The Mother of Heresies

Here again he hints that strife and party-spirit, love of rule and presumptousness, had been the causes of their error, for the desire of rule is the mother of heresies. By saying, "Be servants one to another," he shows that the evil had arisen from this presumptuous and arrogant spirit, and therefore he applies a corresponding remedy. As your divisions arose from your desire to domineer over each other, "serve one another;" thus will ye be reconciled again. However, he does not openly express their fault, but he openly tells them its corrective, that through this they may become aware of that; as if one were not to tell an immodest person of his immodesty, but were continually to exhort him to chastity. He that loves his neighbor as he ought, declines not to be servant to him more humbly than any servant. As fire, brought into contact with wax, easily softens it, so does the warmth of love dissolve all arrogance and presumption more powerfully than fire. Wherefore he says not, "love one another," merely, but, "be servants one to another," thus signifying the intensity of the affection. When the yoke of the Law was taken off them that they might not caper off and away another was laid on, that of love, stronger than the former, yet far lighter and pleasanter.

John Chrysostom, Commentary on the Epistle to the Galatians

(HT: Wilson in the comments at verbum ipsum)

Mark Twain on Je-ne-sais-quoi

Reasoning--especially reasoning, without technical knowledge--must be put aside, in cases of this kind. It cannot assist the inquirer. It will lead him, in the most logical progression, to what, in the eyes of artists, would be a most illogical conclusion. Thus: bad drawing, bad proportion, bad perspective, indifference to truthful detail, color which gets its merit from time, and not from the artist--these things constitute the Old Master; conclusion, the Old Master was a bad painter, the Old Master was not an Old Master at all, but an Old Apprentice. Your friend the artist will grant your premises, but deny your conclusion; he will maintain that notwithstanding this formidable list of confessed defects, there is still a something that is divine and unapproachable about the Old Master, and that there is no arguing the fact away by any system of reasoning whatsoever.

I can believe that. There are women who have an indefinable charm in their faces which makes them beautiful to their intimates, but a cold stranger who tried to reason the matter out and find this beauty would fail. He would say of one of these women: This chin is too short, this nose is too long, this forehead is too high, this hair is too red, this complexion is too pallid, the perspective of the entire composition is incorrect; conclusion, the woman is not beautiful. But her nearest friend might say, and say truly, "Your premises are right, your logic is faultless, but your conclusion is wrong, nevertheless; she is an Old Master--she is beautiful, but only to such as know her; it is a beauty which cannot be formulated, but it is there, just the same.

Mark Twain, A Tramp Abroad, Chapter 48.

Of course, strictissimo modo, it can't be the case that the premises are right and the logic faultless but the conclusion wrong; however, if we are using 'logic' in a looser sense (which we usually do), it's a reasonable claim: the premises are good -- as far as they go -- the argument is reasonable -- as far as it goes -- but something is missing. It's interesting to compare this to something Hume says about je-ne-sais-quoi:

Besides all those qualities, which render a person lovely or valuable, there is also a certain je-ne-sçais-quoi of agreeable and handsome, that concurs to the same effect. In this case, as well as in that of wit and eloquence, we must have recourse to a certain sense, which acts without reflection, and regards not the tendencies of qualities and characters. [Treatise 3.3.4.11]

In other words, je-ne-sais-quoi is not discovered by reasoning (e.g., about 'tendencies of qualities and characters', i.e., utility) but by a sense of the agreeable, 'which acts without reflection'; from a a Humean perspective, this is what is missing from the sort of reasoning Twain notes: the cultivated sense or taste that discovers this indefinable quality of agreeableness.

Evening Note for Wednesday, April 5th

I watched Die Another Day for the first time today. Not great, but I'd watch it again for Rosamund Pike. I was wondering the entire time where I had seen her before; of course, she was in Doom, which I saw this weekend. In fact, I've been seeing a lot of movies, TV, DVD, and theater. I saw Dreamer and The 40-year-old Virgin this past weekend (expect something on the latter when I have the time to get around to it) and today I saw The Pink Panther in the theater (parts clunked, but other parts were funnier than I thought they would be).

Speaking of Ms. Pike. It turns out she's a good half-year younger than I am; which surprised me because she looks older than that in both movies. That's not an insult, by any means, since Pike looks stunning, and it's part of what makes her so (I've seen pictures of her where she looks much younger, and they aren't very flattering). But it appears to be impossible to express this point in American English in such a way that it does not sound like an insult.

Links Worth Noting:
* Motivated Cognition in Relationships at "Mixing Memory"
* Because I've been out and about, I forgot to link to the History Carnival. So here it is:
History Carnival 28 at "Patahistory"
* There has been some interesting discussion of Steve Fuller around the blogs that I never got a chance to mention, due to his article at Crooked Timber. See Fuller on Mooney on Science, Evaluating Scientific Credibility, and Journalism, Science, Politics, and Choosing Sides at "Adventures in Ethics" for intelligent discussion of the issues, with some great comment threads.

Currently Reading:
Balzac, Droll Stories
John Irving, A Prayer for Owen Meany

Evening Note for Tuesday, April 4th

Thought for the evening:

One of the greatest difficulties I've found in discussing history of philosophy with people who aren't in that field is overcoming the tendency to see arguments entirely in terms of their utility. That is, people seem to have difficulty seeing how one could evaluate an argument positively, enthusiastically, without accepting it. (This problem is not confined to people outside of HoP. I cannot count the number of times that someone in philosophy has assumed that because I'm rather enthusiastically positive about certain of Malebranche's more unusual moves that I agree with them. Needless to say, this is an illicit assumption.) But philosophical arguments shouldn't be seen as mere tools; they should also be seen as works of art, to be appreciated (or not) in their own right. In philosophical arguments we see the traces of the living operation of the human inellect, struggling with the biggest issues of all; and that is a wondrous thing. Good history of philosophy, like good philosophy itself, starts with a sense of wonder -- in this case, a sense of wonder at what the mind hath wrought. A sign of this sense of wonder is the ability to appreciate a philosophical position without having to argue that it is right.

This is not to say, of course, that whether it is right or not is unimportant. Indeed, it is the most important thing about the argument itself. But that is not what history of philosophy studies, at least primarily; HoP studies the courses of the mind at its best -- even when wrong. There is much to be learned about what is correct and what is not from studying brilliant error as well as truth. But no one can get so far without first appreciating the fact that some erroneous arguments are brilliant and beautiful, and worthy of a moment's time even if only for that fact.

Links worth noting:
Who is my neighbor? at "verbum ipsum"
Fine-tuning, Coarse-tuning, and Design Arguments at "Fides Quaerens Intellectum"

Currently Reading:
Honoré de Balzac, Droll Stories.
Mark Twain, A Tramp Abroad.

Where does he live?

Here is a book of the most succulent flavor, a book full of highly attractive diversions, a book spiced to the liking of the same most illustrious tipplers and most bibbers to whom Francois Rabelais, the eternal glory of Touraine, addressed his writings. Not that the Author presumes to be anything more than a good son of Touraine or to do more than gaily chronicle such high sport as amused the eminent people living in this fertile, pleasurable land. Ah, what a land it is! Richer in cuckolds, in bloods and in jokesmiths than any other on earth, with what a number of famous men it has fournished France! There is for instance the late Courier, of piquant memory, and Verville, author of The Way to Success, and what a host of others, equally illustrious! Nor, amid the latter, can we forbear from naming the Sieur Descartes, because he was a melancholy genius; because he cultivated the pale Muse of thought rather than wine and high fare; because the victuallers and pastry cooks of Tours hold him in just horror, refuse to acknowledge him or hear of him, and, if his name be spoken, shrug their shoulders and ask: "Where does he live?"

--Balzac, Droll Stories. Le Clercq, tr. Heritage Press (1939) p. 1.

Evening Note for Monday, April 3rd

Still visiting family. It looks like I'll be able to post fairly regularly; but I won't have time in the near future for any long posts.

Currently reading: Honoré de Balzac's Droll Stories

A Poem Draft

Fragmentary Hauntings

this river of blood stout men have shed
it flows in waves above the dead
bone-filled graves bereft of breath
forgotten through the blight of death
the bones are bleached where souls were bled

the guilty rise; in tongues they speak
of death who walks the earth to reap
and hunt our souls with bow of yew
that cannot fail and flies so true
it hits the victim that it seeks

forth the arrow -- straight it flew
to snip the flower in its dew
to strike strong men as still as stones
they fall and vanish with ghastly moans
they fail and fall and die anew

silver queen on a silver throne
made of bleached and burning bone
singing songs among the dead
of star-crossed men to demons wed
the specters hear, but weep alone