting
detriment of
mankind in general. Thus, if we're wise,
we will be neither anti-spiritual nor anti-material but, on the
contrary, see
the legitimacy, logicality, and authenticity of both spheres in their
rightful
perspectives. And in this respect we
have something to learn from women who, on the whole, are shrewder than
men and
more attuned to the spiritual influences of the planets than us. We should do well to follow their moderation
from time to time!
DAVID:
Well,
I
certainly endeavour to do that as regards the material side of
things. But I have to confess that my
wife seems to belong to that small percentage of women who take
absolutely no
interest in astrology. She never reads
the horoscopes.
KELVIN:
I
should
hope not! For in the vast
majority of cases the daily or weekly horoscopes aren't written by
serious,
professional astrologers but by quacks and hired mercenaries whose
chief
purpose, apart from concocting platitudinous advice and forecasts, is
to
detract from the already-precarious reputation of their superior
colleagues and
discourage one from taking astrology seriously.
In this last respect they succeed remarkably well!
So it's of little surprise to me that a
well-educated woman like your wife should fail to be impressed. However, I wager anything that her apparent
indifference will be transmuted into a growing curiosity once she
realizes that
you have taken a genuine interest in the subject and are perusing your
textbook. If she is a loving wife, she
will be the last person on earth to discourage you from your recent
change-of-heart.
DAVID:
I
do
hope you're right. For I have no
immediate intentions of being discouraged, not even by you!
KELVIN:
And
I
have no immediate intentions of discouraging you.
Although, between ourselves,
there is a high probability that the complexity of that textbook will. After all, not everyone is cut-out to be an
astrologer!
HISTORICAL
PERSPECTIVES
STEPHEN:
(Looks
up from his newspaper) Are you feeling
all right,
Michael? I must say, you do look
somewhat pale today.
MICHAEL:
Oh,
I'm
just feeling a little glum, that's all.
STEPHEN:
(Puts
the newspaper to one side) Why is that, then?
MICHAEL:
I'm
not
quite sure that I know, to tell you the truth.
In fact, I haven't been feeling particularly
pleased with myself all week. It
probably has something to do with the fact that I've been
intellectually barren
recently.
STEPHEN:
You
mean, you haven't been writing very well, these past
few days?
MICHAEL:
Worse,
I
haven't written anything whatsoever these past ten days!
I have been compelled to spend most of the
time reading, which, for a person of my creative disposition, is all
rather
depressing! If the weather wasn't so cold
and damp, I would be able to kill an hour or two out walking every day. But, alas, even that hasn't proved possible!
STEPHEN:
Yes,
the
weather has
been rather depressing recently, hasn't it? It
makes
life somewhat constricting, being
confined to one's room all day.
MICHAEL:
It
certainly
does! And you are the first
person that I've actually spoken to in over two weeks - a time during
which my
tongue has remained restricted to the humble role of tasting food and
drink. But I don't particularly desire
to plague you with my problems. I expect
you have enough of your own, anyway.
STEPHEN:
Well,
at
least I have done some work recently.
Although I'm not altogether convinced that it's as good as I
would like
it to be. Composing and performing music
is just as difficult as writing prose, you know. In
fact,
I sometimes think there is nothing
more difficult. But, tell me, why
haven't you written anything these past ten days?
MICHAEL:
I
don't
honestly know. Ever since I
completed that autobiographical sketch about my philosophical
development, I
have been at a complete loss as to what to do next.
It seems as though everything has been said
and done already.
STEPHEN:
Hmm,
I
know how you feel. Most artists
and thinkers have to go through a similar barren patch at some time in
their
lives. But, oddly enough, there are
times when you are only too glad to take a break from your work, times
when you
feel in need of a break and have few worries about the future.
MICHAEL:
Yes,
and
there are even times when you can go straight from one work to
another, when you're in absolutely no doubt as to what you are doing
and where
it is leading you. But this, alas, isn't
one of them!
STEPHEN:
Perhaps
you
are becoming too much of a scholar in your reclusiveness?
MICHAEL:
I
shall
be, if I'm not careful. You wouldn't
think it possible, but every damn book I read only succeeds in further
humiliating me, in drawing an air of defeatism around me, in making me
painfully conscious of the fact that I'm only reading because I haven't
got
anything better to do! You can imagine
how encouraging it is to wallow in one's own sterility every day! One actually begins to feel sorry for
oneself, and not simply because one can't write or is gradually
conditioning
oneself not
to write, but, no less significantly, because one has too much
culture around one all the time, because culture becomes one's
compulsion,
one's prison, one's fate! Yes, one would
gladly throw it all away and embark on something different - if only
one could!
STEPHEN:
But,
eventually,
you would suffer just as much from whatever else you
embarked
upon, just as you had previously suffered from your reading.
MICHAEL:
Perhaps. But at least it would make a
change.
STEPHEN:
Naturally,
if
only for a while. But,
tell me, what would you do if you were to abandon writing, if you
decided, once
and for all, to have done with this 'prison of culture', as you call it?
MICHAEL:
What
could
I do? Obviously there are a
number of things that I'm not qualified to do and an even greater
number of
things that I wouldn't want to do, although I've never bothered to make
a
definitive list of them all. I suppose,
however, that I could get a job of sorts somewhere, even a petty
clerking
one. But whether I'd be able to stick at
it for very long, whether I'd be able to settle down in it, is quite
another
thing! Still, if by some unusual decree
of fate, I could get an ordinary clerical job somewhere, I suppose it
would
only serve, in the long-run, to induce me to take-up writing again, and
to do
so, moreover, with renewed zest.
STEPHEN:
You
mean
the poverty of clerking would gradually make you more conscious of
the
richness of culture?
MICHAEL:
That
is
one way of putting it. Although
whether I would then be able to write anything worthwhile ... is a
question
that affords a wide solution! When one
is a clerk one is a clerk, and when one is a writer one is a writer. To cross from the one context to the other is
by no means an easy thing to do, as I learnt some time ago.
STEPHEN:
Nor a very wise one, Michael!
A man of your temperament, background, and
sensibility would probably become neurotic in no time.
Besides, you have already worked as a clerk
and that was hell on earth, as far as you were concerned. At least,
that was
how you described it to me one evening, when we got to talking about
neuroses. You weren't exactly describing
the richness of clerking and the poverty of culture then!
On the contrary, there was nothing more
important to you than the desire to avoid ever doing any such work
again.
MICHAEL:
Yes,
well
do I remember! Anyhow, I have
absolutely no intention of disobeying my conscience.
I don't intend to pack-up writing. I
was
merely expressing my distaste for the
fact that I haven't written anything in ten days, in consequence of
which I've
been compelled to read the works of various authors instead. Admittedly, ten days is no time at all
really, but it has still managed to put me in a monotonously depressed
state-of-mind.
STEPHEN:
Hmm,
have
you absolutely no idea what to write next? I
mean,
surely you must have some
idea?
MICHAEL:
Yes,
more
philosophy. But that doesn't
sell very well, unfortunately.
STEPHEN:
Why
not
try a novel for a change?
MICHAEL:
Impossible! If I knew how to set about
doing so without pushing it in an overly conceptual direction, I
probably would. But to be perfectly honest
with you, I don't
have a clue. I haven't read a novel for
months and, besides, I have absolutely no desire to attempt one. There are quite enough little story-tellers
in the world already.
STEPHEN:
Why
not
a play, then?
MICHAEL:
A
play? Good God, that
is the last thing I should want to write!
Can you imagine me as another frigging Bernard Shaw?
STEPHEN:
Frankly,
no!
MICHAEL:
I'm
sincerely
glad to hear it! There are
some people who are just not cut-out to write in certain genres, you
know. Did Hesse
ever
write a play? Did Nietzsche?
Or Bertrand Russell?
No, I can't see myself doing that.
STEPHEN:
Well,
what
else is there - biography, history, criticism?
MICHAEL:
Criticism
possibly. But
biography and history - highly unlikely.
STEPHEN:
Ah,
but
you can write essays, dialogues, and aphorisms, can't you?
MICHAEL:
Yes,
and
that's about all! Whether I
shall be able to continue doing so much longer, however, remains to be
seen. There was a time, you know, when I
wrote poems - short lyric and prose poems after the manner of
Baudelaire. Or, more correctly, before it,
since I was
something of an aesthete who praised the virtues of female beauty like
some
kind of star-struck devotee of the Blessed Virgin.
Well, I stopped doing that a few years ago,
and since then I haven't so much as even read a poem, never mind
attempted to
write one! Will the same thing happen, I
wonder, with regard to essays, dialogues, and aphorisms?
I can't, of course, be sure, but, if I
continue writing, it's quite possible that I shall have to adopt some
other
genre or medium instead - one that I have hitherto disdained.
STEPHEN:
You
mean
the novel or the play?
MICHAEL:
I
didn't
say that! But it isn't altogether
impossible that I may take to something which will allow me to continue
expressing my conceptual bent without fear of being misunderstood or
censored. These days I tend to avoid
poetry. In the future, I may even avoid
philosophy. There's no telling what I
shall do. Indeed, I may even give-up
writing altogether.
STEPHEN:
Or
writing
will give you up?
MICHAEL:
Perhaps
it
already has?
STEPHEN:
I
would
find that difficult to believe.
Why, you're completely obsessed by it!
You rarely talk of anything else.
I mean, has there ever been a day in your professional or
vocational
life when you haven't had a book in your hands?
I would wager anything that, throughout the past three years,
you
haven't gone a single day without picking up a book.
MICHAEL:
Then
you
would lose the wager, Stephen. There
certainly have been days when I haven't read anything.
STEPHEN:
Yes,
about
ten out of a thousand or so! (Michael shakes his head, but
Stephen continues) Yes, you needn't pretend otherwise!
You are completely obsessed
by
cultural
activities of this nature. And
even ten days is being rather generous to
you. In reality, there have probably
been no more than five, and on those five occasions you wondered how
you could
possibly manage to get through the day without a book - worse, how you
could
possibly allow yourself to be drawn away from books because of some
tedious
social or business engagement!
MICHAEL:
I
am
afraid that you are quite mistaken there!
You are quite overlooking the number of days when illness
prevented me
from reading anything. And there must
have been at least twenty of those!
STEPHEN:
Well,
that
is another matter. Although I
have little doubt that you read more when you're recovering from an
illness
than at any other time, as if to make up for lost time.
Yet I suppose that is really
beside-the-point. I am merely trying to
get to the fact that it would be better for both you and culture if you
ignored
it sometimes, forbade yourself to read anything for a week or two,
every few
months, in order to be more appreciative of it when you subsequently
took-up
reading again. Then, with a little luck,
you might not feel so sorry for yourself in your 'prison of culture'.
MICHAEL:
But
even
supposing I could
give
it
up,
from time to time, what else would I do with myself all day? You know what sort of a withdrawn life I
lead. If I didn't read for at least two
hours every day, I would be at a complete loss as to how else to fill
the
time. If I had a few more friends it
might be different. But the fact remains
that I don't. And I certainly don't see
you that often.
STEPHEN:
No,
that's
to be regretted. A
professional musician is usually kept very busy. One
week
I may be in Cardiff, another week in
Brussels or Hamburg. Admittedly, it
isn't that often that I'm in London. But
when I do play here, I usually make an effort to visit you, even though
we may
not have spoken to each other for several months sometimes. Yet that is one of the misfortunes of modern
life, and particularly of such lives as ours.
The demands of our respective professions and circumstances
ensure that
we're not allowed to have many friends or, what's worse, to see those
that we
have got as often as we would like.
There is absolutely nothing we can do about it ... short, that
is, of
giving up work altogether.
MICHAEL:
And
what
would we do then?
STEPHEN:
Sign
on
the dole, I suppose. However,
getting back to what I was saying earlier, I still think it would be
better for
you to spend at least one day a week away from books.
Naturally, one has to do something, but it
doesn't always have to be the same damn thing.
MICHAEL:
Don't
be
so sure about it! If I could do
so, I would; but it is only too clear to me that I am dependent on the
company
of books - indeed, I'm probably as
dependent on their
company as you are on the company of music scores.
And to turn the conversation around, are
there ever any days when you don't have a violin in your hands?
STEPHEN:
A
few.
MICHAEL:
Precisely! But you wouldn't take me
seriously if I advised you to take a break from it more often, and
neither can
I take you very seriously when you advise me, against my better
judgement, to
stop reading every so often. Besides, I
hardly wish to give you the impression that books are always a torture
to me. On the contrary, they are one of
the greatest
pleasures in my life, although I don't generally feel that to be the
case when
I'm compelled to read because I can't think of anything to write. Yet there are some books which I've read time
and time again, books which it was almost fitting to learn by heart, so
great
an impression did they make on me. And
yet, one can still have too much of them, one can still feel sorry for
oneself
because one is compelled
to have too much of them. As you well
know, some people think that
money is the source of all happiness.
They acquire a lot of it, only to discover that it isn't. Others think that sex is the source of all
happiness. They likewise acquire a lot
of that, only to discover that it isn't.
And exactly the same thing applies to culture, any culture. It is a fine thing, but like money, sex, and
a lot of other fine things, it's by no means everything!
Try to make it so and you will soon perish.
STEPHEN:
Indeed,
too
much culture is as bad as too little, or maybe even worse.
For when one has too little, one can always
wish one had more, whereas when one has too much, one can only wish for
less,
which must be somewhat demoralizing. But
one should beware of taking oneself too seriously, since it almost
invariably
leads other people to take one too seriously as well.
MICHAEL:
Perhaps. Although I'm
not altogether convinced that some people are able to avoid taking
themselves
too seriously. It often seems to
me that those who do so are generally unable to do anything else, since
they
have had it thrust upon them by fate, destiny, responsibility, age,
health, et
cetera. But that is another story, and usually not a very pleasant one either! I hardly think myself enough of a
story-teller to enlarge upon it.
STEPHEN:
You
could
always turn it into a work of philosophy.
MICHAEL:
I
could. But then very few people would
read it.
STEPHEN:
Maybe
that
would be just as well!
MICHAEL:
Yes,
though
not for me. After all, it's
always encouraging to earn some money from one's work, particularly
when one
hasn't got that much in the first place.
Philosophy can be fine if you are the worthy recipient of a
large
patrimony or a state pension. But if you
intend to earn a decent living from it, you might as well take to
poetry
instead. You will remain just as poor,
only more romantically so.
STEPHEN:
Hardly
any
more encouraging, since this isn't the ideal century for romantics!
MICHAEL:
Neither
is
it the ideal century for metaphysical philosophers.
However, I'm not so sure that any previous
century was, either.
STEPHEN:
What,
exactly,
do you mean by that?
MICHAEL:
Precisely
that
it isn't easy to be a deeply conceptual writer in any age.
Whatever century you choose to study, you
will always find a plentiful supply of similar complaints.
Anyway, it's always easy for people who have
to live through the hardships of their time to imagine that things were
easier
in earlier times - and by 'things' I don't just mean literature or
philosophy -
even when a close study of the past would indicate the contrary. People always have had to struggle for a
living and probably always will have to, no matter what the century,
and it's
perfectly natural that they should do so.
For what do you suppose would happen to them if they didn't have
to
struggle?
STEPHEN:
You
tell
me.
MICHAEL:
They
would
die of boredom. Nobody would
be able to tolerate living. For,
ridiculous as it may seem, struggling makes life easier, human beings
are so
well-adapted to struggle, in various contexts, that
they would be unable to survive without continuing to do so. People actually go out of their way to
complicate things for themselves, to make life harder in order to make
it more
interesting or less boring, as the case may be.
And even the most timid of them regularly read their gruesome
newspapers
and watch their even more gruesome films, because such experiences add
another
dimension to their lives, a dimension without which a majority of them
would be
unable to live. Take away all the
disagreeable facts of life, and the world would become a very dull
place in no
time! Naturally, you may not like many
of the things which are currently happening in it, but does that
necessarily
imply that things which happened in the past were any better or that
they
shouldn't have happened? No, you won't
find the atrocities and plagues of the past to be any better, or less
lethal,
than more recent ones, and I very much doubt whether you would ever be
qualified to construct a worthwhile argument based on the supposition
that they
shouldn't have happened. Everything
happens for a reason, and usually for a damn good reason too!
STEPHEN:
That
may
be, but surely you would agree that many of the atrocities which
happened this century were much worse than anything that took place in
earlier
centuries. Why, they were much more
widespread, much bigger, far beyond the scope of previous times.
MICHAEL:
But
that
doesn't necessarily prove that they were any worse.
On the contrary, the global population has
become much greater than ever before, and thus the atrocities of the
century
are relevant to the people of this century, to the capacities of the
nations of
this century. Can you say, for instance,
that a man who slaughtered a hundred village people in, say, 1850
because there
were only a hundred people available for slaughter, was any more humane
or
righteous than the man who slaughtered a thousand village people in
1950
because there were a thousand people available for slaughter? No, of course not! The
principle
of killing whatever was
available to be killed remains the same in both cases.
Consequently it's a serious mistake to
measure recent atrocities by the standards of past ones.
People who do this usually have little sense
of history. Indeed, they are quite often
more interested in proving to both themselves and others that their age
is
undeniably worse than any previous age.
Although, had they lived through a previous age, they would
probably
have thought just as poorly of that! But
as soon as one begins to measure the present by the standards of the
past or
vice versa, one does a grave disservice to both past and present alike. For example, the repressive activities of the
Spanish Inquisition may appear relatively tame when compared to some of
the
repressive activities conducted by the Nazis, but that by no means
proves they
were tame for the people who had to live through them.
On the contrary, they couldn't have conceived
of anything worse! For if the
Inquisition didn't put millions of people to death in Extermination
Camps, it
wasn't because they were any better than those who did but, oddly
enough,
because such camps hadn't been invented then, because it wouldn't have
served
their purposes to put so many people to death, because their powers
were mainly
restricted to a smaller area, because the nature of their creed imposed
certain
definite restrictions as to the total numbers of people affected by it,
and so
on and so forth. No, things of that kind
have always been relevant to the times and, as such, they become the
double and
equal of the times, to paraphrase Baudelaire.
If particular aspects of modern life seem difficult to live
with, you
should remember that there have always been aspects of every age which
were no
less difficult for the people concerned to live with.
In certain respects life never changes.
STEPHEN:
I
agree
with you there. Although I'm not
altogether convinced that it wouldn't have been better living in the
seventeenth, eighteenth, or even nineteenth centuries than at present. Why, there were no such horrors as the atom
bomb, concentration camps, nuclear missiles, and widespread industrial
or
commercial pollution of the atmosphere then!
MICHAEL:
No,
but
there were certainly a lot of other horrors which various people
would
have preferred not to exist. Besides,
whether or not life was better then would have depended, to a
considerable
extent, upon who or where you were; whether, for instance, you were
rich or
poor, soldier or sailor, Englishman or Irishman, European or African,
oppressor
or oppressed, Protestant or Catholic, slave owner or slave, et cetera. For some people life in those centuries had
everything to offer. For others, by
contrast, it had next to nothing. You
probably wouldn't have enjoyed being an African slave in the Southern
States of
America, a member of an oppressed or threatened tribe of Red Indians, a
victim
of the Thirty Years War between France and Germany, a child
factory-worker in
the early decades of the Industrial Revolution, an Irish peasant at the
time of
the Great Potato Famine, a hounded noble during the French Revolution,
an
ex-convict labouring in the wilds of Australia, a defeated Royalist in
the
English Civil War, or one of India's numerous untouchables. Indeed, I could continue the list almost
indefinitely, if I really wanted to shake your confidence in the
alleged superiority
of those times. And then we could take
an even closer look at the fourteenth, fifteenth, and sixteenth
centuries, at
all the known misfortunes which befell various peoples and categories
of
persons during those times, like, for instance, the Bubonic Plague. Then we could go even further back, back to
the eleventh, twelfth, and thirteenth centuries, and so on, to the
barbarous
beginnings of Western civilization. I
dare say that you would be more than willing to give the present
century a
second chance, after we had travelled through all the previous ages in
such an
analytical fashion.
STEPHEN:
Heaven
forbid! I have heard quite enough
about them already, and am almost relieved to be alive in an age of
widespread traffic
pollution, rather than widespread cholera or the Black Death. If we continue to dwell on the past and, in
particular, its atrocities much longer, I shall be compelled to believe
in
progress, in the progress which has thus far culminated in the atom
bomb,
concentration camps, nuclear warheads, and all the rest of it!
MICHAEL:
It
would
be a good thing if you did
believe
in
progress,
for it's certainly a fact of life.
But it would be an even better thing if you also came to believe
in
regress, and in the fact that there can't be any meaningful progress
without
it.
STEPHEN:
No
progress
without regress? Surely that's
a contradiction in terms! How can you
both progress and regress at the same time or in the same place?
MICHAEL:
You
can't. What actually happens is that
society progresses in one sphere of life and regresses in another. As Emerson remarked in one
of his essays: 'There is no straightforward amelioration'. What you gain on the roundabout, you lose on
the swings.
STEPHEN:
But
surely
that is most unfortunate?
MICHAEL:
Quite
the
contrary, it is most just!
It's the only way that society can function.
Take away the many examples of regress and
you would thereby deprive it of its ability to progress.
I need hardly remind you that motorized transportation
is, in the main, a noteworthy improvement on the horse-and-carriage
system of
transportation, and even on the horse itself.
But one also has to admit that it has given rise to a number of
serious
regressions, not the least of which being the widespread traffic
pollution you
mentioned a short while ago. Of course,
there is a great deal of pollution which has nothing whatsoever to do
with
cars, trucks, vans, buses, motorcycles, scooters, mopeds, or whatever. But the fact nonetheless remains that they
are responsible for a great deal of it, and will doubtless continue to
remain
so until such time as either we're all poisoned by it or, hopefully,
find an
effective way of minimizing it. Although
this latter possibility does seem somewhat unlikely when one considers
the
ever-increasing amount of traffic on the roads these days!
However, it isn't altogether impossible that
the petrol engine will soon be rendered as obsolete as the
horse-and-carriage
system, and that we shall then enter a new and hopefully safer era -
namely
that of the electric car or the water car or some other such fumeless
vehicle. But, assuming we do, there will
of course be drawbacks to that development too, just as there were
drawbacks to
the formerly-esteemed horse-and-carriage system. Drawbacks,
I
might add, which neither you nor
I, with all our detestation of traffic pollution, congested roads, high
petrol
prices, traffic noise, road accidents, parking fines, and the like,
would care
to experience, even if we knew exactly what they were.
STEPHEN:
Well,
we
should have to consult the history books to find out more about that
sort of
travel.
MICHAEL:
Yes,
but
whatever we learnt from them would be inadequate compared with what
we
might have learnt, had we been obliged to
make use of
a horse and carriage every day or, what is probably worse, avoid
getting in the
way of a horse and carriage every day.
We may have to put-up with a daily dose of petrol fumes and
exhaust gas,
but we don't have to put-up with a daily dose of horse manure!
STEPHEN:
More's the pity! For
I
am
sure it would be more tolerable than this other stench.
MICHAEL:
You
might
find it an agreeable alternative to begin with, but when you had
to
live with it every day, and not simply to smell it but to see it as
well, you
would probably have a different opinion altogether.
Anyway, if for the sake of argument, mankind
suddenly adopted the horse and carriage again, there would be a much
greater
number of them on the roads today than ever there had been in Victorian
or
earlier times. And that would naturally
mean a much greater amount of horse manure as well!
STEPHEN:
Well,
it
doesn't look as though mankind will be reverting to that primitive
state-of-affairs in the near future, so we shall just have to persevere
with exhaust
fumes a while longer. It seems that
every age has its problems.
MICHAEL:
Indeed,
and
no sooner does an age rid itself of one problem than it acquires
another, which is exactly what happens to people. We
will
never have a life without problems,
my friend, and neither will we ever have one without change. In the final analysis all we can do, and all
nations and epochs can do, is change from one problem to another.
STEPHEN:
Hmm,
it
rather looks as though I shall have to accept the twentieth century
after
all, considering that I am a product of it who
wouldn't be better off in an earlier time.
MICHAEL:
I
didn't
say that you wouldn't be better off in an earlier time.
I said it would depend on who or where you
were. Some people led a fine life in the
seventeenth, eighteenth, and nineteenth centuries, and, between you and
I, it's just as well that they did. For it is always better to lead a fine life
than to lead an impoverished, harried, or disease-ridden one. Admittedly, if you had been a member of the
suffering classes, you might not have agreed, even when priests went on
about
the moral virtue of suffering in an attempt to reach an ecclesiastical
accommodation with the poor. But that is
no reason to suppose a good, healthy, adventurous, and productive life
is
necessarily immoral. We may disapprove
of many of the things which happened in former times, but that is by no
means a
sufficient reason to assume that such things shouldn't have happened
or,
alternatively, to pride ourselves on the supposition that we wouldn't
have done
exactly the same things ourselves in similar circumstances. History will always appear diabolical to
people who can only view it with a contemporary eye, to people who make
no
effort to see it in the perspective of its time. If
we
wouldn't commit similar atrocities,
these days, to the kinds of atrocities committed by certain persons or
peoples
in the past, that is only because we have no need to, not necessarily
because
we're any better or have grown more humane in the meantime. Everything that happens does so for a good
reason. Naturally, you may consider
yourself fortunate or even superior for not being as brutal as people
in the
past often were. But have you ever
bothered to consider whether a majority of those 'brutal' people really
enjoyed
being brutal, whether they didn't occasionally feel sorry for
themselves on
account of the fact that survival forced such brutality upon them, as
well as
cognizant of the fact that they would have been quite prepared to leave
other people
or creatures alone, had circumstances permitted them to do so without
too great
a financial or physical cost to themselves?
Undoubtedly there must have been times when even the most brutal
people
were disgusted with their behaviour, just as I may occasionally feel
disgusted
with the prison of thought and letters in which I'm obliged to live,
and you
may likewise feel disgusted with the world of music and travel in which
you're
obliged to live. How can we be sure, for
instance, that there weren't slave owners in the Southern States of
America who
would have willingly, even gladly, managed without slaves if they
thought they
could have done so, or who occasionally felt disgusted with the whole
trend of
their barbarous lives, despite the knowledge that a majority of them
quite
understandably regarded slaves as inferior creatures who had been put
on earth
to serve their ends, much as though they were a two-legged variety of
cow,
sheep, ox, or horse?
STEPHEN:
I
don't
quite understand what you mean by slave owners 'understandably'
regarding
their slaves as inferiors. If you mean
that slaves of any race are normally regarded as inferiors by their masters ...
MICHAEL:
Ah,
I
meant more than that! The majority
of slave owners were, by today's standards, somewhat ignorant men. They were mostly farmers and landowners with
business worries, not highly cultivated or educated men-of-the-world. Consequently, one needn't be particularly
surprised
if their basic attitude to the Negro should have been such as to
suggest him -
hitherto relatively unknown to most white men - a subhuman creature or,
at any
rate, racially inferior to themselves.
What reason did they have to assume otherwise?
Other white men had overpowered the Negro in
his native land, transported him to North America, and sold him to the
descendants of a people who were still in the process of overpowering
the Red
Indian. Was it any wonder, therefore,
that the slave owners considered themselves members of a superior race? No, they were entirely justified in acting
the way they did, if through no other reason than ignorance and the
need to
survive.
STEPHEN:
But
to
us they appear evil and unjust.
We cannot help but view them with a contemporary eye, one
conditioned to
look upon any form of racial discrimination with disapproval.
MICHAEL:
Yes,
they
certainly appear wrong by the estimation of contemporary values. For the negro has long since been emancipated
from the shackles of slavery and has progressed as far as, if not
further than,
a majority of white men, thus removing any serious grounds for
considering him
to belong to an inferior race. At one
time a particular class of people always put a hand to their mouth when
they
yawned, in the assumption - quite apart from its utilitarian value
vis-à-vis
the possibility if not likelihood of bad breath - that such a gesture
would
prevent the entry of evil spirits. At
another time a particular class of people assumed the Negro
biologically
inferior to the white man. Such is
life! However, nowadays we have little
or nothing to do with either assumption, being the victims of certain
other
superstitions and delusions instead. But
if we desire to see how mistaken, stupid, or unjust these earlier
people were,
we view them with a contemporary eye.
And if we desire to try and understand what motivated them to
behave the
way they did, we use a little imagination, a little patience, a little
knowledge, and endeavour to view them in the perspective of their time. Then we may comprehend something of why they
were justified in doing what they did and in being what they were. Why it was virtually inevitable that a black
man should then appear inferior.
STEPHEN:
Thus,
in
a sense, it is we who are being unjust when we accuse them of
injustice and evil ways. For we are trying to measure the standards of the past
according to
those of the present, which, as you said earlier, is a serious mistake.
MICHAEL:
Actually
I
said it was a serious mistake to measure recent atrocities by the
standards of past ones. Although one
might also reverse the idea, like you, by contending that it is an
equally
serious mistake to measure what we assume to be the atrocities of the
past
against the atrocities, real or imaginary, of the present.
STEPHEN:
Ah,
but
I didn't say 'atrocities', I said 'standards'.
MICHAEL:
One
needn't
always differentiate too strictly between them!
However, what you say is quite correct. We
are
being
unjust to the slave owners, or for that matter to any other historical
category
of men, when we evaluate them according to the measure of contemporary
society,
instead of attempting to understand them in the context of their age. By turning them into
villains, we become more villainous ourselves due to a lack of
imagination. A fair number of the
alleged injustices of
the slave trade are creations of the contemporary mind.
They spring from the fact that we are either
unable or unwilling to see things from their point of view, in
consequence of
which we're only too ready to do them a disservice in the light of our
own
standards. One can understand it, but
one can't reasonably condone it. A lack
of historical perspective is nothing to be especially proud about!
STEPHEN:
I
suppose
not, although I somehow suspect that the past will always be
tinged
with a dash of romanticism for someone marooned in the materialistic
present.
MICHAEL:
True,
but
we must also be grateful for what we have got in this day and
age. There is something dreadfully
pathological about being out-of-joint with one's age, particularly when
one
bears in mind that we were meant for this age, are children of it, and
can't
entirely divorce ourselves from its influence.
We may play at being in another century, decorate our rooms with
its
trappings, and generally act as though we were unaware of space travel,
nuclear
submarines, industrial computers, and colour televisions.
But we will still do so with the
consciousness of twentieth-century men, we will always be dilettantes,
outsiders, and play-actors. Let us
cherish our little dreams and delusions, by all means!
But let us not forget that they owe their
existence to the twentieth century, because it's always pleasant to
dream
oneself into a 'better age'. God knows,
there are enough things to condemn in this age, but, in that respect,
no other
age is really any different. Life is
always vicissitudinous, and if you treat
the 'downs'
as superfluous impositions which one would be better off without, then
you will
always be unjust to it.
Admittedly, we could both of us be a lot
better off in this age, we could be more successful and fulfilled than
at
present, thus making speculation concerning the alleged superiority of
life in
a previous century appear quite superfluous, not to say ridiculous. Whether or not we shall
ever become better off, remains to be seen.
Though, to be frank with you, I'm usually
somewhat sceptical about other people's good fortune.
It seems to me that one is only too ready to
overlook the misfortunes of certain people when one dwells on their
good fortune,
and that one merely distorts their image in consequence.
After all, everyone has his problems, and
while there is nothing unusual about assuming others to be luckier than
oneself, one can easily allow such
assumptions to cloud
one's judgement to a degree whereby the people concerned appear much
luckier
than they actually are. Besides, no
matter how fortunate a person may seem to be, there will always be
other people
whom he will regard as more fortunate than himself.
For, as a human being, one is subject to
certain immutable emotions, drives, and attitudes, regardless of
whether one is
rich or poor, a beggar or a millionaire.
There is absolutely no getting away from that fact.
And strange though it may seem, there are
even people who think that we're more fortunate than them, that being a
writer
or a musician must be a great life, irrespective of the fact that
relatively
few writers or musicians actually convey that impression through their
works! Yet if some of these envious
people were to try their hand at serious creative work for once, and
sacrifice
part of their dream world in the process, they might become a little
more
realistic. However, if you and I know
perfectly well that the creative life isn't all pleasure, we also know
that
it's by no means all pain either. We
have our ups and downs as much as anyone else.
STEPHEN:
And
sometimes
more downs than ups!
MICHAEL:
So
it
would seem. Although
it
is no small secret that artists are regularly inclined to exaggerate
their
misfortunes, being inclined, by temperament and vocation, to the
grandiose, to
exciting the public's imagination.
STEPHEN:
Hmm,
that
applies mainly to literary men, especially to poets.
MICHAEL:
Be
that
as it may, one shouldn't be led to overlook the rhetorical pathos
and
self-pity of the great composers, nor of the great musicians. They are inclined to exaggerate their
misfortunes, too.
STEPHEN:
The prerogative of great minds, who see
everything larger
than life.
MICHAEL:
Maybe,
but
one can't always take it very seriously. However,
I
have no desire to attack the
vanity of artists, whatever their medium.
One must judge the standards of art by the standards of art, not
by
those of life.
STEPHEN:
And I suspect that one should never judge
the standards of
contemporary art by the standards of the past or vice versa - not,
anyway, if
one wishes to retain an 'historical perspective'.
MICHAEL:
Absolutely. For one can no more expect
the contemporary artist to go back in time, than one can expect the
classical
artist to be modern.
The Pre-Raphaelite Movement may have adopted a sort of
pre-Raphael
approach and attitude to art, but they certainly didn't detach
themselves from
the technical expertise of their day. No
artist before Raphael could possibly have done the work of
Bourne-Jones, Waterhouse,
Rossetti, Millais,
et
al, no matter how advanced his technique
may have been for
the time. And these great artists would
have been quite unable to so much as envisage the subsequent
developments of
artists like Chagall, Picasso, Dali, and Kandinsky,
to
name
but a handful of twentieth-century masters, and a handful,
moreover,
who are hardly representative of the most avant-garde developments! No, modern art is a world unto itself, and
can never be measured according to the aesthetic criteria of the past. None of the old masters can ever come back to
life, and none of the moderns should be expected to continue their work
for
them. They have their own lives to lead,
and we should judge them accordingly.
STEPHEN:
You
mean
according to what they do with them.
MICHAEL:
Yes,
according
to the extent of their creative originality and technical
ability, of how much they remain loyal to themselves and provide us
with a
glimpse of their own world rather than someone else's.
There is no art without individuality, just
as there is no science with it. And what
applies to art applies equally well to literature and music. We may not like some of the most recent
developments in music, but that isn't to say they're bogus or futile. One can't reasonably expect modern composers
to write like Bach, Mozart, or Beethoven when their primary concern is
to
discover themselves and to write in a manner which best portrays that
discovery. There was only one Beethoven
and he died in 1827. His music is of
course still with us, but every major composer since then has created
his own
style and forged a different sound.
People who take Bach, Mozart, or Beethoven as the standard of
what music
should be are invariably deluded. It's
as though one should take Swift, Goethe, or Rousseau for the standard
of what
literature should be, quite overlooking the fact that literature isn't
something that remains the same from generation to generation but, on
the
contrary, continuously changes, in accordance with the dictates of the
age. Naturally, one may have a marked
predilection
for certain twentieth-century works, but that by no means justifies one
in
believing the works concerned to be necessarily any better or worse
than those
of an earlier century. It is as foolish
to judge modern works by the standards of past ones as to judge modern
atrocities by the standards of past atrocities.
For an age is a law unto itself, with every
age
possessing its own laws. Indeed,
just as Mozart extended the range of music in his day largely by
turning his
back on the past, so Beethoven extended the range of music in his own
day
largely by turning his back on Mozart.
Yet we moderns are so accustomed to Mozart and Beethoven that we
quite
forget that a majority of their
contemporaries looked upon their compositions with anything but a
sympathetic
eye and listened to them with either contempt or ironic amusement. After all, these two men were breaking many
of the rules that had been carefully and thoughtfully laid down by
their
predecessors; they were far from immediately intelligible when judged
by
conventional standards, and, as such, neither of them were to be
trusted! Nowadays most people acquainted
with
classical music think differently, and even if they don't make a
regular point
of listening to their compositions, at least they are prepared to
acknowledge
that Mozart and Beethoven had genius.
But how many of them would be prepared to acknowledge the genius
of the
foremost contemporary composers, those who are currently regarded with
the same
sort of contempt or derision as was meted out to Mozart and Beethoven,
not to
mention to a host of more recent composers, in former times? You will find that, in this respect, human
nature has changed very little over the centuries, even if music has!
STEPHEN:
That
is
probably so, although, despite the well-known fact that I'm a
musician
myself, I know damned well that one can scarcely blame the public for
its
hostile attitude to some of the more recent composers, who are anything
but
accessible and, at times, downright obscure!
However, it could well transpire that many of the composers whom
we are
still prepared to perform today will be completely ignored in the
not-too-distant future, and that Beethoven and various other composers
of his
stature will simply fade into the limbo of musical history where, to
all
intents and purposes, they already belong.
It's extremely difficult to foresee the course of compositional
priorities, but I have little doubt that many of our long-cherished
idols are
going to be smashed, if you'll pardon me a Nietzschean
hyperbole.
MICHAEL:
As
a
devotee of rock classical, that is not something I would personally
regret
very much. In fact, I have often found
myself beguiled into listening to music by certain 'great composers'
who weren't
as great as I had previously been led to believe. It
seemed
evident to me that the name and
reputation of the composer had a stronger grip on life than his music. Now I'm not trying to insinuate that his
music wasn't good, for that would be highly presumptuous of me, but am
simply
trying to point out that it was much more pertinent to the age in which
it was
composed than to the modern one. When I
compared it to some of the more recent compositions I had heard, works
by men
like Prokofiev, Poulenc, and Martinu,
it seemed indisputably stilted, tedious, predictable, pompous,
unadventurous,
constrained by manneristic convention, and
so on, in
consequence of which I felt obliged to dismiss it as comparatively
inferior,
outmoded, pretentious, overrated. Yet
when I endeavoured to forget about those more recent works and
concentrated,
instead, on listening to a piece of music composed, say, in 1784 or
1821, and
on listening to it, as far as possible, within
the
context of those dates - ah! then it was
possible for
me to appreciate its beauty as in fact it should
be
appreciated. Instead of foolishly
comparing it to modern works and then deriding it for its obvious
limitations,
I let it speak to me from its own day, let it represent history, let
the
then-advanced attitudes and techniques of its composer enlighten me
concerning
the development of music in late eighteenth- or early
nineteenth-century man,
of man in his finest creative capacity at that time. And, you see, I learnt there and then that
it's futile to match the standards of the past against those of the
present, to
do a disservice to both past and present by so comparing them. This work by Mozart, or whoever it may have
been, was of course great music. It may
not have sounded that great when compared with, say, Tchaikovsky's
second piano
concerto or Brahms' first symphony. But
it was unquestionably great for its time, and that, believe it or not,
is the
important thing. However, I'm not really
cut-out to be a musical antiquarian. For
although I may be prepared to listen to a classical composition in its
rightful
historical perspective, I would much rather listen to a modern one, to
one
which spoke directly to me. And there is
much about modern music, especially rock classical, which makes me if
not
exactly grateful, then at least resigned to being alive in the present
century
rather than in some earlier and more primitive time, despite nuclear
warheads,
oppressive news bulletins, cultural anachronisms, hyperbolic
advertisements,
political confusions, ideological conflicts, economic disparities,
racial
tensions, industrial pollutions, and the thousand-and-one other things
which
constitute such an integral element of modern life.
It seems almost axiomatic that the better
things become in one context, the worse they get in another.... Which brings us back, if you remember, to what we were
discussing
earlier, about progress and regress.
No matter what century you lived in, you would be able to draw
up a
formidable list of like-phenomena - of divine creations that scale the
heights
and diabolic creations that plumb the depths; of beautiful and ugly,
good and
evil, strong and weak, true and false things continuously co-existing
in
different guises, continuously influencing and spurring one another on
to the
establishment of new manifestations of their respective types, whether
for
better or worse. Reject the horrible and
questionable as much as you like, but attempt to get rid of it and you
will
have nothing wonderful or pleasurable to fall back on.
I, for one, am only too relieved to be living
in an age when it is possible for a person of my temperament to witness
the
creative ingenuity and share in the intellectual richness of such minds
as Carl
Jung, Bertrand Russell, Oswald Spengler,
John Cowper
Powys, Aldous Huxley, Hermann Hesse,
and Jean-Paul Sartre, to name but a handful of the truly great writers
of the
twentieth century. In this respect, we
are more fortunate than people who lived in any previous century. No, I wouldn't wish to go back in time for
anything! If it meant losing out on the
experience of reading and studying writers like these - writers, by the
way,
who have had a seminal influence on contemporary civilization - then
any other
century would be anathema to me. To be
sure, there were a number of great minds at work in the eighteenth and
nineteenth centuries, but whether you could have got a hand on their
works,
whether you would have been in a position to do so, is quite a
debatable, not
to say doubtful, point. It often takes a
number of years for the finest works to be recognized and appreciated
as such,
years during which they may lie neglected or slandered, mixed-up with a
number
of second-rate works or left to rot in a bottom draw somewhere. But even if this is still the case, even if
there are still such underrated or unrecognized masterpieces in both
literature
and music today, at least we have the opportunity of appreciating more
of what
has been recognized and acclaimed for its true worth than was ever
possible in
the past. The modern world may be
afflicted with economic recessions, but as far as culture is concerned,
it has
never been richer! There are more
worthwhile
works of genuine artistic merit available in the world today than at
any
earlier time, works, I need hardly remind you, which not even the most
creative
of the ancient Greeks could have conceived of.
Indeed, when unjustly put under the scrutiny of the modern eye,
they
appear comparatively poverty-stricken.
STEPHEN:
Well,
by
now I'm quite willing to believe that we are better off living today
than at any former time. Even if both of
us could be a lot better off in this age, it is also sufficiently
evident to me
that we could both be a lot worse off.
No, I don't desire to dream of being a seventeenth-century
nobleman or
an eighteenth-century composer any more, for such dreams have worn thin
on
me. If I daydream about anything else, I
shall remember that it's just a dream and that I'm really a product of
the
twentieth century who owes the pleasure of his dreaming to the fact
that he
occasionally rebels against it. The
important thing is the dream itself, not the dubious possibility of its
ever
being realized.
MICHAEL:
How
true!
