As today is St. Bonaventure's day, I give here a re-post from 2013.
Today is the Feast of St. Bonaventure, Doctor of the Church. He is usually known as the Seraphic Doctor, but his older designation was Doctor Devotus, the Devout Doctor. The name 'Bonaventure' may itself be a nickname; it means 'Good Fortune' and is said to have been given to him by St. Francis of Assisi, albeit by a late legend. His given name was Giovanni di Fidanza. His two most important works are the Breviloquium, which is a brilliant summary of the Catholic faith, and the Itinerarium, the Journey of the Mind to God, which is a brief, very dense work full of good things.
The Itinerarium is a meditation on the Crucified Seraph seen by St. Francis of Assisi at La Verna when he received the stigmata. Bonaventure had been the Minister General of the Franciscan order for two years by this point, and it was the thirty-third anniversary of the vision. Bonaventure pictures the six-winged seraph as representing the ascent of the mind to God, each wing representing another step. The key theme of the work is that of speculatio, which in this context means 'contemplation', but is closely connected to the word speculum, which is the word for 'mirror'. Each step in the ascent is a way we find things mirroring God. Each pair of wings is divided into a way in which we see God through the mirror of things and a higher way in which we see God in the mirror of things. To see God as through a mirror is to see him as that from which things come; to see God as in a mirror is to see him as actively working in the things that come from him. With the first and lowest pair of wings the mirror is the material world; with the next pair of wings, the mirror is our own souls; and with the third and highest pair of wings, the mirror is the divine name itself, first the name Being, then the name Good. Thence, of course, we pass over into God himself through the union of love.
Throughout this ascent, Bonaventure's governing principle is omnis effectus est signum causae, et exemplatum exemplaris, et via finis, ad quem ducit: "every effect is sign of its cause, and exemplate of its exemplar, and path to the end to which it leads" (2.12). Thus in the material world around us, recognizing it to be an effect requiring a cause or originating principle, we find the vestiges (vestigia: the word literally means 'footprints', but is usually translated as 'traces') of divine power (for things come from him as an effect), divine wisdom (for things imitate his understanding of them), and divine goodness (for things tend toward him as their universal good). This is reflected in a very great many ways:
in themselves
weight or tendency, number or distinction, measure or limitation
as found in faith or belief
origin, course, terminus
as known in investigative reason
existing, living, knowing
One of the things that makes Bonaventure sometimes difficult to read, and certainly makes his theology difficult to convey, is his facility at thinking multidimensionally about whatever topic he is considering. Each triad noted above is a pattern reflecting the pattern of power, wisdom, goodness, and equally of causal sign, exemplification, way. But the three levels themselves also exhibit this pattern, so that the first triad, as a triad, is a sign of divine power; the second triad, as a triad, is an exemplification of divine wisdom; and the third triad, as a triad, exhibits a path of ascent to divine goodness. Further, the whole series reiterates the three pairs of wings of the seraph and thus the three stages of ascent: the first triad suggests the material world in itself; the second triad, while remaining at the level of the material world, introduces a suggestion of the human mind; and the third triad, while again remaining at the level of the material world, introduces a suggestion of something higher than our own minds because on the basis of this triad the mind can build three kinds of inferences to things more noble than itself. Further, the first triad gives the intrinsic character of that which is contemplated at the first wing of the seraph; the second triad is suggestive of what is contemplated at the second wing of the seraph; and the third triad is suggestive of what is contemplated at the third wing of the seraph. Thus the triads reflect the structure of the work as well as reflecting each other. And we, in knowing the material world, reflect the triads, in whose reflection we see the divine power, wisdom, and goodness. This is not even getting into the fact that there are seven ways in which these triads reflect God's power, wisdom, and goodness -- origin, magnitude, multitude, beauty, plenitude, activity, order -- each of which is analyzable into a triad, and this triad is, depending on which of the three ways we look at it, one of the three triads above with respect to that particular property of creatures.
The second wing concerns the material world as sensible (and we have opinion or belief rather than rigorous knowledge about the material world precisely as sensible); it is the world as macrocosm ingressing, so to speak, into the mind as microcosm through the senses. Recognizing that everything that is moved is moved by another, we recognize in sensation itself the need for a higher cause of some kind. In each sensation we find an apprehension, a delight or fulfillment of our sensory capacities deriving from this apprehension, and a judgment about what we sense deriving from them both. At each level of sensation we have a suggestion of something divine: the first, in which we apprehend objects through their similitudes in the medium connecting them and us, gives us some recognition of the possibility of divine emanation through which we may know God; the second, in which we are pleased or fulfilled by this apprehension arising from the harmony of the object with our ability to sense them, we have some recognition of the possibility of divine harmony through which we may delight in God; and in the third, in which we abstract from sensible things their changeableness, we have some recognition of divine eternity and immutability. At the sensible level we are most familiar with the quantitative character of the world, and Bonaventure draws on Augustine to identify seven kinds of 'number', which is (you will recall from above) associated with distinction, and thus seven kinds of distinctions in the sensible world, through which we can rise to their exemplar in divine wisdom. And divine wisdom, again, is the second member of the triad of divine attributes reflected by creaturely effects, which goes with the fact that we are considering the second wing of the seraph.
I am simplifying all of this somewhat; there are intricate interrelations I haven't mentioned. And all this occurs in the space of about ten to twenty pages. No other Christian theologian in the history of the Church can seriously rival Bonaventure's capacity for stating his full position with succinctness and concision. His ability to concentrate an extensive chain of reasoning into a few sentences by means of list and analogy is sometimes dizzying. But it is not mere game-playing. It is all very well thought out; he can justify by argument every single one of these reflections of reflections of reflections, and does, sometimes in the Itinerarium itself (although these arguments are stated with the same kind of super-concision) and usually also elsewhere. Bonaventure, even at his most readable (as in his Tree of Life, which is about the life of Christ, or his Legenda maior, which is his official life of St. Francis for the Franciscan order) cannot really be read; he must be unpacked, unspooled, unzipped. Just as in Aquinas we generally get theological reasoning in a form that begins to approach maximal usefulness as a pedagogical reference point for further discussion, what we generally get with Bonaventure is theological reasoning in a form approaching its maximal degree of concentrated conciseness. At least, nobody has ever been able to come up with a more concentrated form. It is a bit much for the mind to take in at once. But by thinking through Bonaventure closely you can always, always, learn a new way to see the world, one you hadn't thought of before.
Saturday, July 15, 2017
Friday, July 14, 2017
Poem Draft
Intellect
I am a leaf that grows on an infinite tree
that is itself but a flower on an infinite tree
that grows on a hill by an infinite road
that is lined with trees that are greater still
beneath the expanse of an infinite sky
that has seen the trees grow for infinite years
and a sun that will shine for an infinite age
while the infinite worlds in their boundless array
are rolling forever under infinite stars
that make up a world among infinite worlds
that all grow like one leaf on an infinite tree
that I behold in my hand with my infinite eye.
I am a leaf that grows on an infinite tree
that is itself but a flower on an infinite tree
that grows on a hill by an infinite road
that is lined with trees that are greater still
beneath the expanse of an infinite sky
that has seen the trees grow for infinite years
and a sun that will shine for an infinite age
while the infinite worlds in their boundless array
are rolling forever under infinite stars
that make up a world among infinite worlds
that all grow like one leaf on an infinite tree
that I behold in my hand with my infinite eye.
Thursday, July 13, 2017
Evening Note for Thursday, July 13
Thought for the Evening: On the Reliability Problem for Mathematical Platonism
Mathematical platonism is the view that there are mathematical objects, not reducible to any physical object, that are independent of us and knowable by us. (To be platonistic, strictly speaking, they must not be merely irreducible to physical objects but more fundamental than them, and the knowability must be strictly by intellectual apprehension than by any other way. In practice, the term 'platonism' is often used here much more loosely just to indicate actually existing and knowable abstract objects. But the elements of the more purely platonistic versions are worth remembering.) The reliability problem is an argument that mathematical platonism is unable to give an acceptable account of how we have the right kind of epistemic access to these mathematical objects. It is occasionally called the Benacerraf-Field problem, because the standard locus for it is Hartry Field's modification of a dilemma proposed by Paul Benacerraf. The SEP article on mathematical platonism summarizes it as the following:
Obviously, the real question here is why anyone should accept these premises. (1), of course, is not true if taken very strictly; mathematicians are wrong all the time, it is easy to be wrong in mathematics, and almost all major advance in mathematics consists of mathematicians cooperatively working very hard to prove themselves and each other wrong. There is a huge amount of error-elimination in mathematics, which can only be if there is quite a bit of error. But we probably should not take it very strictly; the idea instead is that when mathematicians using mathematical methods converge on S, then S is true, in which case we have a much more plausible kind of reliability. In any case, (1) is not particularly controversial. Likewise, (2), or at least some version of it, is generally accepted. (3) is more tricky.
The most natural way of defending (3) is to say that if we know something, we must have some kind of causal relationship with it. I see a bottle of water -- how? There is a physical object, the bottle, located at a certain distance from me, and light is bouncing off of it to my eyes, which activates receptors in my retina, which stimulates my optic nerves, which stimulate my brain. But how does this work with the number 2? The number 2, itself, doesn't seem to be located anywhere in my vicinity, nor does light (nor sound, nor chemical reaction, nor direct physical contact) bring me any information of number 2 as such. Furthermore, abstract objects are often characterized as being causally inert. And so, if we need some kind of causal link to know these alleged mathematical objects, there seems to be no way we could know them at all, in which case the reliability of mathematics seems unexplained.
Formulated this way, there is no particular reason why any mathematical platonist needs to be worried. It is true that people commonly assume that abstract objects are causally inert, and it is even true that there have been mathematical platonists who have accepted such a position, but there is nothing in mathematical platonism itself that requires such an assumption. And indeed, if we look at how mathematics functions in explanation, it is not difficult to find cases in which we seem to be saying that some result arises due to the requirements of mathematics. It is difficult to make sense of much of physics without taking mathematical truths to have real-world results. Mathematics is not just used as a sort of precise bookkeeping, a super-accounting; we appeal to it to explain why bodies, waves, and the like work the way they do. There is no obvious reason why we should not regard this as counting as causation -- 'A necessitates real effect B' seems like a good candidate for A causing B. But even if one wanted to confine 'cause' to physical causation involving conserved quantities and the like, almost nobody has an account of this kind of physical causation that does not presuppose some kind of mathematical dependence. Thus the mathematical platonist can simply take the relevant sort of dependence to be more fundamental than, and presupposed by, what his critics call causation. You can have a regularity account of causation that does not take this to be true -- but regularity theorists are not the people to be pressing unexplained reliability as an objection against anyone. Everyone else takes the kind of causation described by physics to be analyzable at least in part in terms of mathematical relations that we know, not vice versa.
Nor does the more specific complaint that there is no causal path from mathematical objects to us seem to do anything more than beg the question by assuming that the causal path must in some sense be sensory. A mathematical platonist like Gödel who holds that we have a special form of mathematical perception will obvious reject this. Gödel held, based on his own experience, that it is a psychological fact that we can perceive mathematical truths (although, of course, this is very different from saying that it is always easy to do so even with training, and is also different from saying that mathematics simply reduces to such a perception). We can in fact distinguish between the experience of simply accepting the mathematics as a procedural black box and being able to 'see' why it has to work the way it does in a given case. And if you hold that we have reason to accept that some such mathematical perception exists, why should one not regard that as an effect of what one perceives? If you have good reason to think that there is this mathematical perception, you already and immediately have reason to think you've discovered an effect of what you perceive. One can even begin to sketch out some of the features that the in-principle explanation would have (e.g., the ability to identify the negations of some of the things we see as contradictory and thus impossible), and by the nature of the argument it does not matter whether we can currently, or even ever in practice, fill in all of the blanks.
I think a bigger problem, though, is that it misconceives what it is to explain something's being reliable. Part of the motivation for thinking of (3) causally is in thinking that the most plausible account of the reliability of physics is causal, along the lines I noted for the water-bottle. But it's not so clear. What about this causal story actually explains the reliability of anything? It explains part of what it is to perceive a bottle of water, but nothing about this on its own explains anyone's ability to draw reliable conclusions about it. For one thing, all of the actual drawing conclusions here is obviously being left out, or at least treated as a black box. What the causal story is really doing is telling us what it means to say that it is objective, an object of perception. This helps to explain why it's not a bizarre accident that we are thinking about something that also happens really to exist in the world, as if you imagined that there was a building shaped like a tree, and, lo, it turned out by sheer happenstance that there was a real building exactly like it. Establishing that your conclusions are non-accidental is a big and important thing. But that your claims are non-accidentally representative does not imply that they are reliably true in the sense said by (1).
The confusion seems to arise in that non-accidental-ness does seem to be one reasonable requirement for an acceptable explanation of something's being a reliable in getting true claims. But it is not the only one, and what explains non-accidental representativeness is not what explains reliability, which is a kind of consistency. (You can have, for instance, something that is reliably false.) Reliability requires primarily an internal and structural explanation. In other words, it is the structure of a method that gives it its reliability, it is whether you are thinking logically that gives it its reliability, it is the features of a form of inquiry that give it its reliability; whether this reliability is a reliability useful for drawing true conclusions in particular will require bringing in non-accidental-ness. (If we want to say why something is reliably wrong, we want to understand why its structural reliability is not accidentally getting the wrong result, if we want to say why something is reliably useful, we want to understand why its structure and features make it not accidental that it is always of use).
Now, obviously this just moves back the problem, but notice what happens if we rephrase the premise to emphasize non-accidental-ness rather than the distinct issue of reliability:
But the explanation for why so many mathematical claims are not merely accidentally true is that we have good reason to think that it is impossible for them not to be true, that 'this claim (or set of claims) is false' often ends up being a contradiction. If I am getting A because ~A is impossible, then my conclusion's being true is obviously not a mere happenstance or accident.
Now, to be sure, one could make a fuss about the question of how we get necessities and impossibilities, but if we can reason about them at all, no matter how, then the challenge is answered: if we prove that it is a contradiction for X to be false, then it cannot be a mere accident that X is true, and it cannot possibly surprise anyone that we turn out to be right. And this is the sort of thing that mathematicians actually do. There is no reason to hold that mathematical platonists cannot give this explanation, and thus, whatever problems there may be with mathematical platonism, (3) is wrong.
Various Links of Interest
* Why Roman concrete is more durable than modern concrete in seawater.
* Darwin summarizes the Church's more-than-millenium-long struggle against the practice of dueling.
* The historical background to The Band's "The Night They Drove Old Dixie Down".
* A high school paper asked Secretary Mattis for an interview, and he gave it.
Currently Reading
Isaac Asimov, Foundation and Earth
Mary Astell, The Christian Religion as Professed by a Daughter of the Church of England
John of St. Thomas, The Gifts of the Holy Spirit
Kenneth L. Pearce, Language and the Structure of Berkeley's World
Stephen R. Lawhead, Dream Thief
Mathematical platonism is the view that there are mathematical objects, not reducible to any physical object, that are independent of us and knowable by us. (To be platonistic, strictly speaking, they must not be merely irreducible to physical objects but more fundamental than them, and the knowability must be strictly by intellectual apprehension than by any other way. In practice, the term 'platonism' is often used here much more loosely just to indicate actually existing and knowable abstract objects. But the elements of the more purely platonistic versions are worth remembering.) The reliability problem is an argument that mathematical platonism is unable to give an acceptable account of how we have the right kind of epistemic access to these mathematical objects. It is occasionally called the Benacerraf-Field problem, because the standard locus for it is Hartry Field's modification of a dilemma proposed by Paul Benacerraf. The SEP article on mathematical platonism summarizes it as the following:
Premise 1. Mathematicians are reliable, in the sense that for almost every mathematical sentence S, if mathematicians accept S, then S is true.
Premise 2. For belief in mathematics to be justified, it must at least in principle be possible to explain the reliability described in Premise 1.
Premise 3. If mathematical platonism is true, then this reliability cannot be explained even in principle.
Obviously, the real question here is why anyone should accept these premises. (1), of course, is not true if taken very strictly; mathematicians are wrong all the time, it is easy to be wrong in mathematics, and almost all major advance in mathematics consists of mathematicians cooperatively working very hard to prove themselves and each other wrong. There is a huge amount of error-elimination in mathematics, which can only be if there is quite a bit of error. But we probably should not take it very strictly; the idea instead is that when mathematicians using mathematical methods converge on S, then S is true, in which case we have a much more plausible kind of reliability. In any case, (1) is not particularly controversial. Likewise, (2), or at least some version of it, is generally accepted. (3) is more tricky.
The most natural way of defending (3) is to say that if we know something, we must have some kind of causal relationship with it. I see a bottle of water -- how? There is a physical object, the bottle, located at a certain distance from me, and light is bouncing off of it to my eyes, which activates receptors in my retina, which stimulates my optic nerves, which stimulate my brain. But how does this work with the number 2? The number 2, itself, doesn't seem to be located anywhere in my vicinity, nor does light (nor sound, nor chemical reaction, nor direct physical contact) bring me any information of number 2 as such. Furthermore, abstract objects are often characterized as being causally inert. And so, if we need some kind of causal link to know these alleged mathematical objects, there seems to be no way we could know them at all, in which case the reliability of mathematics seems unexplained.
Formulated this way, there is no particular reason why any mathematical platonist needs to be worried. It is true that people commonly assume that abstract objects are causally inert, and it is even true that there have been mathematical platonists who have accepted such a position, but there is nothing in mathematical platonism itself that requires such an assumption. And indeed, if we look at how mathematics functions in explanation, it is not difficult to find cases in which we seem to be saying that some result arises due to the requirements of mathematics. It is difficult to make sense of much of physics without taking mathematical truths to have real-world results. Mathematics is not just used as a sort of precise bookkeeping, a super-accounting; we appeal to it to explain why bodies, waves, and the like work the way they do. There is no obvious reason why we should not regard this as counting as causation -- 'A necessitates real effect B' seems like a good candidate for A causing B. But even if one wanted to confine 'cause' to physical causation involving conserved quantities and the like, almost nobody has an account of this kind of physical causation that does not presuppose some kind of mathematical dependence. Thus the mathematical platonist can simply take the relevant sort of dependence to be more fundamental than, and presupposed by, what his critics call causation. You can have a regularity account of causation that does not take this to be true -- but regularity theorists are not the people to be pressing unexplained reliability as an objection against anyone. Everyone else takes the kind of causation described by physics to be analyzable at least in part in terms of mathematical relations that we know, not vice versa.
Nor does the more specific complaint that there is no causal path from mathematical objects to us seem to do anything more than beg the question by assuming that the causal path must in some sense be sensory. A mathematical platonist like Gödel who holds that we have a special form of mathematical perception will obvious reject this. Gödel held, based on his own experience, that it is a psychological fact that we can perceive mathematical truths (although, of course, this is very different from saying that it is always easy to do so even with training, and is also different from saying that mathematics simply reduces to such a perception). We can in fact distinguish between the experience of simply accepting the mathematics as a procedural black box and being able to 'see' why it has to work the way it does in a given case. And if you hold that we have reason to accept that some such mathematical perception exists, why should one not regard that as an effect of what one perceives? If you have good reason to think that there is this mathematical perception, you already and immediately have reason to think you've discovered an effect of what you perceive. One can even begin to sketch out some of the features that the in-principle explanation would have (e.g., the ability to identify the negations of some of the things we see as contradictory and thus impossible), and by the nature of the argument it does not matter whether we can currently, or even ever in practice, fill in all of the blanks.
I think a bigger problem, though, is that it misconceives what it is to explain something's being reliable. Part of the motivation for thinking of (3) causally is in thinking that the most plausible account of the reliability of physics is causal, along the lines I noted for the water-bottle. But it's not so clear. What about this causal story actually explains the reliability of anything? It explains part of what it is to perceive a bottle of water, but nothing about this on its own explains anyone's ability to draw reliable conclusions about it. For one thing, all of the actual drawing conclusions here is obviously being left out, or at least treated as a black box. What the causal story is really doing is telling us what it means to say that it is objective, an object of perception. This helps to explain why it's not a bizarre accident that we are thinking about something that also happens really to exist in the world, as if you imagined that there was a building shaped like a tree, and, lo, it turned out by sheer happenstance that there was a real building exactly like it. Establishing that your conclusions are non-accidental is a big and important thing. But that your claims are non-accidentally representative does not imply that they are reliably true in the sense said by (1).
The confusion seems to arise in that non-accidental-ness does seem to be one reasonable requirement for an acceptable explanation of something's being a reliable in getting true claims. But it is not the only one, and what explains non-accidental representativeness is not what explains reliability, which is a kind of consistency. (You can have, for instance, something that is reliably false.) Reliability requires primarily an internal and structural explanation. In other words, it is the structure of a method that gives it its reliability, it is whether you are thinking logically that gives it its reliability, it is the features of a form of inquiry that give it its reliability; whether this reliability is a reliability useful for drawing true conclusions in particular will require bringing in non-accidental-ness. (If we want to say why something is reliably wrong, we want to understand why its structural reliability is not accidentally getting the wrong result, if we want to say why something is reliably useful, we want to understand why its structure and features make it not accidental that it is always of use).
Now, obviously this just moves back the problem, but notice what happens if we rephrase the premise to emphasize non-accidental-ness rather than the distinct issue of reliability:
(1) Mathematicians consistently reach claims that do in fact describe the way things are.
(2) For belief in mathematics to be justified, it must at least in principle be possible to explain why this is not a mere accident or happenstance.
(3) Mathematical platonism cannot explain why this is not a mere accident or happenstance.
But the explanation for why so many mathematical claims are not merely accidentally true is that we have good reason to think that it is impossible for them not to be true, that 'this claim (or set of claims) is false' often ends up being a contradiction. If I am getting A because ~A is impossible, then my conclusion's being true is obviously not a mere happenstance or accident.
Now, to be sure, one could make a fuss about the question of how we get necessities and impossibilities, but if we can reason about them at all, no matter how, then the challenge is answered: if we prove that it is a contradiction for X to be false, then it cannot be a mere accident that X is true, and it cannot possibly surprise anyone that we turn out to be right. And this is the sort of thing that mathematicians actually do. There is no reason to hold that mathematical platonists cannot give this explanation, and thus, whatever problems there may be with mathematical platonism, (3) is wrong.
Various Links of Interest
* Why Roman concrete is more durable than modern concrete in seawater.
* Darwin summarizes the Church's more-than-millenium-long struggle against the practice of dueling.
* The historical background to The Band's "The Night They Drove Old Dixie Down".
* A high school paper asked Secretary Mattis for an interview, and he gave it.
Currently Reading
Isaac Asimov, Foundation and Earth
Mary Astell, The Christian Religion as Professed by a Daughter of the Church of England
John of St. Thomas, The Gifts of the Holy Spirit
Kenneth L. Pearce, Language and the Structure of Berkeley's World
Stephen R. Lawhead, Dream Thief
Music on My Mind
Jagjit Singh and Chitra Singh, "Woh kaghaz ki kashti woh baarish ka paani". Kaghaz means 'paper', kashti means 'boat', baarish means 'rain', and paani means 'water'. It's a nostalgic song about how wonderful the world can seem when you are child. The first verse means something like,
Take this wealth away from me,
take this fame away from me,
seize my youth if you want,
but give back to me childhood's rain,
the paper boat, the rain-water.
Wednesday, July 12, 2017
Lone Watch Upon the Topmost Tower
At Bamborough Castle
by William Lisle Bowles
Ye holy towers that shade the wave-worn steep,
Long may ye rear your aged brows sublime,
Though hurrying silent by, relentless time
Assail you, and the winter whirlwind's sweep!
For far from blazing grandeur's crowded halls,
Here Charity hath fix'd her chosen seat,
Oft listening tearful when the wild winds beat
With hollow bodings round your ancient walls;
And Pity, at the dark and stormy hour
Of midnight, when the moon is hid on high,
Keeps her lone watch upon the topmost tower,
And turns her ear to each expiring cry;
Blest if her aid some fainting wretch might save,
And snatch him cold and speechless from the wave.
Tuesday, July 11, 2017
The Islands of Miranda, Part IV
This is the fourth part of a short story draft. I, II, III.
The several days after someone tries to kill you are always extremely busy. Diego had to talk several more times with the Costa Rican police and give a formal report for Mirandan Security. He had to do the insurance paperwork for furniture damaged by the struggle with his would-be assassin. It was unclear how the assassin had entered the house, so he had to get his locks changed. As the word spread, there were endless calls from family and friends and acquaintances, either of the worried or the gossip-curious kind. And, of course, he had to get on with his life, which at this point meant planning a trip to Italy as soon as could be arranged, a trip in which every arrangement had to be run past Mirandan Security before it could be finalized, for safety's sake, and past the Mirandan Organization bureaucracy, since they were paying for it. None of this was made easier by the fact that he was not sleeping very well. He kept waking up in the middle of the night with a sharp and sudden start, breathing heavily.
Two days into this juggling act, Carlota Pacelli sat down across from him at breakfast, ordered coffee, and said, "Teddy Chavez has gone missing. As near as anyone can tell, you were the last person to see him."
Diego stared at her. "Do you have any idea why he's missing?"
"None. No trace of him at all. After he left Nuevo Roque, he had a day free, then never showed up to any of his scheduled meetings afterward."
"Do you think it might have been the Venezuelans?"
Pacelli's coffee came and she took a drink, looking at him thoughtfully. "I think I see where you're going," she said finally. "You think it might be a political action of some sort for these computer problems they've been blaming on us. Did Chavez mention anything to suggest that he was worried about that?"
"No," said Diego with a shake of his head. "We just talked about my appointment to the Board. Nothing but timing suggests it. And I wonder, now that I've said it out loud, whether it makes any sense. Teddy was an American as well as a Mirandan. Why pick the one Speaker whose death would give the Americans even more of an excuse to back Miranda?"
"The current Venezuelan government is not exactly renowned for its rational decisions, but we don't even know yet what happened; we literally have no evidence. Since his meeting with you was the last appointment he made, you'll have to give a formal statement to Security sometime today."
Diego sighed and sat back. "Does the man who attacked me have any ties to Venezuela?"
"None that we've found so far."
"What really gets me is why anyone would go after me.I haven't done anything to anyone."
"While I've never dealt with a murder attempt, with other crimes I've found that people spend very little time reasoning about what other people actually deserve."
A few days later, Diego flew out to Italy with Pacelli assigned as security escort. Looking at the tickets he had, she said, "You do realize that since the Organization is ultimately paying, you could have bought first class rather than economy."
"Yes," he said, "but I've been spending more money than usual and have just filed insurance claims with Mirandan Insurance; I'd rather not make this month even more eventful by risking a red flag from Financial Audit."
The trip to Italy was uneventful. They flew into Fiumcino, and after the various preliminaries, took a train for the half-hour trip to Castel Gandolfo. Despite his hesitancy to spend, Diego had arranged for rooms at a hotel that, while not expensive, had an excellent location, a little to the south of Castel Gandolfo City State and overlooking Lake Albano.
The official address of the Pontifical Commission for the Insular State of Miranda is in the Villa Barberini in Castel Gandolfo City State, but this is in practice little more than a mailroom shared by three other commissions. The real offices were in a considerably more recent office building a few miles away in the town of Castel Gandolfo, Italy. It was a nice building in early twenty-second-century New Art Deco style, with clean lines on the outside and, inside, a lush lobby that, if not quite gaudy, tended a little toward the giddy.
They were met in the lobby by a young man wearing the neat and severe garb of one of the mercantile religious orders -- Antoninite, Diego guessed, correctly, as it later turned out. He introduced himself as Brother Andrew, his voice carrying just a hint of East Asian accent -- Japanese, Diego guessed, although he never learned whether this guess was right. Pacelli was shown to the Mezzanine waiting room and Brother Andrew and Diego took the elevator up to the fifth floor.
The small fifth floor hallway was decorated with Mirandan memorabilia. Here was an early twenty-first-century map of the Territorio Insular Francisco de Miranda. There was a display case of original Mirandan coins and visitor medals, all in mint condition and probably worth thousands of dollars on the collector's market. But the thing that mostly caught one's attention was the big square flag, slightly frayed, above the door at the end of the room. It was the Mirandan flag: half of it was the vertical tricolor, yellow, blue, and red from left to right, and half of it was plain white with the Keys of St. Peter, silver key above the golden key. There was a small plaque beside it, but Diego did not need to read the plaque to know that the flag was one of the first made for the island-state when it was newly born.
Brother Andrew paused with his hand on the doorknob. "You should address the Cardinal as 'Your Eminence'," he said, "and he likes to shake hands, but beyond that His Eminence is not one for formalities." Then they went in.
Cardinal Binaisa was a mountain of a man behind a very large wooden desk, and stood when they entered. "Come in, Mr. Páez! Have a seat!" They shook hands, and then both sat; Brother Andrew also sat, a bit off to the side, and began taking notes. After the usual introductory material -- 'How was your flight, Mr. Páez?' 'It was very good, Your Eminence,' and so forth -- the Cardinal leaned back in his chair and fixed a shrewd eye on Diego.
"There are a number of reasons for this interview, Mr. Páez. The Board of the Miranda Organization has been, for the most part, pushing your name very heavily, but appointment to the Board is the joint prerogative of the Council of Self-Governance and the Pontifical Commission, which are still, whatever the Board may think, the governing bodies of Miranda."
"I'm sure the Board fully recognizes that, Your Eminence."
Cardinal Binaisa laughed. "If that is what you honestly think, Mr. Páez, you are in for many surprises. In name, the Board recognizes the authority of Council and Commission, but in practice, what does that mean? We give the workings of the Board a diplomatic and legal color, and they talk sweetly to us in exchange for that, but beyond that, the Miranda Organization does as it wills. In principle, for instance, I have authority to audit all finances of the Organization, but what that means is that I have the authority to ask them to provide accounts. They say, 'Yes, Your Eminence, of course, Your Eminence', and send me a large pile of information through which I must sort; perhaps it has what I asked them to provide and perhaps it does not. If it does not, I give my authoritative request again, and they say, 'Oh, we apologize, Your Eminence, we will send it immediately.' Then I wait three months, and, not having received anything, call them up angrily. 'Oh, Your Eminence,' they say, 'we do not know how this has happened; according to our records, it was sent. We will send it without delay.' Then they will send the right kind of information, but for the wrong year, or the wrong division, and so it will go. Perhaps they think I do not see what they are doing, or perhaps they do not care, but it is transparent to me, for this is also how ecclesiastical bureaucracy works."
"Surely a Cardinal is capable of exerting a great deal of pressure," Diego said, amused. "After all, President of the Commission for Miranda is an extremely prestigious title; you are one of the major Cardinals in the Curia."
The Cardinal's face screwed up merrily. "A very prestigious title, yes. I am in this prestigious position because I have been wholly outmaneuvered in ecclesiastical politics. I have sufficient connections that they could not make me papal nuncio to Timbuktu, or whatever, so they settled for the second best -- a position too prestigious in title to be refused if the Holy Father asks you to do it, that looks very important because it is the conduit by which the Holy See receives the Mirandan Support, a considerable portion of its current income; and yet I do not collect that money, nor do I decide how it is spent, so I am a sort of accountant, moving it from point A to point B. An accountant with an amazingly prestigious title. I was put here to make sure that I would have nothing more than vestigial authority, so that I would be effectively neutralized. But one thing nobody dares yet to deny me is this interview, because it is one of the things that maintains the illusion that this is an important position, and therefore here we are.
"There are, in fact, a few things I need to know before approving your appointment. When you took the oath of full citizenship at sixteen, you were required to affirm that you were Catholic and would uphold the Catholic faith. The position to which you will be appointed requires a reaffirmation of your citizenship oath. Are you still Catholic and are you still able to affirm that you will uphold the Catholic faith?"
"Yes, Your Eminence," Diego said promptly.
"When was the last time you went to Mass?"
Caught off guard and embarrassed, Diego awkwardly said, "Last Easter, I think," and then, just as awkwardly, "Will that be a problem?"
"For your immortal soul, yes. But I thank you for your honesty; most people lie when I ask that question. Do you recognize the authority of the Holy See as the sovereign governing authority of Miranda?"
"Yes, Your Eminence."
"Since the islands no longer are in Mirandan possession, the Pontifical Commission has very little left to do but advise and audit; and the Holy See has very little to be sovereign over beyond some residual powers and privileges. The Board of the Miranda Organization is not accountable to anyone."
"They are accountable to Mirandan citizens, Your Eminence, through the Council of Self-Governance. That has always been our way."
The Cardinal looked at him a long moment. "Mirandans often say that, and, yes, the theory is that Mirandan citizens will be self-governing within the general framework provided by the Holy See. But there is no territory for the Council to rule. They can pass laws, but in practice the laws of the nations in which its citizens reside take precedence. All the effective organs of action are in the hands of the Board, and the Council can do little more than audit and advise -- and they can be just as easily stonewalled or deflected off into purely ceremonial matters as can I. No one can really believe that the Council matters anymore."
"With respect, Your Eminence," Diego said, trying not to speak heatedly, "I do not think you understand how we Mirandans think. The Board is an instrument; it exists to serve the citizens of Miranda. That is the way that was set out by Pope Leo Theodore, and that it is the Mirandan way."
Binaisa and Brother Andrew exchanged significant glances. Then the Cardinal said, "As you have been a member of the Mirandan Navy, I have been asked by the Holy Father himself to ask what you see as the function of the Navy."
"It is to protect Mirandan seasteads and shipping, and to further study and exploration of the oceans."
"That is what the brochures say," Binaisa replied drily. "Is that what you believe?"
"Yes," Diego said firmly.
"I will be quite frank with you, Mr. Páez, and say that the Holy See is concerned that some of the current policies and practices of the Miranda Organization are threatening to drag it into a diplomatic catastrophe it cannot afford."
Diego said nothing in response to this, and the Cardinal watched him closely. "We do not know everything that is going on, because they tell us nothing that they do not want to tell us. But we do know enough to suspect that the Organization is actively harassing the Venezuelan government. This is a course of action detrimental to the Church in Venezuela, and one that threatens the Holy See's ability to maintain even a nominal political neutrality. The Holy See cannot easily disentangle itself from Miranda; it is increasingly worried that it will be held hostage to a version of Miranda it did not intend. We no longer trust that the Miranda of Leo Theodore still exists."
"It still exists," said Diego.
Cardinal Binaisa steepled his fingers and looked into the distance, lost in thought. After a few moments, he fixed his eyes on Diego again and said, "Have you been to San Tommaso da Villanova to see his tomb?" When Diego shook his head. "You have seen pictures, I imagine? But it does not beat seeing it in person. The locals call them Leo and Teodoro, and they are quite striking. You should see it."
"I will certainly do so, Your Eminence. He was a truly great man; the greatest pope of modern times."
Cardinal Binaisa smiled broadly. "So the Council keeps telling us every time they press for his beatification. But it is not really enough."
"You don't think he will be beatified?" Diego asked, surprised.
Binaisa shrugged. "So much of the process is based on popular remembrance and the decision of God. But I do not think so. Leo Theodore was far from being a corrupt pope, but he was a very worldly one. He massively expanded both the revenue and the scope of action of the Holy See, giving it a temporal power that it has not had since the Renaissance, and without most of the problems it had then, but it is not the primary purpose of a pope. Everything temporal decays. And much of what he did has dried up and vanished away. Miranda was invaded and is a ghost of itself. He cleaned up the finances of the Holy See, and yet here we are again in scandal after scandal, bad financial decision after bad financial decision. We still have Castel Gandolfo City State, but who knows how long the Italian government will tolerate it; there are still secular politicians who resent how he wrested that treaty out of the Italian government. The only thing that makes them hesitate, I think, is that it is good for tourism. Caesar is always jealous, and will seize any power he thinks will be beneficial to himself; and one of the constants of Church history is that every good thing will be stripped away at some point by some Caesar who thinks he has a right to it. As a Mirandan, you should know that better than anyone." He spread his hands. "I do not deny that he was a great man, but a saint he was not. And, besides, to beatify and canonize is often to propose as a model, and I suspect the Congregation would hesitate to propose such an effective pope as a model."
"What do you mean?"
"Come now, Mr. Páez," the Cardinal said, laughing again. "Nobody wants an effective pope. They want a pope who will not be a hindrance, and they will complain about all of his failures, but there is nothing more terrifying than an effective pope. In terms of ecclesiastical politics, Leo Theodore himself was a horrible accident. Tired of endless financial and administrative scandals, the Cardinals risked picking someone who had a reputation for being a good administrator, in the hopes that a few bits and pieces of it would be cleaned up, so it would be easier for them to do whatever they wanted to do. He cleaned it up quite efficiently, and then the Curia learned, with a sort of growing desperation, that he wasn't going to stop with a few minor improvements and symbolic gestures. By sheer mistake, they had saddled themselves with someone who was too ruthless to be resisted and too cunning to be outmaneuvered, and all they could do was hold on for their dear lives as he kept succeeding at doing what he wanted to do. It is why the College of Cardinals has chosen the most mediocre and incompetent people they could-- with," he added drily, as if as an afterthought, "the exception of the current Holy Father, of course."
He was silent a moment. "You said before that you believe that the Miranda of Leo Theodore still exists. Do you really think that is true?"
"I do," said Diego.
The Cardinal turned his head to Brother Andrew and gave one clear, decisive nod, at which the Antoninite pulled an envelope out of a briefcase near his chair and stood. Then the Cardinal himself stood and held out his hand. "It is good to have met you, Mr. Páez. I hope we will get to talk again some time. Brother Andrew will show you out. At this time of day, the main elevator is likely to be busy. Please use my private one."
to be continued
The several days after someone tries to kill you are always extremely busy. Diego had to talk several more times with the Costa Rican police and give a formal report for Mirandan Security. He had to do the insurance paperwork for furniture damaged by the struggle with his would-be assassin. It was unclear how the assassin had entered the house, so he had to get his locks changed. As the word spread, there were endless calls from family and friends and acquaintances, either of the worried or the gossip-curious kind. And, of course, he had to get on with his life, which at this point meant planning a trip to Italy as soon as could be arranged, a trip in which every arrangement had to be run past Mirandan Security before it could be finalized, for safety's sake, and past the Mirandan Organization bureaucracy, since they were paying for it. None of this was made easier by the fact that he was not sleeping very well. He kept waking up in the middle of the night with a sharp and sudden start, breathing heavily.
Two days into this juggling act, Carlota Pacelli sat down across from him at breakfast, ordered coffee, and said, "Teddy Chavez has gone missing. As near as anyone can tell, you were the last person to see him."
Diego stared at her. "Do you have any idea why he's missing?"
"None. No trace of him at all. After he left Nuevo Roque, he had a day free, then never showed up to any of his scheduled meetings afterward."
"Do you think it might have been the Venezuelans?"
Pacelli's coffee came and she took a drink, looking at him thoughtfully. "I think I see where you're going," she said finally. "You think it might be a political action of some sort for these computer problems they've been blaming on us. Did Chavez mention anything to suggest that he was worried about that?"
"No," said Diego with a shake of his head. "We just talked about my appointment to the Board. Nothing but timing suggests it. And I wonder, now that I've said it out loud, whether it makes any sense. Teddy was an American as well as a Mirandan. Why pick the one Speaker whose death would give the Americans even more of an excuse to back Miranda?"
"The current Venezuelan government is not exactly renowned for its rational decisions, but we don't even know yet what happened; we literally have no evidence. Since his meeting with you was the last appointment he made, you'll have to give a formal statement to Security sometime today."
Diego sighed and sat back. "Does the man who attacked me have any ties to Venezuela?"
"None that we've found so far."
"What really gets me is why anyone would go after me.I haven't done anything to anyone."
"While I've never dealt with a murder attempt, with other crimes I've found that people spend very little time reasoning about what other people actually deserve."
A few days later, Diego flew out to Italy with Pacelli assigned as security escort. Looking at the tickets he had, she said, "You do realize that since the Organization is ultimately paying, you could have bought first class rather than economy."
"Yes," he said, "but I've been spending more money than usual and have just filed insurance claims with Mirandan Insurance; I'd rather not make this month even more eventful by risking a red flag from Financial Audit."
The trip to Italy was uneventful. They flew into Fiumcino, and after the various preliminaries, took a train for the half-hour trip to Castel Gandolfo. Despite his hesitancy to spend, Diego had arranged for rooms at a hotel that, while not expensive, had an excellent location, a little to the south of Castel Gandolfo City State and overlooking Lake Albano.
The official address of the Pontifical Commission for the Insular State of Miranda is in the Villa Barberini in Castel Gandolfo City State, but this is in practice little more than a mailroom shared by three other commissions. The real offices were in a considerably more recent office building a few miles away in the town of Castel Gandolfo, Italy. It was a nice building in early twenty-second-century New Art Deco style, with clean lines on the outside and, inside, a lush lobby that, if not quite gaudy, tended a little toward the giddy.
They were met in the lobby by a young man wearing the neat and severe garb of one of the mercantile religious orders -- Antoninite, Diego guessed, correctly, as it later turned out. He introduced himself as Brother Andrew, his voice carrying just a hint of East Asian accent -- Japanese, Diego guessed, although he never learned whether this guess was right. Pacelli was shown to the Mezzanine waiting room and Brother Andrew and Diego took the elevator up to the fifth floor.
The small fifth floor hallway was decorated with Mirandan memorabilia. Here was an early twenty-first-century map of the Territorio Insular Francisco de Miranda. There was a display case of original Mirandan coins and visitor medals, all in mint condition and probably worth thousands of dollars on the collector's market. But the thing that mostly caught one's attention was the big square flag, slightly frayed, above the door at the end of the room. It was the Mirandan flag: half of it was the vertical tricolor, yellow, blue, and red from left to right, and half of it was plain white with the Keys of St. Peter, silver key above the golden key. There was a small plaque beside it, but Diego did not need to read the plaque to know that the flag was one of the first made for the island-state when it was newly born.
Brother Andrew paused with his hand on the doorknob. "You should address the Cardinal as 'Your Eminence'," he said, "and he likes to shake hands, but beyond that His Eminence is not one for formalities." Then they went in.
Cardinal Binaisa was a mountain of a man behind a very large wooden desk, and stood when they entered. "Come in, Mr. Páez! Have a seat!" They shook hands, and then both sat; Brother Andrew also sat, a bit off to the side, and began taking notes. After the usual introductory material -- 'How was your flight, Mr. Páez?' 'It was very good, Your Eminence,' and so forth -- the Cardinal leaned back in his chair and fixed a shrewd eye on Diego.
"There are a number of reasons for this interview, Mr. Páez. The Board of the Miranda Organization has been, for the most part, pushing your name very heavily, but appointment to the Board is the joint prerogative of the Council of Self-Governance and the Pontifical Commission, which are still, whatever the Board may think, the governing bodies of Miranda."
"I'm sure the Board fully recognizes that, Your Eminence."
Cardinal Binaisa laughed. "If that is what you honestly think, Mr. Páez, you are in for many surprises. In name, the Board recognizes the authority of Council and Commission, but in practice, what does that mean? We give the workings of the Board a diplomatic and legal color, and they talk sweetly to us in exchange for that, but beyond that, the Miranda Organization does as it wills. In principle, for instance, I have authority to audit all finances of the Organization, but what that means is that I have the authority to ask them to provide accounts. They say, 'Yes, Your Eminence, of course, Your Eminence', and send me a large pile of information through which I must sort; perhaps it has what I asked them to provide and perhaps it does not. If it does not, I give my authoritative request again, and they say, 'Oh, we apologize, Your Eminence, we will send it immediately.' Then I wait three months, and, not having received anything, call them up angrily. 'Oh, Your Eminence,' they say, 'we do not know how this has happened; according to our records, it was sent. We will send it without delay.' Then they will send the right kind of information, but for the wrong year, or the wrong division, and so it will go. Perhaps they think I do not see what they are doing, or perhaps they do not care, but it is transparent to me, for this is also how ecclesiastical bureaucracy works."
"Surely a Cardinal is capable of exerting a great deal of pressure," Diego said, amused. "After all, President of the Commission for Miranda is an extremely prestigious title; you are one of the major Cardinals in the Curia."
The Cardinal's face screwed up merrily. "A very prestigious title, yes. I am in this prestigious position because I have been wholly outmaneuvered in ecclesiastical politics. I have sufficient connections that they could not make me papal nuncio to Timbuktu, or whatever, so they settled for the second best -- a position too prestigious in title to be refused if the Holy Father asks you to do it, that looks very important because it is the conduit by which the Holy See receives the Mirandan Support, a considerable portion of its current income; and yet I do not collect that money, nor do I decide how it is spent, so I am a sort of accountant, moving it from point A to point B. An accountant with an amazingly prestigious title. I was put here to make sure that I would have nothing more than vestigial authority, so that I would be effectively neutralized. But one thing nobody dares yet to deny me is this interview, because it is one of the things that maintains the illusion that this is an important position, and therefore here we are.
"There are, in fact, a few things I need to know before approving your appointment. When you took the oath of full citizenship at sixteen, you were required to affirm that you were Catholic and would uphold the Catholic faith. The position to which you will be appointed requires a reaffirmation of your citizenship oath. Are you still Catholic and are you still able to affirm that you will uphold the Catholic faith?"
"Yes, Your Eminence," Diego said promptly.
"When was the last time you went to Mass?"
Caught off guard and embarrassed, Diego awkwardly said, "Last Easter, I think," and then, just as awkwardly, "Will that be a problem?"
"For your immortal soul, yes. But I thank you for your honesty; most people lie when I ask that question. Do you recognize the authority of the Holy See as the sovereign governing authority of Miranda?"
"Yes, Your Eminence."
"Since the islands no longer are in Mirandan possession, the Pontifical Commission has very little left to do but advise and audit; and the Holy See has very little to be sovereign over beyond some residual powers and privileges. The Board of the Miranda Organization is not accountable to anyone."
"They are accountable to Mirandan citizens, Your Eminence, through the Council of Self-Governance. That has always been our way."
The Cardinal looked at him a long moment. "Mirandans often say that, and, yes, the theory is that Mirandan citizens will be self-governing within the general framework provided by the Holy See. But there is no territory for the Council to rule. They can pass laws, but in practice the laws of the nations in which its citizens reside take precedence. All the effective organs of action are in the hands of the Board, and the Council can do little more than audit and advise -- and they can be just as easily stonewalled or deflected off into purely ceremonial matters as can I. No one can really believe that the Council matters anymore."
"With respect, Your Eminence," Diego said, trying not to speak heatedly, "I do not think you understand how we Mirandans think. The Board is an instrument; it exists to serve the citizens of Miranda. That is the way that was set out by Pope Leo Theodore, and that it is the Mirandan way."
Binaisa and Brother Andrew exchanged significant glances. Then the Cardinal said, "As you have been a member of the Mirandan Navy, I have been asked by the Holy Father himself to ask what you see as the function of the Navy."
"It is to protect Mirandan seasteads and shipping, and to further study and exploration of the oceans."
"That is what the brochures say," Binaisa replied drily. "Is that what you believe?"
"Yes," Diego said firmly.
"I will be quite frank with you, Mr. Páez, and say that the Holy See is concerned that some of the current policies and practices of the Miranda Organization are threatening to drag it into a diplomatic catastrophe it cannot afford."
Diego said nothing in response to this, and the Cardinal watched him closely. "We do not know everything that is going on, because they tell us nothing that they do not want to tell us. But we do know enough to suspect that the Organization is actively harassing the Venezuelan government. This is a course of action detrimental to the Church in Venezuela, and one that threatens the Holy See's ability to maintain even a nominal political neutrality. The Holy See cannot easily disentangle itself from Miranda; it is increasingly worried that it will be held hostage to a version of Miranda it did not intend. We no longer trust that the Miranda of Leo Theodore still exists."
"It still exists," said Diego.
Cardinal Binaisa steepled his fingers and looked into the distance, lost in thought. After a few moments, he fixed his eyes on Diego again and said, "Have you been to San Tommaso da Villanova to see his tomb?" When Diego shook his head. "You have seen pictures, I imagine? But it does not beat seeing it in person. The locals call them Leo and Teodoro, and they are quite striking. You should see it."
"I will certainly do so, Your Eminence. He was a truly great man; the greatest pope of modern times."
Cardinal Binaisa smiled broadly. "So the Council keeps telling us every time they press for his beatification. But it is not really enough."
"You don't think he will be beatified?" Diego asked, surprised.
Binaisa shrugged. "So much of the process is based on popular remembrance and the decision of God. But I do not think so. Leo Theodore was far from being a corrupt pope, but he was a very worldly one. He massively expanded both the revenue and the scope of action of the Holy See, giving it a temporal power that it has not had since the Renaissance, and without most of the problems it had then, but it is not the primary purpose of a pope. Everything temporal decays. And much of what he did has dried up and vanished away. Miranda was invaded and is a ghost of itself. He cleaned up the finances of the Holy See, and yet here we are again in scandal after scandal, bad financial decision after bad financial decision. We still have Castel Gandolfo City State, but who knows how long the Italian government will tolerate it; there are still secular politicians who resent how he wrested that treaty out of the Italian government. The only thing that makes them hesitate, I think, is that it is good for tourism. Caesar is always jealous, and will seize any power he thinks will be beneficial to himself; and one of the constants of Church history is that every good thing will be stripped away at some point by some Caesar who thinks he has a right to it. As a Mirandan, you should know that better than anyone." He spread his hands. "I do not deny that he was a great man, but a saint he was not. And, besides, to beatify and canonize is often to propose as a model, and I suspect the Congregation would hesitate to propose such an effective pope as a model."
"What do you mean?"
"Come now, Mr. Páez," the Cardinal said, laughing again. "Nobody wants an effective pope. They want a pope who will not be a hindrance, and they will complain about all of his failures, but there is nothing more terrifying than an effective pope. In terms of ecclesiastical politics, Leo Theodore himself was a horrible accident. Tired of endless financial and administrative scandals, the Cardinals risked picking someone who had a reputation for being a good administrator, in the hopes that a few bits and pieces of it would be cleaned up, so it would be easier for them to do whatever they wanted to do. He cleaned it up quite efficiently, and then the Curia learned, with a sort of growing desperation, that he wasn't going to stop with a few minor improvements and symbolic gestures. By sheer mistake, they had saddled themselves with someone who was too ruthless to be resisted and too cunning to be outmaneuvered, and all they could do was hold on for their dear lives as he kept succeeding at doing what he wanted to do. It is why the College of Cardinals has chosen the most mediocre and incompetent people they could-- with," he added drily, as if as an afterthought, "the exception of the current Holy Father, of course."
He was silent a moment. "You said before that you believe that the Miranda of Leo Theodore still exists. Do you really think that is true?"
"I do," said Diego.
The Cardinal turned his head to Brother Andrew and gave one clear, decisive nod, at which the Antoninite pulled an envelope out of a briefcase near his chair and stood. Then the Cardinal himself stood and held out his hand. "It is good to have met you, Mr. Páez. I hope we will get to talk again some time. Brother Andrew will show you out. At this time of day, the main elevator is likely to be busy. Please use my private one."
to be continued
Monday, July 10, 2017
Radio Greats: The Chinaman Button (CBS Radio Mystery Theater)
The Golden Age of Radio is generally held to have ended on September 30, 1962, the day that the two greatest titans of its last era -- Yours Truly, Johnny Dollar and Suspense -- both went off the air. But radio itself did not die, and there were always a few variety shows, comedy shows, and, here and there, a radio drama series. And in the 1970s there were a number of attempts by the various networks to revive radio drama as a niche market. From 1974 to 1982, CBS put out a radio series under Hiram Brown, one of the great radio producers of the Golden Age, designed to cater precisely to those who were nostalgic for the Golden Age. While most of the revival attempts petered out quite quickly, CBS Radio Mystery Theater did quite well for most of its run -- I would guess that it was the most successful such series until Adventures in Odyssey began in 1987. It is generally not thought to be as high in quality as the best series of the Golden Age, but its output was prodigious, because it broadcast every day for its entire run, and the majority of its episodes were original -- 1,399 original episodes total. And taking into account that sheer quantity, the quality, while uneven, is not bad. And with the talent and effort that was put into it, some of them rise to a level that could be considered Radio Greats.
"The Chinaman Button", from 1974, is widely regarded as one of the best candidates, perhaps the best, for an episode that rose to the quality of the old Golden Age dramas. And while I have not listened to all the episodes of CBSRMT, I would hazard that this probably is correct -- it stands so far above the average CBSRMT episode that at least it could have very few rivals. The episode is a loose adaptation of a short story by Richard Matheson (best known for his novel, I Am Legend), "Button, Button", which was originally published in Playboy in 1970. Matheson is said to have come up with the idea of his original story from a class his wife was taking; the professor used a scenario to stimulate class discussion that originally derived from Chateaubriand's Genius of Christianity, 1.6.2:
"The Chinaman Button" differs considerably from Matheson's original story -- they use the same device, and the one inspired the other, but they are not really the same story at all -- but it goes back to this original inspiration, which is what gives the episode its title. And it is a very good story; one that works well with radio, and probably was easier to do well in the 1970s than in the Golden Age. It is a bit dark, vividly representing ordinary human evil and the terrible results of what happens when a man's morality breaks. Two corrupt businessmen are exasperated by the fact that their schemes have been foiled by the apparent honesty of a colleague, who works in the same firm, although they have never met personally, and take it on themselves to prove what they themselves believe, that people are only moral when they have nothing to gain by immorality: Everyone has a price, for anything....
Because of its popularity, there are lots of versions of it online. You can watch it on YouTube:
It is also available here, here, and here, among many other places.
Incidentally, the same theme to similar effect, although in a different story, is found in G. K. Chesterton's "When Doctors Agree", one of my favorite Chesterton stories.
"The Chinaman Button", from 1974, is widely regarded as one of the best candidates, perhaps the best, for an episode that rose to the quality of the old Golden Age dramas. And while I have not listened to all the episodes of CBSRMT, I would hazard that this probably is correct -- it stands so far above the average CBSRMT episode that at least it could have very few rivals. The episode is a loose adaptation of a short story by Richard Matheson (best known for his novel, I Am Legend), "Button, Button", which was originally published in Playboy in 1970. Matheson is said to have come up with the idea of his original story from a class his wife was taking; the professor used a scenario to stimulate class discussion that originally derived from Chateaubriand's Genius of Christianity, 1.6.2:
Conscience! is it possible that thou canst be but a phantom of the imagination, or the fear of the punishment of men? I ask my own heart, I put to myself this question: "If thou couldst by a mere wish kill a fellow-creature in China, and inherit his fortune in Europe, with the supernatural conviction that the fact would never be known, wouldst thou consent to form such a wish?" In vain do I exaggerate my indigence; in vain do I attempt to extenuate the murder, by supposing that through the effect of my wish the Chinese expires instantaneously and with out pain that, had he even died a natural death, his property, from the situation of his affairs, would have been lost to the state; in vain do I figure to myself this stranger overwhelmed with disease and affliction; in vain do I urge that to him death is a blessing, that he himself desires it, that he has but a moment longer to live: in spite of all my useless subterfuges, I hear a voice in the recesses of my soul, protesting so loudly against the mere idea of such a supposition, that I cannot for one moment doubt the reality of conscience.
"The Chinaman Button" differs considerably from Matheson's original story -- they use the same device, and the one inspired the other, but they are not really the same story at all -- but it goes back to this original inspiration, which is what gives the episode its title. And it is a very good story; one that works well with radio, and probably was easier to do well in the 1970s than in the Golden Age. It is a bit dark, vividly representing ordinary human evil and the terrible results of what happens when a man's morality breaks. Two corrupt businessmen are exasperated by the fact that their schemes have been foiled by the apparent honesty of a colleague, who works in the same firm, although they have never met personally, and take it on themselves to prove what they themselves believe, that people are only moral when they have nothing to gain by immorality: Everyone has a price, for anything....
Because of its popularity, there are lots of versions of it online. You can watch it on YouTube:
It is also available here, here, and here, among many other places.
Incidentally, the same theme to similar effect, although in a different story, is found in G. K. Chesterton's "When Doctors Agree", one of my favorite Chesterton stories.
Sunday, July 09, 2017
C. S. Lewis on Characterization in Science Fiction
It is absurd to condemn them because they do not often display any deep or sensitive charaterization. They oughtn't to. It is a fault if they do. Wells's Cavor and Bedford have rather too much than too little character. Every good writer knows that hte more unusual the scenes and events of his story are, the slighter, the more ordinary, the more typical his persons should be....To tell how odd things struck odd people is to have an oddity too much: he who is to see strange sights must not himself be strange. He ought to be as nearly as possible Everyman or Anyman. Of course, we must not confuse slight or typical characterisation with impossible or unconvincing characterisation. Falsification of character will always spoil a story. But character can apparently be reduced, simplified, to almost any extent with wholly satisfactory results.
C. S. Lewis, "On Science Fiction," On Stories, HarperOne (San Francisco: 2017) p.90.
Saturday, July 08, 2017
Dashed Off XIV
filters as intermediate causes
the Spirit of recollection (Jn 14:26, 15:26,16:13-14) -- anamnesis/reminiscentia
the failure of the historical Jesus project to come to grips with the palaetiological problem
Isaiah 53 & Wis 2
undesigned coincidence as related to multiple attestation
All evidence is evidence only in the context of some kind of causal reasoning.
nobility & the overcoming of oppositions between abstract and concrete (cp immateriality)
manifestation & capability for it -> doing and enduring -> subject/object
corruptible-or-incorruptible as transcendental disjunction
"it is pleasing and enjoyable for one who knows the cause to observe how the likeness of the cause shines forth in the effect." Aquinas CT 1.170
diachronic goods & progressive goods
An adequate epistemology will also have to be a philosophy of education. (Plato, Aristotle, and Descartes all clearly meet at least this bar.)
"We never ascribe twoness or otherness in the absence of any perceived distinction at all." Blanshard
"Numbers themselves are always assumed in application to mark more than numerical differences."
Cheering is not purely emotive. To cheer at least implicates that the occasion of the cheering is something at which to cheer; and if you cheer at something loathsome, I may not only disapprove but disagree.
The category of causation is required for:
(1) an appropriate account of the external world
(2) an appropriate account of control
(3) an account of what it is to understand the world
(4) an account of the use of (2) and (3) with respect to (1) in experimentation and analysis of experiment
"...we reject an antecedent as the cause until it achieves approximate identity with the effect." Blanshard
conservation principles as guides for causal inquiry
As all things subject to divine providence are measured by eternal reason, all things partake in some way in eternal reason, namely, insofar as they are intelligible.
Authority cannot be determined entirely independently of merit, although the connection may be indirect.
A general council may have special eminence in point of unity, in point of sanctity, in point of catholicity, or in point of apostolicity, as long as it is not lacking eminence in the other notes.
Note that Palamas identifies (150ch70) divine energies with the Gifts.
Aquinas Cdn 2.2 on divine energies
"insofar as God is in Himself, He is hidden to us"
sacrament: one principle (Christ), two constituent aspects (matter and form), three qualities (power, wisdom, goodness; or perfection, purity, sanctity), four notes (unity, sanctity, catholicity, and apostolicity)
principled tolerations of defects in models
much of temptation consists in distraction from higher good.
interest-constraints on the formulation of positions
The pervasiveness of religion is one of the reasons that freedom of religion must have protections from government intrusion.
distraction : mind :: chance : nature
sensations as natural signs
three-dimensional overlap and permeation
three-dimensional overlap and the principle that two bodies cannot occupy one place
questions as cooperative propositions
"The only foundation of a free constitution is pure virtue; and if this cannot be inspired into our people in greater measure than they have it now, they may change their rulers and the forms of government, but they will not obtain a lasting liberty." John Adams, letter to Zabdiel Adams 21 June 1776
The instrumental goodness of something requires that it have at least some features that are intrinsically good.
philosophy as the epic of the noblest things, the epic of the sublime
apparent good vs real good in Austen's novels
Every experiment builds on a more fundamental set of interactions with the physical world.
Free choice arises from our ability to distinguish real good from merely apparent good.
'good is to be done and sought, bad avoided' as applied to inquiry
What is not understood has not yet been proven.
the formation of arguments around irritants, like pearls
the durability of a claim or argument (its capacity for enduring serious, searching discussion among honest inquirers interested in truth)
Anything compared may be considered insofar as it is a measure or template for other things and thus as quasi-abstract. Anything abstract may be considered in hypothetical instance or example and thus as quasi-concrete.
The sacraments are not mere duties to God but rites in which God takes part.
In Zwingli, the Eucharist is entirely an act we do: "when you comfort yourself thus" "when you do internally what you represent externally".
pelagianism of the sacraments
The Eucharist is not merely a memorial of Christ's death, although it is that; it is a memorial of Christ. We must not merely remember him as a man on a Cross but as the Word made flesh, who died and rose and sits at the right hand of the Father, thence to judge of the livign and the dead, whose kingdom will have no end.
theories as effects of the world (the causal analysis then looks a lot like that for testimony)
quasi-merit structures in society
the Church as instrument of providence, as instrument of salvation, as bulwark, as moderating influence
Enoch as an inspiration for repentance Sir 44:16
the Minor Prophets and hope Sir 49:10
Theories of reference need to be considere din the context of theories of proof, since the two surely affect each other.
What before/after (temporal) accounts of causation get right is the directionality of act/potency, one particular version of which is measured by time. As Shepherd implicitly recognizes, however, the act/potency of composition is overlooked by these accounts, and thus one kind of real causation.
relics as part of the public prayer of the Church
"the person is a good towards which the only proper and adequate attitude is love" Wojtyla
convergence of evidence vs preponderance of evidence
the tendency to substitute diagnoses for argument
eclecticism -> analogies & aporia -gt; higher abstraction -> systematization
The justification and merit of Christ fully suffice for our ustification because they are not wholly external to us; the justice of Christ is participable, so that we may be made justice in Him. Our merits likewise are the mercy of God, for His justice is ours, by union with Him.
We regularly see subalternation of merit to merit in hierarchical social relation s(e.g., parent-child, ruler-subject, etc.): meriting so that others may merit.
the hierarchy of meritorious causes
promise as a foundation of merit
victory as a foundation of merit
(it seems common good would be relevant to birth)
Jeremiah 38:1-13 // Passion and Resurrection
Note the moral design argument in the Inference Section of the Milinda Panha
the modern tendency to confuse reason with analogues of reason
Sin corrupts loves.
religious painting : religious song :: icon : chant
(& thus thereis an intermediate 'hymn-stage' of painting)
To be an external thing that I can use is to be useful to common good.
'something like this' premises in arguments
Diamond: feasibilty, authority, just cause, [proportional preparation]
Box: last resort, declaration, right intention, proportionality
intelligibility as a "non-natural property"
intelligibility // permissibility
intelligibility intuitionism // moral intuitionism
Reason can do extraordinary things; but it cannot stand against the gates of hell.
the distinction between the really intelligible and the apparently intelligible
The cowardice of external action is sometimes just a matter of weakness; that of internal action is often a terrible corruption.
In a hierarchy, the lesser echoes the greater.
the fantasy genre as an intensification of metaphors
free choice as the structure of inquiry
A pattern is that which a mind can select out, thus the problem with trying to explain the mind entirely by patterns.
principles of church architecture: (1) order and wise planning; (2) reverence due to God; (3) durability; (4) moderation.
the interpenetration of saintly aspirations
Genuine originality derives from the authority of truth.
We all die by parts.
marriage as a participation of providence, as a way of recognizing personhood, as a component of moral society
analogy of our experiences of the sublime in art and in nature -> a sublimity-based design argument
How wholehearted even fully sincere repentance can be varies according to mood; this is why so many saints have asked for the gift of tears.
principles of good lectionary
(1) feasts of Our Lord, Our Lady, and important saints (esp. Apostles and saints with special foundational roles) take precedence over other readings.
(2) Scripture serves sacrament (in the context of the lectionary); while scripture has intrinsic value, its value is instrumental qua lectionary.
(3) The lectionary should assist in preserving and clarifying the articles of the faith.
Secular consciousness attempts to subjugate religious consciousness, treating itself as existing for itself, and religious consciousness as also existing for secular consciousness. Religious consciousness must take this into account, but it does this only by translating or transfiguring its secular labors into a holy work; and in the holy work the religious consciousness recognizes something that does not exist for secular consciousness, cannot exist for secular consciousness, transcends it in value and fundamentality entirely. And in this recognition lies the recognition that religious consciousness, at least in performing the holy work, does not exist for secular consciousness.
HoP and contingent approximation of necessary relations between arguments
Comfort is like sweet syrup: its value is great in small doses at the right time, but beyond a certain point it does not scale well.
shared beauty // common good
In natural languages in normal circumstances we work with genera of arguments, neighborhoods or families of arguments taken in functional terms.
the corporal works of mercy understood allegorically, tropologically, and anagogically
inference to the best explanation as quasi-aesthetic
enjoyment of tragedy // enjoyment of challenge (enjoyable difficulty)
Melikogamy
Why may I not speak of your Beauty, since without that I could never have lov’d you? I cannot conceive any beginning of such love as I have for you but Beauty. There may be a sort of love for which, without the least sneer at it, I have the highest respect and can admire it in others: but it has not the richness, the bloom, the full form, the enchantment of love after my own heart. So let me speak of your Beauty, though to my own endangering; if you could be so cruel to me as to try elsewhere its Power.
You say you are afraid I shall think you do not love me—in saying this you make me ache the more to be near you. I am at the diligent use of my faculties here, I do not pass a day without sprawling some blank verse or tagging some rhymes; and here I must confess, that, (since I am on that subject,) I love you the more in that I believe you have liked me for my own sake and for nothing else. I have met with women whom I really think would like to be married to a Poem and to be given away by a Novel....
John Keats, letter to Fanny Brawne, 8 July 1819. I confess I've met more than a few of them myself; it's a very human failing, I think, to confuse the attraction of an idea with attraction to a person.
Friday, July 07, 2017
Thursday, July 06, 2017
Elements of Modal Logic, Part XI
Part X
Let's suppose that we have a number of books on a library table, and that these are special books. When we read them, we find that they are books that talk about themselves and each other. For instance, we open up Book 1 and read on one page:
Book 1 is functioning as the Reference Table for the books on the library table, and it is one of the books it is talking about, so this works like 1234DM so far. But we pick up Book 2 and read on one page:
Exactly the same things we said about Book 1 are true, too: it is a Reference Table for the books on the library table, and it is one of the books that it is talking about. This is something new, and something that we have not seen before -- we can have multiple Reference Tables that talk about other Reference Tables.
What this means in practice is that we can have strings of Boxes and/or Diamonds. For instance, we can have ◇◇X. The Diamonds don't work any differently. What ◇◇X tells us is that there's a table on which we can find ◇X; and then ◇X on that table tells us that there's a table on which we can find X.
This can be tricky. In our example, every book is talking about every book, but this might not be the case. When you have more than one Reference Table, nothing requires that the tables that Reference Table 1 talks about are the same as the tables that Reference Table 2 talks about. Some of them might be, or all of them might be, or none of them might be. This is something we have to learn from the universe of discourse: what are we actually talking about?
Suppose we are talking about moments in time. Every table describes a moment in a time, but from each moment in time we learn something about other times -- for instance, what moments in time come after it. This is basically a Diamond: At Some Time in the Future. If I have a given moment, its future is different from some other moment in time. Compared to now, dawn tomorrow is at some time in the future, but once we get to dawn tomorrow, now is not in the future. Thus some of the tables describing future moments are shared when we take the table for now as our Reference Table and when we take the table for dawn tomorrow as our Reference Table, but the table of future moments for now makes comments on moments that the table for dawn tomorrow cannot.
This gives our analysis more flexibility, but does not introduce any fundamental changes. But sometimes we want to do more. For instance, if we have 'a moment that is at some time in the future from some time in the future from some time in the future from some time in the future', we would usually want to say that we can just collapse this into 'a moment that is at some time in the future'. This makes ◇◇◇◇ work as if it were just the same as ◇. And what about more complicated mixtures of Box and Diamond? Do we sometimes want to collapse them as well? These require new rules.
Part XII
Let's suppose that we have a number of books on a library table, and that these are special books. When we read them, we find that they are books that talk about themselves and each other. For instance, we open up Book 1 and read on one page:
Every book mentions strawberries.
Apples are pleasant fruits.
Every book has the sentence, "There's a book that talks about apples."
There's a book that talks about apples.
There's a book that does not mention oranges.
Strawberries are full of Vitamin C.
There's a book that has the sentence, "Every book has the sentence, 'There's a book that has the sentence, "Every book has at least one sentence."'"
There's a book that has the sentence, "Every book as at least one sentence."
Book 1 is functioning as the Reference Table for the books on the library table, and it is one of the books it is talking about, so this works like 1234DM so far. But we pick up Book 2 and read on one page:
Every book has the sentence, "There's a book that has the sentence, 'Every book has at least one sentence'."
There's a book that has the sentence, "Every book has at least one sentence."
Strawberries are usually red.
There's a book that talks about apples.
Every book mentions strawberries.
Every book has the sentence, "Every book mentions strawberries."
Exactly the same things we said about Book 1 are true, too: it is a Reference Table for the books on the library table, and it is one of the books that it is talking about. This is something new, and something that we have not seen before -- we can have multiple Reference Tables that talk about other Reference Tables.
What this means in practice is that we can have strings of Boxes and/or Diamonds. For instance, we can have ◇◇X. The Diamonds don't work any differently. What ◇◇X tells us is that there's a table on which we can find ◇X; and then ◇X on that table tells us that there's a table on which we can find X.
This can be tricky. In our example, every book is talking about every book, but this might not be the case. When you have more than one Reference Table, nothing requires that the tables that Reference Table 1 talks about are the same as the tables that Reference Table 2 talks about. Some of them might be, or all of them might be, or none of them might be. This is something we have to learn from the universe of discourse: what are we actually talking about?
Suppose we are talking about moments in time. Every table describes a moment in a time, but from each moment in time we learn something about other times -- for instance, what moments in time come after it. This is basically a Diamond: At Some Time in the Future. If I have a given moment, its future is different from some other moment in time. Compared to now, dawn tomorrow is at some time in the future, but once we get to dawn tomorrow, now is not in the future. Thus some of the tables describing future moments are shared when we take the table for now as our Reference Table and when we take the table for dawn tomorrow as our Reference Table, but the table of future moments for now makes comments on moments that the table for dawn tomorrow cannot.
This gives our analysis more flexibility, but does not introduce any fundamental changes. But sometimes we want to do more. For instance, if we have 'a moment that is at some time in the future from some time in the future from some time in the future from some time in the future', we would usually want to say that we can just collapse this into 'a moment that is at some time in the future'. This makes ◇◇◇◇ work as if it were just the same as ◇. And what about more complicated mixtures of Box and Diamond? Do we sometimes want to collapse them as well? These require new rules.
Part XII
Wednesday, July 05, 2017
McDonnell on Antifa
The Blog for the APA has a remarkable apologia for domestic terrorism by Sean McDonnell:
Antifa is a violence-focused approach to politics that spun off of the Communist Party in the 1930s; various flavors of imitators have been springing up in recent years. As their name implies, they basically try to excuse everything they do as 'anti-fascist' action. In reality, nothing they do actually opposes fascism; fascism is opposed by deliberative politics insisting on reason rather than force, not by smashing windows and burning cars. When we criticize antifa, we criticize the attempt to replace real opposition to fascism with people who think they can engage in low-level domestic terrorism just by calling it 'anti-fascism'. Nobody is fooled. No one is just because of what they claim to oppose, only because of what they themselves do or do not do.
The entire argument is somewhat astounding. 'Group A is bad, very bad, so if you criticize Group B's response to it, you are neglecting the danger that Group A poses.' This is errant nonsense, deserving of nothing but contemptuous dismissal. Group B may also be bad. Nor is it any kind of defense that Group A is worse than Group B, as McDonnell tries to argue. That a poison is not as horrifying as another poison does not make it more palatable; the only thing that matters is that it is a poison. There is no forced choice here; one does not say, "Oh, since nerve gas is worse than cyanide, I must tolerate cyanide in my diet to avoid dying of nerve gas."
I'll pass on both, and regard people like McDonnell, Antifa apologists, as being contemptible for the same reason I regard Nazi apologists as contemptible: they are poison to all efforts to build a just society.
When we criticize antifa violence we criticize violence that attempts to stop racism and racists. Similarly, when we criticize anarchist violence we criticize violence that attempts to stop intolerance; that attempts to disrupt the capitalist system; that is used in self-defence against police brutality; and that ultimately protects rights. By labeling each side as bad as the other we neglect the danger the Alt-Right and these spin-off groups pose.
Antifa is a violence-focused approach to politics that spun off of the Communist Party in the 1930s; various flavors of imitators have been springing up in recent years. As their name implies, they basically try to excuse everything they do as 'anti-fascist' action. In reality, nothing they do actually opposes fascism; fascism is opposed by deliberative politics insisting on reason rather than force, not by smashing windows and burning cars. When we criticize antifa, we criticize the attempt to replace real opposition to fascism with people who think they can engage in low-level domestic terrorism just by calling it 'anti-fascism'. Nobody is fooled. No one is just because of what they claim to oppose, only because of what they themselves do or do not do.
The entire argument is somewhat astounding. 'Group A is bad, very bad, so if you criticize Group B's response to it, you are neglecting the danger that Group A poses.' This is errant nonsense, deserving of nothing but contemptuous dismissal. Group B may also be bad. Nor is it any kind of defense that Group A is worse than Group B, as McDonnell tries to argue. That a poison is not as horrifying as another poison does not make it more palatable; the only thing that matters is that it is a poison. There is no forced choice here; one does not say, "Oh, since nerve gas is worse than cyanide, I must tolerate cyanide in my diet to avoid dying of nerve gas."
I'll pass on both, and regard people like McDonnell, Antifa apologists, as being contemptible for the same reason I regard Nazi apologists as contemptible: they are poison to all efforts to build a just society.
Tuesday, July 04, 2017
The Anthem of the Destinies
Thy Will Be Done
by John Greenleaf Whittier
We see not, know not; all our way
Is night, — with Thee alone is day
From out the torrent's troubled drift,
Above the storm our prayers we lift,
Thy will be done!
The flesh may fail, the heart may faint,
But who are we to make complaint,
Or dare to plead, in times like these,
The weakness of our love of ease?
Thy will be done!
We take with solemn thankfulness
Our burden up, nor ask it less,
And count it joy that even we
May suffer, serve, or wait for Thee,
Whose will be done!
Though dim as yet in tint and line,
We trace Thy picture's wise design,
And thank Thee that our age supplies
Its dark relief of sacrifice.
Thy will be done!
And if, in our unworthiness,
Thy sacrificial wine we press
If from Thy ordeal's heated bars
Our feet are seamed with crimson scars,
Thy will be done!
If, for the age to come, this hour
Of trial hath vicarious power,
And, blest by Thee, our present pain
Be Liberty's eternal gain,
Thy will be done!
Strike, Thou the Master, we Thy keys,
The anthem of the destinies!
The minor of Thy loftier strain,
Our hearts shall breathe the old refrain
Thy will be done!
Monday, July 03, 2017
Feigning in Hume's Treatise
It's increasingly been recognized that the notion of 'feigning' something (which something is then a 'fiction') plays an important role in early modern philosophy. 'Feign' is not a straightforward word. In the early modern period, it can bear the senses it does today (thus one sometimes sees a distinction between real and feigned), but in general it's actually broader than this, because then it still retains its connection to the original Latin, fingere, and that word's association with making and constructing. Thus even at an earlier stage it is probably accurate to take George Crabbe's nineteenth century definition that it expresses "the production of something out of its own mind, by means of its own efforts" and that, in particular, it tends to be used to describe objects that have no existence except in the mind. The word also is often, although not always, associated with supposition-making, as in Newton's phrase about the reason for gravity, hypotheses non fingo; a hypothesis in this sense is not taken from the experienced phenomena but constructed as a supposition for them.
Here, mostly for my own benefit, are the major passages on feigning and fiction in Hume's Treatise; it shows the importance of it for some of Hume's key theses. (It does not include every passage; there are quite a few mentions of fictions in 1.3.10, for instance, but the word is usually used in a way very much like the ordinary way we would use it, since Hume is there talking about the fictions of poets in particular.)
Treatise 1.1.5:
Treatise 1.3.9:
Treatise 1.4.2:
Treatise 1.4.3:
Treatise 1.4.5:
Treatise 1.4.6:
Treatise 2.2.3 (footnote):
Treatise 2.3.5:
Here, mostly for my own benefit, are the major passages on feigning and fiction in Hume's Treatise; it shows the importance of it for some of Hume's key theses. (It does not include every passage; there are quite a few mentions of fictions in 1.3.10, for instance, but the word is usually used in a way very much like the ordinary way we would use it, since Hume is there talking about the fictions of poets in particular.)
Treatise 1.1.5:
Since therefore the memory, is known, neither by the order of its complex ideas, nor the nature of its simple ones; it follows, that the difference betwixt it and the imagination lies in its superior force and vivacity. A man may indulge his fancy in feigning any past scene of adventures; nor would there be any possibility of distinguishing this from a remembrance of a like kind, were not the ideas of the imagination fainter and more obscure.
Treatise 1.3.9:
It is evident, that whatever is present to the memory, striking upon the mind with a vivacity, which resembles an immediate impression, must become of considerable moment in all the operations of the mind, and must easily distinguish itself above the mere fictions of the imagination. Of these impressions or ideas of the memory we form a kind of system, comprehending whatever we remember to have been present, either to our internal perception or senses; and every particular of that system, joined to the present impressions, we are pleased to call a reality.[...]
Mean while I shall carry my observation a step farther, and assert, that even where the related object is but feigned, the relation will serve to enliven the idea, and encrease its influence. A poet, no doubt, will be the better able to form a strong description of the Elysian fields, that he prompts his imagination by the view of a beautiful meadow or garden; as at another time he may by his fancy place himself in the midst of these fabulous regions, that by the feigned contiguity he may enliven his imagination.
But though I cannot altogether exclude the relations of resemblance and contiguity from operating on the fancy in this manner, it is observable that, when single, their influence is very feeble and uncertain. As the relation of cause and effect is requisite to persuade us of any real existence, so is this persuasion requisite to give force to these other relations. For where upon the appearance of an impression we not only feign another object, but likewise arbitrarily, and of our mere good-will and pleasure give it a particular relation to the impression, this can have but a small effect upon the mind; nor is there any reason, why, upon the return of the same impression, we should be determined to place the same object in the same relation to it. There is no manner of necessity for the mind to feign any resembling and contiguous objects; and if it feigns such, there is as little necessity for it always to confine itself to the same, without any difference or variation. And indeed such a fiction is founded on so little reason, that nothing but pure caprice can determine the mind to form it; and that principle being fluctuating and uncertain, it is impossible it can ever operate with any considerable degree of force and constancy. The mind forsees and anticipates the change; and even from the very first instant feels the looseness of its actions, and the weak hold it has of its objects. And as this imperfection is very sensible in every single instance, it still encreases by experience and observation, when we compare the several instances we may remember, and form a general rule against the reposing any assurance in those momentary glimpses of light, which arise in the imagination from a feigned resemblance and contiguity.
Treatise 1.4.2:
I have already observd, that time, in a strict sense, implies succession, and that when we apply its idea to any unchangeable object, it is only by a fiction of the imagination, by which the unchangeable object is supposd to participate of the changes of the co-existent objects, and in particular of that of our perceptions. This fiction of the imagination almost universally takes place; and it is by means of it, that a single object, placd before us, and surveyd for any time without our discovering in it any interruption or variation, is able to give us a notion of identity.[...]
The smooth passage of the imagination along the ideas of the resembling perceptions makes us ascribe to them a perfect identity. The interrupted manner of their appearance makes us consider them as so many resembling, but still distinct beings, which appear after certain intervals. The perplexity arising from this contradiction produces a propension to unite these broken appearances by the fiction of a continued existence[...]
The supposition of the continued existence of sensible objects or perceptions involves no contradiction. We may easily indulge our inclination to that supposition. When the exact resemblance of our perceptions makes us ascribe to them an identity, we may remove the seeming interruption by feigning a continued being, which may fill those intervals, and preserve a perfect and entire identity to our perceptions.[...]
But as we here not only feign but believe this continued existence, the question is, from whence arises such a belief...
Our memory presents us with a vast number of instances of perceptions perfectly resembling each other, that return at different distances of time, and after considerable interruptions. This resemblance gives us a propension to consider these interrupted perceptions as the same; and also a propension to connect them by a continued existence, in order to justify this identity, and avoid the contradiction, in which the interrupted appearance of these perceptions seems necessarily to involve us. Here then we have a propensity to feign the continued existence of all sensible objects; and as this propensity arises from some lively impressions of the memory, it bestows a vivacity on that fiction: or in other words, makes us believe the continued existence of body.[...]
It is indeed evident, that as the vulgar suppose their perceptions to be their only objects, and at the same time believe the continued existence of matter, we must account for the origin of the belief upon that supposition. Now upon that supposition, it is a false opinion that any of our objects, or perceptions, are identically the same after an interruption; and consequently the opinion of their identity can never arise from reason, but must arise from the imagination. The imagination is seduced into such an opinion only by means of the resemblance of certain perceptions; since we find they are only our resembling perceptions, which we have a propension to suppose the same. This propension to bestow an identity on our resembling perceptions, produces the fiction of a continued existence; since that fiction, as well as the identity, is really false, as is acknowledged by all philosophers, and has no other effect than to remedy the interruption of our perceptions, which is the only circumstance that is contrary to their identity.[...]
The imagination tells us, that our resembling perceptions have a continued and uninterrupted existence, and are not annihilated by their absence. Reflection tells us, that even our resembling perceptions are interrupted in their existence, and different from each other. The contradiction betwixt these opinions we elude by a new fiction, which is conformable to the hypotheses both of reflection and fancy, by ascribing these contrary qualities to different existences; the interruption to perceptions, and the continuance to objects. Nature is obstinate, and will not quit the field, however strongly attacked by reason; and at the same time reason is so clear in the point, that there is no possibility of disguising her. Not being able to reconcile these two enemies, we endeavour to set ourselves at ease as much as possible, by successively granting to each whatever it demands, and by feigning a double existence, where each may find something, that has all the conditions it desires.
Treatise 1.4.3:
In order to reconcile which contradictions the imagination is apt to feign something unknown and invisible, which it supposes to continue the same under all these variations; and this unintelligible something it calls a substance, or original and first matter.[...]
But the mind rests not here. Whenever it views the object in another light, it finds that all these qualities are different, and distinguishable, and separable from each other; which view of things being destructive of its primary and more natural notions, obliges the imagination to feign an unknown something, or original substance and matter, as a principle of union or cohesion among these qualities, and as what may give the compound object a title to be called one thing, notwithstanding its diversity and composition.
Treatise 1.4.5:
In our arrangement of bodies we never fail to place such as are resembling, in contiguity to each other, or at least in correspondent points of view: Why? but because we feel a satisfaction in joining the relation of contiguity to that of resemblance, or the resemblance of situation to that of qualities. The effects this propensity have been already observed in that resemblance, which we so readily suppose betwixt particular impressions and their external causes. But we shall not find a more evident effect of it, than in the present instance, where from the relations of causation and contiguity in time betwixt two objects, we feign likewise that of a conjunction in place, in order to strengthen the connexion.
Treatise 1.4.6:
Our propensity to this mistake is so great from the resemblance above-mentioned, that we fall into it before we are aware; and though we incessantly correct ourselves by reflection, and return to a more accurate method of thinking, yet we cannot long sustain our philosophy, or take off this biass from the imagination. Our last resource is to yield to it, and boldly assert that these different related objects are in effect the same, however interrupted and variable. In order to justify to ourselves this absurdity, we often feign some new and unintelligible principle, that connects the objects together, and prevents their interruption or variation. Thus we feign the continued existence of the perceptions of our senses, to remove the interruption: and run into the notion of a soul, and self, and substance, to disguise the variation. But we may farther observe, that where we do not give rise to such a fiction, our propension to confound identity with relation is so great, that we are apt to imagine something unknown and mysterious, connecting the parts, beside their relation; and this I take to be the case with regard to the identity we ascribe to plants and vegetables.[...]
What I have said concerning the first origin and uncertainty of our notion of identity, as applied to the human mind, may be extended with little or no variation to that of simplicity. An object, whose different co-existent parts are bound together by a close relation, operates upon the imagination after much the same manner as one perfectly simple and indivisible and requires not a much greater stretch of thought in order to its conception. From this similarity of operation we attribute a simplicity to it, and feign a principle of union as the support of this simplicity, and the center of all the different parts and qualities of the object.
Treatise 2.2.3 (footnote):
It is a quality, which I have already observed in human nature, that when two objects appear in a close relation to each other, the mind is apt to ascribe to them any additional relation, in order to compleat the union; and this inclination is so strong, as often to make us run into errors (such as that of the conjunction of thought and matter) if we find that they can serve to that purpose. Many of our impressions are incapable of place or local position; and yet those very impressions we suppose to have a local conjunction with the impressions of sight and touch, merely because they are conjoined by causation, and are already united in the imagination. Since, therefore, we can feign a new relation, and even an absurd one, in order to compleat any union, it will easily be imagined, that if there be any relations, which depend on the mind, it will readily conjoin them to any preceding relation, and unite, by a new bond, such objects as have already an union in the fancy. Thus for instance, we never fail, in our arrangement of bodies, to place those which are resembling in contiguity to each other, or at least in correspondent points of view; because we feel a satisfaction in joining the relation of contiguity to that of resemblance, or the resemblance of situation to that of qualities. And this is easily accounted for from the known propertes of human nature.
Treatise 2.3.5:
The difficulties, that occur to us, in supposing a moral obligation to attend promises, we either surmount or elude. For instance; the expression of a resolution is not commonly supposed to be obligatory; and we cannot readily conceive how the making use of a certain form of words should be able to cause any material difference. Here, therefore, we feign a new act of the mind, which we call the willing an obligation; and on this we suppose the morality to depend. But we have proved already, that there is no such act of the mind, and consequently that promises impose no natural obligation.
Sunday, July 02, 2017
Fortnightly Books, July 2
From 1942 to 1950, Isaac Asimov published a number of short stories in Astounding Magazine inspired by the History of the Decline and Fall of the Roman Empire -- a little bit of cribbin' from the works of Edward Gibbon. These were collected into volumes from 1951 to 1953, forming the Foundation Trilogy. Asimov returned to Foundation in the 1980's with a set of sequels and prequels.
The series chunks into very easily recognizable groups:
The Core Three
Foundation
Foundation and Empire
Second Foundation
The Sequels (The Quest for Earth)
Foundation's Edge
Foundation and Earth
The Prequels
Prelude to Foundation
Forward the Foundation
The first three are universally recognized as better than the later works, although I personally have always liked Prelude quite a bit as well. In any case, I'll be reading them all for the fortnightly book, in the narrative order.
Deep Purple, "The Mule", which was inspired by a reading of Second Foundation.
The series chunks into very easily recognizable groups:
The Core Three
Foundation
Foundation and Empire
Second Foundation
The Sequels (The Quest for Earth)
Foundation's Edge
Foundation and Earth
The Prequels
Prelude to Foundation
Forward the Foundation
The first three are universally recognized as better than the later works, although I personally have always liked Prelude quite a bit as well. In any case, I'll be reading them all for the fortnightly book, in the narrative order.
Deep Purple, "The Mule", which was inspired by a reading of Second Foundation.
Saturday, July 01, 2017
Miguel de Unamuno, San Manuel Bueno, Mártir
Introduction
Opening Passage:
My translation:
Summary: The picturesque little village of Valverde de Lucerna sits beside a lake that reflects the nearby mountain. Close by is the ruin of an old monastery. According to local legend, there is a medieval town submerged beneath the waters, and if you listen carefully on St. John's Day, you can hear its church bells ringing. Rustic and pastoral, the townspeople quietly continue on their way as they have done for long years past.
The priest of the town is Don Manuel, and he is everything one could possibly want in a priest. He spends his days tending the sick and helping the poor, comforting the brokenhearted and encouraging the anxious, healing divisions and bringing peace to families, administering the sacraments and encouraging the people to pray. He is a fount of joy and consolation for his parishioners. He works incessantly, always putting the needs of others above his own, never pausing in his work, always driven to do more. And the source of the drive, the thing that pushes him to do so much for the good of others, is that he has lost his faith. Death has come to seem to him merely an end, nothing more, with nothing beyond, and that sense of things haunts everything he does.
This kind of sapped faith has led many a mind into progressivism of one sort or another, but Don Manuel will have none of it. We learn the story of Don Manuel through the narration of Ángela Carballino, who is writing her memories of him long afterward because the bishop has opened the cause of Don Manuel's beatification. Her brother, Lázaro, had left the village and gone off to the New World, and has become cosmopolitan and freethinking and anti-clerical, full of the latest progressive ideas. But when he returns to the village, he finds himself baffled by Don Manuel, and is converted by him from progressivism to -- not quite Catholicism but -- the nurturing of the Catholic faith of the village. Progressivism is just the same story; it is dreams of future glory in a reality in which everything simply dies. And its proselytizing excuse -- that truth matters above all -- is in reality just a way to disparage people like the villagers for having a different version of the same story. All of Lázaro's talk of truth as the most important thing can be seen, when set beside Don Manuel, to be just a pretty way to express contempt for other people. Lázaro the progressive was as much in the spell of an illusion as the people he dismissed as parochial and rustic, taken in by illusions; he too had been following dreams in order to live without looking at the harsh truth. Hay que vivir -- one must live; and in the meantime there is little to be done if you lack the support of illusions except to distract yourself by helping people to live -- which means, among other things, helping them to maintain their own illusions in a way that makes people happy. That is the source of the intensity of Don Manuel's drive to do good for others, the anguish of trying to help people to live while believing that everything will just die.
This summary makes things sound more simple than they are. We learn, for instance, that Don Manuel comes from a family with a history of depression; that he is tempted by suicide; that he has lost someone important to him. But these come across as incidental; there is a sort of timelessness to Don Manuel, the semper nunc of one who has no time to do good except now.
In Tragic Sense of Life, Unamuno gives his own existentialist characterization of what it is to live as a Spaniard. It is to be Catholic in sensibility even if one is no longer Catholic of head, to have something medieval submerged within, echoes or legends, so to speak, of a feudal town. It is to be driven by life and by reason, and to find that they are not companionate but are instead enemies bound together, needing each other yet tending to oppose each other. And this, the immortality of the soul, is the clinching point: one reasons as a mortal; one lives as though one can never really die. Thus the Spanish sense of life, Unamuno thinks, is a tragic sense; it is a sense that one must do the thing that will certainly fail. One may laugh at Don Quixote; but the only way to live is by a sort of quijotismo. Genuinely to live is to be quixotic.
Given this one might think that San Manuel Bueno, mártir is just a straightforward narrative depiction of the ideas, but this, too, is not so simple. Storytelling is already a sort of illusion-weaving; it conveys a suggestion of Something Beyond. To believe in immortality, in heaven, even in the future worker's paradise, is to read history as a story, with the events as words that allude to so much that they never actually say. And this tale in particular is not told by Don Manuel, but by Ángela, who is a believer even if she sometimes has doubts. Her own view -- perhaps a bit of illusion-weaving of its own -- is that perhaps Don Manuel and Lázaro really did believe in the immortality of the soul, and that God by His grace made it so that they did not believe that they believed it, for precisely the result that came about: a lifetime of service here and now, doing good here and now, sacrificing for others here and now, reflecting the faith they did not seem to share and a starry heaven they did not think existed. An illusory view, perhaps -- but life is a network of dreams. If reason and life are really in conflict, it is all well and good to exclaim pompously that one is on the side of reason -- but hay que vivir.
It was interesting to (re-)read the work, as well as the more philosophical elaboration of the same themes, given that I have no natural or temperamental inclination to Unamuno's ideas. Unamuno represents a Spain that is Catholic in its blood but has gone Protestant in the head, or perhaps better, caught a Protestant head-cold. It is a modernity that is haunted by feudal and medieval echoes, a city of concrete and steel that cannot shake the sense that it should be painted in the colors of chivalry with Baroque and Gothic at every corner. The depictions are all somewhat analogous to those that we find in Umberto Eco's The Island of the Day Before, in which a lush and beautiful view of the world is just out of reach, visible across an impassible channel in the realm of yesterday. My roots are Northern European, not Mediterranean; for Unamuno and Eco it seems that the anxious picture of an unmeaning world is a modern thing, but for anyone of Scandinavian background, it is worn and mythological and pagan-ancient, for sooner or later, the wolves will devour the gods. With such roots, the path to reason only lies, as Chesterton saw, as the Anglo-Saxon poets insisted, in something that can be victory over death.
This is all a very florid way of saying that while I can admire the picture painted, it seems very clear to me that it is a picture, whatever its claims to realism; to treat realism as reality is the most basic form of delusion. Look around you, and you will see no immortality, no resurrection, no future glory, no better world in the future, just walls and trees and walking bodies of flesh and blood in a fleeting space of time, and to treat everything as that is the most straightforward kind of realism. But nobody understands the world just by looking around them, and the world we recognize must be cannot really fit into that kind of realism. Unamuno gets a contradiction between reason and life because he sets them up to contradict each other.
But, of course, this is not just a claim about my own sympathies or lack thereof, which would be a thoroughly uninteresting topic. The point is that what Unamuno is doing is not giving a rigorous analysis of the world; he is telling a story about it. And a story, as I said above, consists of words suggesting much more than they ever say on the page, and suggesting something that has a kind of timelessness. Sense is immortality writ small; meaning is like Sunday in Ordinary Time, a sort of Easter out of season. To tell a story is already to suggest what Unamuno says cannot be. Unamuno tells this particular tale about Don Manuel well, because so much of it was the story he was already used to telling himself and others about life; but someone who is not already immersed in that kind of story can only look at it and see not as capturing the world itslef, but as itself a sort of fantasy fiction, lovely in its way, but more realistic than real. For such a person, that difference in sympathies makes the tale of Don Manuel seem in some ways, I think, a different story than Unamuno intended to tell. But he himself, I think, would accept such an ambiguity without much protest.
Favorite Passage:
My translation:
Recommendation: Highly Recommended.
Opening Passage:
Ahora que el obispo de la diócesis de Renada, a la que pertence esta mi querida aldea de Valverde de Lucerna, anda, a lo que se dice, promoviendo el proceso para la beatificación de nuestro Don Mauel, o, mejor, San Manuel Bueno, que vue en ésta párroco, quiero dejar aqui consignado , a modo de confesión y sólo Dios sabe, que no yo, con qué destino, todo lo que sé y recuerdo de aquel varón matrarcal que llenó toda la más entrañada vida de mi alma, que fue mi verdadero padre espiritual, el padre de mi espíritu, del mío, el de Ángela Carballino.
My translation:
Now that the bishop of the diocese of Renada, to which belongs this, my village of Valverde de Lucerna, has begun to promote the cause of beatification of our Don Manuel, or, better, San Manuel Bueno, which is what he was for our parish, I wish to leave here written, as a confession, and only God, not I, knows what its end will be, all that I know and remember of that matriarchal man, who filled all the depths of my soul, who was my true spiritual father, the father of my spirit, of the spirit of me, Angela Carballino.
Summary: The picturesque little village of Valverde de Lucerna sits beside a lake that reflects the nearby mountain. Close by is the ruin of an old monastery. According to local legend, there is a medieval town submerged beneath the waters, and if you listen carefully on St. John's Day, you can hear its church bells ringing. Rustic and pastoral, the townspeople quietly continue on their way as they have done for long years past.
The priest of the town is Don Manuel, and he is everything one could possibly want in a priest. He spends his days tending the sick and helping the poor, comforting the brokenhearted and encouraging the anxious, healing divisions and bringing peace to families, administering the sacraments and encouraging the people to pray. He is a fount of joy and consolation for his parishioners. He works incessantly, always putting the needs of others above his own, never pausing in his work, always driven to do more. And the source of the drive, the thing that pushes him to do so much for the good of others, is that he has lost his faith. Death has come to seem to him merely an end, nothing more, with nothing beyond, and that sense of things haunts everything he does.
This kind of sapped faith has led many a mind into progressivism of one sort or another, but Don Manuel will have none of it. We learn the story of Don Manuel through the narration of Ángela Carballino, who is writing her memories of him long afterward because the bishop has opened the cause of Don Manuel's beatification. Her brother, Lázaro, had left the village and gone off to the New World, and has become cosmopolitan and freethinking and anti-clerical, full of the latest progressive ideas. But when he returns to the village, he finds himself baffled by Don Manuel, and is converted by him from progressivism to -- not quite Catholicism but -- the nurturing of the Catholic faith of the village. Progressivism is just the same story; it is dreams of future glory in a reality in which everything simply dies. And its proselytizing excuse -- that truth matters above all -- is in reality just a way to disparage people like the villagers for having a different version of the same story. All of Lázaro's talk of truth as the most important thing can be seen, when set beside Don Manuel, to be just a pretty way to express contempt for other people. Lázaro the progressive was as much in the spell of an illusion as the people he dismissed as parochial and rustic, taken in by illusions; he too had been following dreams in order to live without looking at the harsh truth. Hay que vivir -- one must live; and in the meantime there is little to be done if you lack the support of illusions except to distract yourself by helping people to live -- which means, among other things, helping them to maintain their own illusions in a way that makes people happy. That is the source of the intensity of Don Manuel's drive to do good for others, the anguish of trying to help people to live while believing that everything will just die.
This summary makes things sound more simple than they are. We learn, for instance, that Don Manuel comes from a family with a history of depression; that he is tempted by suicide; that he has lost someone important to him. But these come across as incidental; there is a sort of timelessness to Don Manuel, the semper nunc of one who has no time to do good except now.
In Tragic Sense of Life, Unamuno gives his own existentialist characterization of what it is to live as a Spaniard. It is to be Catholic in sensibility even if one is no longer Catholic of head, to have something medieval submerged within, echoes or legends, so to speak, of a feudal town. It is to be driven by life and by reason, and to find that they are not companionate but are instead enemies bound together, needing each other yet tending to oppose each other. And this, the immortality of the soul, is the clinching point: one reasons as a mortal; one lives as though one can never really die. Thus the Spanish sense of life, Unamuno thinks, is a tragic sense; it is a sense that one must do the thing that will certainly fail. One may laugh at Don Quixote; but the only way to live is by a sort of quijotismo. Genuinely to live is to be quixotic.
Given this one might think that San Manuel Bueno, mártir is just a straightforward narrative depiction of the ideas, but this, too, is not so simple. Storytelling is already a sort of illusion-weaving; it conveys a suggestion of Something Beyond. To believe in immortality, in heaven, even in the future worker's paradise, is to read history as a story, with the events as words that allude to so much that they never actually say. And this tale in particular is not told by Don Manuel, but by Ángela, who is a believer even if she sometimes has doubts. Her own view -- perhaps a bit of illusion-weaving of its own -- is that perhaps Don Manuel and Lázaro really did believe in the immortality of the soul, and that God by His grace made it so that they did not believe that they believed it, for precisely the result that came about: a lifetime of service here and now, doing good here and now, sacrificing for others here and now, reflecting the faith they did not seem to share and a starry heaven they did not think existed. An illusory view, perhaps -- but life is a network of dreams. If reason and life are really in conflict, it is all well and good to exclaim pompously that one is on the side of reason -- but hay que vivir.
It was interesting to (re-)read the work, as well as the more philosophical elaboration of the same themes, given that I have no natural or temperamental inclination to Unamuno's ideas. Unamuno represents a Spain that is Catholic in its blood but has gone Protestant in the head, or perhaps better, caught a Protestant head-cold. It is a modernity that is haunted by feudal and medieval echoes, a city of concrete and steel that cannot shake the sense that it should be painted in the colors of chivalry with Baroque and Gothic at every corner. The depictions are all somewhat analogous to those that we find in Umberto Eco's The Island of the Day Before, in which a lush and beautiful view of the world is just out of reach, visible across an impassible channel in the realm of yesterday. My roots are Northern European, not Mediterranean; for Unamuno and Eco it seems that the anxious picture of an unmeaning world is a modern thing, but for anyone of Scandinavian background, it is worn and mythological and pagan-ancient, for sooner or later, the wolves will devour the gods. With such roots, the path to reason only lies, as Chesterton saw, as the Anglo-Saxon poets insisted, in something that can be victory over death.
This is all a very florid way of saying that while I can admire the picture painted, it seems very clear to me that it is a picture, whatever its claims to realism; to treat realism as reality is the most basic form of delusion. Look around you, and you will see no immortality, no resurrection, no future glory, no better world in the future, just walls and trees and walking bodies of flesh and blood in a fleeting space of time, and to treat everything as that is the most straightforward kind of realism. But nobody understands the world just by looking around them, and the world we recognize must be cannot really fit into that kind of realism. Unamuno gets a contradiction between reason and life because he sets them up to contradict each other.
But, of course, this is not just a claim about my own sympathies or lack thereof, which would be a thoroughly uninteresting topic. The point is that what Unamuno is doing is not giving a rigorous analysis of the world; he is telling a story about it. And a story, as I said above, consists of words suggesting much more than they ever say on the page, and suggesting something that has a kind of timelessness. Sense is immortality writ small; meaning is like Sunday in Ordinary Time, a sort of Easter out of season. To tell a story is already to suggest what Unamuno says cannot be. Unamuno tells this particular tale about Don Manuel well, because so much of it was the story he was already used to telling himself and others about life; but someone who is not already immersed in that kind of story can only look at it and see not as capturing the world itslef, but as itself a sort of fantasy fiction, lovely in its way, but more realistic than real. For such a person, that difference in sympathies makes the tale of Don Manuel seem in some ways, I think, a different story than Unamuno intended to tell. But he himself, I think, would accept such an ambiguity without much protest.
Favorite Passage:
--Es un hombre maravilloso -- me decía Lázaro--. Ya sabes que dicen que en el fondo de este lago hay una villa sumergida y que en la noche de San Juan, a las doce, se oyen las companadas de su iglesia.
--Sí --le contestaba yo--, una villa feudal y medieaval...
--Y creo --añadía él-- que en el fondo del alma de nuestro Don Manuel hay también sumergida, ahogada, una villa y que alguna vez se oyen sus campanadas.
--Sí --le dije--, esa villa sumergida en el alma de Don Manuel, ¿y por qué no también en la tuay?, es el cementerio de las almas de nuestros abuelos, los de esta nuestra Valverde de Lucerna... ¡feudal y medieval!
My translation:
"He is a marvelous man," Lázaro told me. "You know that they say that at the bottom of this lake there is a submerged town, and that on St. John's night, at midnight, one hears the bells of its church."
"Yes," I answered, "a feudal and medieval town...."
"And I believe," he added, "that at the bottom of the soul of our Don Manuel there is also submerged, drowned, a town, and that sometimes one hears its bells."
"Yes," I said, "that town submerged in the soul of Don Manuel -- and why not also in yours? -- is the cemetery of the souls of our ancestors, those of our Valverde de Lucerna...feudal and medieval!"
Recommendation: Highly Recommended.
Evening Notes Index, 2017a
Here are the Evening Note posts for the first half of 2017.
June 29: Learning Urdu
June 9: Invented Traditions
May 22: Moral Testimony and Problems with the Asymmetry Thesis
May 19: Saint Teresa of Avila and Rene Descartes
May 12: Incipit and Desinit
April 24: Progymnasmata and Language-Learning
April 17: Developing a Treasury of Ideas
April 10: John Quincy Adams on Tropes
April 3: Analogical Predication and Veneration of Icons
March 27: David Braine on the Nature of Knowledge
March 16: Of Just Protest
March 7: Of the Russian Byzantine Catholic Church
February 22: Interpreting Fitch's Knowability Paradox
February 14: Of Public Sculpture
February 5: Moral Evil and Natural Evil
January 25: The Conversion of Saint Paul and Rabban Gamaliel
January 11: Of Conflicts of Interest
June 29: Learning Urdu
June 9: Invented Traditions
May 22: Moral Testimony and Problems with the Asymmetry Thesis
May 19: Saint Teresa of Avila and Rene Descartes
May 12: Incipit and Desinit
April 24: Progymnasmata and Language-Learning
April 17: Developing a Treasury of Ideas
April 10: John Quincy Adams on Tropes
April 3: Analogical Predication and Veneration of Icons
March 27: David Braine on the Nature of Knowledge
March 16: Of Just Protest
March 7: Of the Russian Byzantine Catholic Church
February 22: Interpreting Fitch's Knowability Paradox
February 14: Of Public Sculpture
February 5: Moral Evil and Natural Evil
January 25: The Conversion of Saint Paul and Rabban Gamaliel
January 11: Of Conflicts of Interest
Friday, June 30, 2017
Poem a Day 30
And so ends the month of June.
A Poet's Final Bow
I cannot write at all
and therefore I must write.
When civilization falls
each man must be a knight;
when nothing can be said,
a man must seek to speak;
when all the world is dead,
the last must not be weak.
When drought brings famine's need,
and plants begin to die,
the farmer nurtures seed.
He does not sit down to cry.
When arid is the soul,
the soul must start to pray.
When hopes are swallowed whole,
the traveler must make his way --
those problems must be solved
that leagues and miles span.
And the one who cannot write
must write so that he can.
A Poet's Final Bow
I cannot write at all
and therefore I must write.
When civilization falls
each man must be a knight;
when nothing can be said,
a man must seek to speak;
when all the world is dead,
the last must not be weak.
When drought brings famine's need,
and plants begin to die,
the farmer nurtures seed.
He does not sit down to cry.
When arid is the soul,
the soul must start to pray.
When hopes are swallowed whole,
the traveler must make his way --
those problems must be solved
that leagues and miles span.
And the one who cannot write
must write so that he can.
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