A few weeks ago I complained about the lack of empathy in our political discourse, and I suggested a Kantian version of a "political imagination" as a way around it. In summary, there is a two-step process of reflection: first, with disinterest, you look at someone else's possible positions, imagining all the many ways a person could possible conceive his or her position.
Once this imaginative political leap has been made, the question then becomes: how might one then decide? Considering that you've fully understood the many possibilities of arguments for a certain position still leaves one with the problem of what to do. Following our earlier example, if someone is fully pro-life, even if they could concede that the right to abortion comes within a certain context of women's right's to their bodies, would this mean they will actually decide to support it? Conversely, if someone is pro-choice, would the context of an appeal to someone's private religious faith really convince someone to support pro-lifers? For both, probably not.
Yet, there is another way to think about this. Kant calls this way the "maxims of the common human understanding." There are three: "1. To think for oneself; 2. To think in the position of everyone else; 3. Always to think in accord with oneself." The first he calls an "unprejudiced" way of thinking, the second a "broad-minded" way, and the third, a "consistent" way. Let's look at each maxim and how they help us come to a decision on a certain reflection.
1. "To think for oneself." This is the principle of autonomy, of being an active thinker. In any imaginative variation, one realizes very soon that to imagine another person's position forces you to take stock of your own. This "taking stock" is exactly what to "think for oneself" means. This does not mean you "question everything"; there could be things that are necessary even to think at all! But it does mean that you realize there are numerous sides to one question, and that you actually have to choose which side you're on in an active way once you know all the different positions. You can finally take full responsibility for your decision. E.g., if you decide to be pro-life, given all the context of the abuse of women, and the history of women's oppression, then your decision will be made knowingly. Conversely, if you still choose the right to abortion, even considering the view that every human person has infinite value, then your decision will fully be your own. Being "unprejudiced" doesn't necessary mean you give up your view, but rather you take full responsibility for it.
2. "To think in the position of everyone else." This is similar to the imaginative variation we talked about before, but now it means that the actual decision must start to include other people's view. While the first imaginative variation was disinterested, now one must choose an interest. This interest should then be based on everyone's position. This does not mean a "majority" of people (like: make a poll, see what most Americans think), but rather the thought must include all the different positions. So, abortion again: it must be recognized that abortion comes in a context where women have been oppressed, and so the possibility of her having a right to her own body must be preserved. At the same time, the baby's body must be preserved as well, since there is an infinite value in that human person. These are goods that everyone must strive for, even in the fact of a seemingly problematic option.
3. "Always to think in accord with oneself." The principle of consistency is important, because only then can a solution actually fit both position. This is normally a basic requirement, because in reality, if there are inconsistencies, with one group giving up more and the other less, then eventually the conflict will just erupt again, and the same problems will occur. In our example, we could say this: first, for pro-lifers who see infinite value in every human being, we might want to actually show, beyond mere words, this in practice. Thus anyone woman who gets pregnant will have support for their child in a number of different ways: from free education for the mother, to free child care for the child, to parenting classes, greater restrictions on the fathers, etc. There is a whole host of social support activities that might be encouraged to give support to women and children (and maybe, just maybe, we could spend a little less on developing weapons, and put a little more into children?). For pro-choicers, who see the context of women's oppression and bodily restrictions, we might want them to concede that having an abortion ends up as an evil, and thus work to promote healthy sexual practices, and reduce rhetoric against pro-lifers, who often are more concerned with the child than the parent.
Whether or not my particular suggestions would be advisable to anyone, I don't know. However, I think that if we take these three maxims, and apply it to policy questions after we've imagined all the possible positions, we might come away with more empathy, and hence more effective, political dialogue.
Wednesday, November 28, 2007
Sunday, November 18, 2007
The Machinist: Exploding the unconscious
Ren, Mike, Julie and I saw "The Machinist" last night at the Brattle Theater. The director, Brad Anderson, was there before the film, talking about another film they showed prior. We watched a 120 pound Christian Bale play Trevor Reznik, a machine operator who can't sleep, and who slowly, through delusions and accidents, comes completely undone.
This reminded me of Grace Jantzen's discussion (in her book, "Becoming Divine: Towards a Feminist Philosophy of Religion") of what psychoanalytic theory argues about the human subject. The human subject is not a given, i.e. we are not born "who" we are today. Instead, "human personhood is achieved, and achieved at considerable cost. A human baby begins life as a mass of conflicting desires. In order to become a unified subject, some of these desires have to be repressed. This repression of desires is the formation of the unconscious; and from the unconscious, repressed desires may always threaten to erupt. Therefore, strategies have to be put in place to control thought, feeling, and behavior, lest the fragile subject falls apart once again into fragments."
This about sums up the film. For Reznik, however, it's not a bunch of conflicting desires, but rather a traumatic experience, and one conflict: to take responsibility for his actions, where there would be material consequences, or not. In the beginning of the film, he opts not to take responsibility, and so the film is an exposition of the "strategies" of controlling the desire and memory of the trauma, to repress these in a variety of forms. These forms include his insomnia, delusional visions and conversations, and writing notes for himself.
However, this repressions continually cause problems, and the traumatic experience continually asserts itself. For instance, he sees a delusional aspect of himself, which he calls "Ivan." This man - who's hand is deformed, an interesting mirror of Reznik's own deformed body - becomes the focus imaginarius for Trevor's rage and fear. The desire to be punished for his actions is externalized in this delusion, where he becomes the judge, the Law, and Ivan is the subverter, the menace, the one who needs to be punished. He pushes this farther and farther until Trevor thinks he's killed Ivan, only to find Ivan resurrected in the question: "who are you?"
This "who are you" confirms my thesis that the film is about human subjectivity, and the systems of controls we use in order to prevent our unconscious desires from erupting into uncontrollable passions. In the end, Trevor takes responsibility for what he did (and I'm skirting around 'what he did' because it would spoil the film), and the conflict that engaged his system of controls ends, and he finds a type of peace (even though he had to give up his material well-being).
Beyond the "philosophical" content of the film, it is a very affecting vision of what it might be like to have a mental illness. The director takes us between Trevor's delusions visions, and the more "normal" relationships he has, in a way that makes you realize just how debilitating it is to have a "private sense", which many schizophrenics have, for instance. It is very uncomfortable when Trevor sees this delusional Ivan character. Ivan is so uncanny (another favorite psychoanalytic term) that you're completely afraid for Trevor. Then, as you realize Ivan is a delusion of Trevor's, you own reality feels turned upside down.
In general, the director does a nice job imbricating us into what happens with Trevor, and I suppose that's a mark of a good story-teller.
This reminded me of Grace Jantzen's discussion (in her book, "Becoming Divine: Towards a Feminist Philosophy of Religion") of what psychoanalytic theory argues about the human subject. The human subject is not a given, i.e. we are not born "who" we are today. Instead, "human personhood is achieved, and achieved at considerable cost. A human baby begins life as a mass of conflicting desires. In order to become a unified subject, some of these desires have to be repressed. This repression of desires is the formation of the unconscious; and from the unconscious, repressed desires may always threaten to erupt. Therefore, strategies have to be put in place to control thought, feeling, and behavior, lest the fragile subject falls apart once again into fragments."
This about sums up the film. For Reznik, however, it's not a bunch of conflicting desires, but rather a traumatic experience, and one conflict: to take responsibility for his actions, where there would be material consequences, or not. In the beginning of the film, he opts not to take responsibility, and so the film is an exposition of the "strategies" of controlling the desire and memory of the trauma, to repress these in a variety of forms. These forms include his insomnia, delusional visions and conversations, and writing notes for himself.
However, this repressions continually cause problems, and the traumatic experience continually asserts itself. For instance, he sees a delusional aspect of himself, which he calls "Ivan." This man - who's hand is deformed, an interesting mirror of Reznik's own deformed body - becomes the focus imaginarius for Trevor's rage and fear. The desire to be punished for his actions is externalized in this delusion, where he becomes the judge, the Law, and Ivan is the subverter, the menace, the one who needs to be punished. He pushes this farther and farther until Trevor thinks he's killed Ivan, only to find Ivan resurrected in the question: "who are you?"
This "who are you" confirms my thesis that the film is about human subjectivity, and the systems of controls we use in order to prevent our unconscious desires from erupting into uncontrollable passions. In the end, Trevor takes responsibility for what he did (and I'm skirting around 'what he did' because it would spoil the film), and the conflict that engaged his system of controls ends, and he finds a type of peace (even though he had to give up his material well-being).
Beyond the "philosophical" content of the film, it is a very affecting vision of what it might be like to have a mental illness. The director takes us between Trevor's delusions visions, and the more "normal" relationships he has, in a way that makes you realize just how debilitating it is to have a "private sense", which many schizophrenics have, for instance. It is very uncomfortable when Trevor sees this delusional Ivan character. Ivan is so uncanny (another favorite psychoanalytic term) that you're completely afraid for Trevor. Then, as you realize Ivan is a delusion of Trevor's, you own reality feels turned upside down.
In general, the director does a nice job imbricating us into what happens with Trevor, and I suppose that's a mark of a good story-teller.
Friday, November 16, 2007
Imaginative (Political) Leaps, Part I
One of the things I've often found quite frustrating is the seeming lack of empathy or understanding between various political parties. I grew up in a very conservative part of New York, and have since lived in a liberal part of Massachusetts, and I'm always struck by how both right and left normally talk past each other. Of course, in some ways, everyone already knows this: conservatives think liberals don't even attempt to understand them, and liberals normally make the same argument. Thus, even the notion that collective decision making happens by two different parties is a fault, if anything, of our system. Thus Democrats and Republicans (and their supporters) both want to dominate government, because only then will anything good happen.
I think this desire to dominate the government comes precisely because each party sees the other party as unable/unwilling to understand 'where they're coming from.' It's lack of empathy, as I said.
However, I don't think anybody should try to understand where the other party is coming from. Instead of trying to get into another's shoes by empathizing with where they are coming from, we should try to understand someone by imagining where they can come from.
What's the distinction? When you imagine where someone is coming from, you immediate come up with the problem: do I have to have their interests in mind? If I don't, have I really even sympathized with them? If I do have to have their interests in mind, what about my own interests? What would my party think if I sympathized too much with them? Try this as an experiment: if you are conservative, tell a conservative friend you sympathize with Hillary Clinton's health care plan; if you are liberal, tell a liberal friend you sympathize with Bush's leadership qualities - see how far you get.
This problem can be circumvented if we take up Kant's argument on judgment. He argues that in any judging includes first an imaginative leap beyond our particular viewpoint, in order to see if our view could be consonant with everyone else's. The fact that we can do this is because there is basic machinery that is the same between everyone. In our discussion, we might say that republican democracy is the basic "same" between everyone.
Once we do this operation of imagination, we can then "enlarge" our imagination, or rather start to "vary" the procedure, imagining what different positions might say about the thing we are focused on. E.g., abortion: for conservatives, this is about the life of a child; for liberals, about the right to a woman's body. Conservatives might imagine that this right to the body is within an entire context of women's history, from not being able to vote until less than a hundred years ago, to problems of domestic violence and coercion, etc. This would require - since many conservative don't like feminism, as it were - a disinterested standpoint, or rather a holding off of one's own interests. However, in this imaginative variation, one doesn't to take over the interests of the other person, but just to put these interests in the context of possible positions (of course, another possible position could be that some people who want to get abortions want to unhindered by the "inconvenience" of a baby - which is the only position many conservatives can imagine). On the other side, liberals might imagine that for conservatives, there is a whole history vis-a-vis Christianity that sees human dignity in the fact that God has created them, and that no matter where it starts, or who happens to be in the womb, this person is a creation of God, not of humans.
This is not too far off from what Ryan Mays thinks Wittgenstein does, in a blog response to someone arguing against the "new Wittgenstein". The argument was that Wittgenstein actually liked nonsense, and that the New Wittgenstein readers are too austere in their arguments against nonsense. Mays' point was that for Wittgenstein, one could understanding seeming nonsensical language (like Heidegger's "being") if one imagines what this language could mean. As for Kant, Wittgenstein seemed to hold that imaginative leaps are required when judging.
The next step, beyond this imaginative variation, is reflective judgment. More on that next time.
I think this desire to dominate the government comes precisely because each party sees the other party as unable/unwilling to understand 'where they're coming from.' It's lack of empathy, as I said.
However, I don't think anybody should try to understand where the other party is coming from. Instead of trying to get into another's shoes by empathizing with where they are coming from, we should try to understand someone by imagining where they can come from.
What's the distinction? When you imagine where someone is coming from, you immediate come up with the problem: do I have to have their interests in mind? If I don't, have I really even sympathized with them? If I do have to have their interests in mind, what about my own interests? What would my party think if I sympathized too much with them? Try this as an experiment: if you are conservative, tell a conservative friend you sympathize with Hillary Clinton's health care plan; if you are liberal, tell a liberal friend you sympathize with Bush's leadership qualities - see how far you get.
This problem can be circumvented if we take up Kant's argument on judgment. He argues that in any judging includes first an imaginative leap beyond our particular viewpoint, in order to see if our view could be consonant with everyone else's. The fact that we can do this is because there is basic machinery that is the same between everyone. In our discussion, we might say that republican democracy is the basic "same" between everyone.
Once we do this operation of imagination, we can then "enlarge" our imagination, or rather start to "vary" the procedure, imagining what different positions might say about the thing we are focused on. E.g., abortion: for conservatives, this is about the life of a child; for liberals, about the right to a woman's body. Conservatives might imagine that this right to the body is within an entire context of women's history, from not being able to vote until less than a hundred years ago, to problems of domestic violence and coercion, etc. This would require - since many conservative don't like feminism, as it were - a disinterested standpoint, or rather a holding off of one's own interests. However, in this imaginative variation, one doesn't to take over the interests of the other person, but just to put these interests in the context of possible positions (of course, another possible position could be that some people who want to get abortions want to unhindered by the "inconvenience" of a baby - which is the only position many conservatives can imagine). On the other side, liberals might imagine that for conservatives, there is a whole history vis-a-vis Christianity that sees human dignity in the fact that God has created them, and that no matter where it starts, or who happens to be in the womb, this person is a creation of God, not of humans.
This is not too far off from what Ryan Mays thinks Wittgenstein does, in a blog response to someone arguing against the "new Wittgenstein". The argument was that Wittgenstein actually liked nonsense, and that the New Wittgenstein readers are too austere in their arguments against nonsense. Mays' point was that for Wittgenstein, one could understanding seeming nonsensical language (like Heidegger's "being") if one imagines what this language could mean. As for Kant, Wittgenstein seemed to hold that imaginative leaps are required when judging.
The next step, beyond this imaginative variation, is reflective judgment. More on that next time.
Thursday, November 15, 2007
8 1/2: We're not entirely sure...
I watched Fellini's 8 1/2 last night. It was an experience. From the opening sequence to the very end, it was completely mesmerizing.
It is a story about a director with "director's block" - and in this sense it is quite autobiographical. In fact, apparently much of the film actually captures, not only real situations in Fellini's life, but very immediate emotions at the times.
The director in this film, Guido (played by Marcello Mastroianni) is at a health spa with his production team, trying very hard to start his film, much less finish it. He's collaborating with a guy name Carini, who's a film critic, and between the banal and vapid speeches of this guy and the over-bearing producer, Guido is a tight spot.
To fill in the problem: he has a lover (Carla) who is lonely, and then his wife Luisa (played by Anouk Aimée) comes to town, and eventually sees Carla (played by Sandra Milo), and assumes (rightly) he's having an affair with her. By the end of the film, there seems to be some rapprochement between Guido and Luisa, but we're not entirely sure.
'We're not entirely sure...' This sounded in my mind throughout the entire film. It starts with a dream sequence - a really amazing sequence, where Guido is trapped in a car in traffic, everyone staring at him, exhaust coming into his car. He gets out of the car, and floats over the traffic. But then, when he's high in the sky, a rope is on his leg, and someone on the ground pulls him down. I'm not sure what this is "supposed" to mean, but it points to Guido's feeling that everyone expects a lot out of him, and when he tries to get free, they pull him back in.
This dream sequence sets up a lot - from both Guido's feelings, to the way the film is shot. First, because, as I said, it seems like everyone is pushing in on Guido. In the scene following the first dream, Guido's in the hotel lobby, bombarded by questions from production assistants, actors, actor's agents, groupies, etc. He dances around them, an intricate deferral of all their questions and demands, like he's floating in the air beyond the crowd. When he seems to have evaded them all, his producer comes walking down the steps (who he calls "commendatore", the term they use at the spa for the doctors), and puts in the final question Guido can't evade, pulling him back to the ground.
There are many other seeming dream sequences. E.g., when Luisa spots Carla, Guido has this day-dream of his own harem, with multiple women, and Luisa "understanding" it all. It's a pretty funny and disturbing sequence, because it shows the director Guido (and by implication, Fellini himself) as what he is: a childish man, who cannot love, and so tries to love everyone, but at the same time is harsh and indefatigable in his selfishness. It's not a very nice picture of the man, and it's fascinating that Fellini portrayed the director this way.
As I said, these dream sequences actually set up the way the film is shot. In fact, it's almost impossible to tell when a dream sequence (except the first) begins and when it ends. Some of the things in the film seem like dreams - especially the last shot, when he actually starts the film - but again, we're not entirely sure. It's all so fluid the narrative seems to run through even the dreams, and the dreams seem to be a part of his relationship with the characters. Of course this isn't "true", but the film is shot in such a way that it seems true.
In this end, that's most what I liked about the film: we see reality through the director's eyes, and this points out how, in any film, it is the director that shows us this reality, for very specific artistic reasons. Now, this isn't a "scientific" reality in any sense (which is really a pretty narrow reality anyway), but instead is a world that reflects something true about the world we actually live it.
In this film, I thought that "true" thing was almost about art itself. Kant argues that for anything to be considered "art" it must seem unintentional, just like nature, even though we know its intentional. Fellini seems to be pointing this out in the way he uses the film critic Carini. At the end of the film, when Guido quits the project, Carini has this great long speech about how an "intellectual" ('I put you in this category', he says to Guido) knows when to be silent. Mallarmé, for instance, knew when to stop writing. Carini, who throughout the entire film has been ragging on Guido for the "vagueness" of his characters, and his over-use of symbols, now decides for Guido what is the "right" way to see art, as if the artist himself does not see it, and he needs a "critic" or philosopher to tell him. The ridiculousness of this character seems, to me, to point out the ridiculousness of "message" art, or rather art that is supposed to "say" something. This is what Kant was talking about: when you're trying to "say" something, it ends up being propaganda, or some type of "serious" film about a "serious" subject that is interesting as long as the subject is interesting (like 10 minutes), but doesn't in anyway affect anyone. I bet you could name a lot of so-called "serious" films these days that are silly and small for just this reason.
8 1/2 is one of those films that transcends any "message" in this way. In the end, I think this is because we're not entirely sure what is "true" and what is "illusion". We are lost so completely in the images that we never know what it is "saying", but know, somehow, it's saying something. We can only access this "something," though, with our eyes. That is why it's "film."
It is a story about a director with "director's block" - and in this sense it is quite autobiographical. In fact, apparently much of the film actually captures, not only real situations in Fellini's life, but very immediate emotions at the times.
The director in this film, Guido (played by Marcello Mastroianni) is at a health spa with his production team, trying very hard to start his film, much less finish it. He's collaborating with a guy name Carini, who's a film critic, and between the banal and vapid speeches of this guy and the over-bearing producer, Guido is a tight spot.
To fill in the problem: he has a lover (Carla) who is lonely, and then his wife Luisa (played by Anouk Aimée) comes to town, and eventually sees Carla (played by Sandra Milo), and assumes (rightly) he's having an affair with her. By the end of the film, there seems to be some rapprochement between Guido and Luisa, but we're not entirely sure.
'We're not entirely sure...' This sounded in my mind throughout the entire film. It starts with a dream sequence - a really amazing sequence, where Guido is trapped in a car in traffic, everyone staring at him, exhaust coming into his car. He gets out of the car, and floats over the traffic. But then, when he's high in the sky, a rope is on his leg, and someone on the ground pulls him down. I'm not sure what this is "supposed" to mean, but it points to Guido's feeling that everyone expects a lot out of him, and when he tries to get free, they pull him back in.
This dream sequence sets up a lot - from both Guido's feelings, to the way the film is shot. First, because, as I said, it seems like everyone is pushing in on Guido. In the scene following the first dream, Guido's in the hotel lobby, bombarded by questions from production assistants, actors, actor's agents, groupies, etc. He dances around them, an intricate deferral of all their questions and demands, like he's floating in the air beyond the crowd. When he seems to have evaded them all, his producer comes walking down the steps (who he calls "commendatore", the term they use at the spa for the doctors), and puts in the final question Guido can't evade, pulling him back to the ground.
There are many other seeming dream sequences. E.g., when Luisa spots Carla, Guido has this day-dream of his own harem, with multiple women, and Luisa "understanding" it all. It's a pretty funny and disturbing sequence, because it shows the director Guido (and by implication, Fellini himself) as what he is: a childish man, who cannot love, and so tries to love everyone, but at the same time is harsh and indefatigable in his selfishness. It's not a very nice picture of the man, and it's fascinating that Fellini portrayed the director this way.
As I said, these dream sequences actually set up the way the film is shot. In fact, it's almost impossible to tell when a dream sequence (except the first) begins and when it ends. Some of the things in the film seem like dreams - especially the last shot, when he actually starts the film - but again, we're not entirely sure. It's all so fluid the narrative seems to run through even the dreams, and the dreams seem to be a part of his relationship with the characters. Of course this isn't "true", but the film is shot in such a way that it seems true.
In this end, that's most what I liked about the film: we see reality through the director's eyes, and this points out how, in any film, it is the director that shows us this reality, for very specific artistic reasons. Now, this isn't a "scientific" reality in any sense (which is really a pretty narrow reality anyway), but instead is a world that reflects something true about the world we actually live it.
In this film, I thought that "true" thing was almost about art itself. Kant argues that for anything to be considered "art" it must seem unintentional, just like nature, even though we know its intentional. Fellini seems to be pointing this out in the way he uses the film critic Carini. At the end of the film, when Guido quits the project, Carini has this great long speech about how an "intellectual" ('I put you in this category', he says to Guido) knows when to be silent. Mallarmé, for instance, knew when to stop writing. Carini, who throughout the entire film has been ragging on Guido for the "vagueness" of his characters, and his over-use of symbols, now decides for Guido what is the "right" way to see art, as if the artist himself does not see it, and he needs a "critic" or philosopher to tell him. The ridiculousness of this character seems, to me, to point out the ridiculousness of "message" art, or rather art that is supposed to "say" something. This is what Kant was talking about: when you're trying to "say" something, it ends up being propaganda, or some type of "serious" film about a "serious" subject that is interesting as long as the subject is interesting (like 10 minutes), but doesn't in anyway affect anyone. I bet you could name a lot of so-called "serious" films these days that are silly and small for just this reason.
8 1/2 is one of those films that transcends any "message" in this way. In the end, I think this is because we're not entirely sure what is "true" and what is "illusion". We are lost so completely in the images that we never know what it is "saying", but know, somehow, it's saying something. We can only access this "something," though, with our eyes. That is why it's "film."
Wednesday, November 14, 2007
The drive to unity
I was reading Kant's aesthetic theory for my class this week, and I came across his argument that all art drives toward unity. He thinks we find pleasure in unifying disparate things we never thought could go together. When I read this at first, I thought, 'what? That's not even close to being true. Doesn't Kant know that "fragmentation", différence, truth with a small "t", etc., are in vogue? Unity! Blah!'
As a test case, I thought to myself, what about Michael Henake's film "Code Unknown" (Code innconu récit incomplet de divers voyages). It is a story of an event in a street in Paris: a young white man drops a wrapper in the lap of a woman begging; a young black man, seeing this, comes to the aid of the woman's honor, and tries to get the white man to apologize; the young white man's brother's girlfriend comes to his defense (not knowing what he did); the cops get involved, and the black man spends a night in jail for disturbing the peace.
The rest of the film is composed of scenes prior to the incident and after the incident, with no apparent reason. The reason I thought of this film is that the scenes almost all start in a character's mid-sentence, and end just as abruptly. In addition, we hear sounds off-camera, and these things seem to be important for the film. Clearly, I thought, this is an example of a pleasing film that is fragmented in a very "postmodern" way! Harvard Students Against Unity (HSAU) was my cry!
Yet when I started to discuss with myself what I liked about the film was that all of these off-camera events and sounds were actually just as important as what happens on camera. Then it struck me: I like that because I can bring all these "absent" events - with the help of a little imagination - into what happens on camera. In other words? I can see the unity in the overall work!
Guess what folks. This is exactly what Kant says: there is no "objective" unity in the laws pertaining to the world. There are laws, but it takes us seeing them as having a purpose that brings them into unity. This, I'm afraid, explodes all my postmodern fantasies, precisely because it means that for there to be fragments there must be a unity already.
So, I guess I'll have to hand in my HSAU union card.
As a test case, I thought to myself, what about Michael Henake's film "Code Unknown" (Code innconu récit incomplet de divers voyages). It is a story of an event in a street in Paris: a young white man drops a wrapper in the lap of a woman begging; a young black man, seeing this, comes to the aid of the woman's honor, and tries to get the white man to apologize; the young white man's brother's girlfriend comes to his defense (not knowing what he did); the cops get involved, and the black man spends a night in jail for disturbing the peace.
The rest of the film is composed of scenes prior to the incident and after the incident, with no apparent reason. The reason I thought of this film is that the scenes almost all start in a character's mid-sentence, and end just as abruptly. In addition, we hear sounds off-camera, and these things seem to be important for the film. Clearly, I thought, this is an example of a pleasing film that is fragmented in a very "postmodern" way! Harvard Students Against Unity (HSAU) was my cry!
Yet when I started to discuss with myself what I liked about the film was that all of these off-camera events and sounds were actually just as important as what happens on camera. Then it struck me: I like that because I can bring all these "absent" events - with the help of a little imagination - into what happens on camera. In other words? I can see the unity in the overall work!
Guess what folks. This is exactly what Kant says: there is no "objective" unity in the laws pertaining to the world. There are laws, but it takes us seeing them as having a purpose that brings them into unity. This, I'm afraid, explodes all my postmodern fantasies, precisely because it means that for there to be fragments there must be a unity already.
So, I guess I'll have to hand in my HSAU union card.
Saturday, November 10, 2007
One's own mark
Growing up, I've always thought my identity through knowing who I'm not, rather than who I am. The latter concept I've always found a bit vague anyway. How does "knowing who you are" work? Are you the total of your actions, your thoughts, what you experience, what events befall you? When is it clear, when are you "transparent" to yourself? When you "feel" that something "isn't you", when you decide something isn't you? Is what I did tonight somehow "inside" me, like water in glass? If I don't remember tonight's events, will the water spill out?
This is a stanza from Louise Bogan's "The Mark":
Loosed only when, at noon and night,
The body is the shadow's prison.
The pivot swings into the light;
The center left, the shadow risen
To range out into time's long treason.
Bogan points out how I've come to my own identity. The shadow is the substantial part of the person in the poem, the body the constricted part, like a bound figure on a white sheet. The shadow, though, shortens and lengthens, expanding and contracting through the waves of time, like periods of elation and despondence, of joys and sorrows, marks of time all.
The only problem is there's a cost: at the height of transparency, at noon, the shadow disappears, while at night, the shadow is exiled in the surrounding darkness. This is the treason of time, that time itself subverts this whole identity process.
Of course, we all know this is the problem, since our identities not only change over time, but seem to be ruined by time. All the questions I asked above have something to do with time, insofar as we wonder: do my experiences, which are fleeting, have any permanence?
That's why we say 'I want to make my mark' - implying that only in etching something, in developing some memorial to our actions in an external thing, will we be remembered as a self at all. It's this drive toward figuring the body as the focal point of a host of shadowy experiences, events, thoughts, and desires, that enables us to have any identity at all.
Yet, we must remember: as Bogan tells us at the height of this focal point's visibility to others - at "noon" - this same body is invisible to ourselves.
This is a stanza from Louise Bogan's "The Mark":
Loosed only when, at noon and night,
The body is the shadow's prison.
The pivot swings into the light;
The center left, the shadow risen
To range out into time's long treason.
Bogan points out how I've come to my own identity. The shadow is the substantial part of the person in the poem, the body the constricted part, like a bound figure on a white sheet. The shadow, though, shortens and lengthens, expanding and contracting through the waves of time, like periods of elation and despondence, of joys and sorrows, marks of time all.
The only problem is there's a cost: at the height of transparency, at noon, the shadow disappears, while at night, the shadow is exiled in the surrounding darkness. This is the treason of time, that time itself subverts this whole identity process.
Of course, we all know this is the problem, since our identities not only change over time, but seem to be ruined by time. All the questions I asked above have something to do with time, insofar as we wonder: do my experiences, which are fleeting, have any permanence?
That's why we say 'I want to make my mark' - implying that only in etching something, in developing some memorial to our actions in an external thing, will we be remembered as a self at all. It's this drive toward figuring the body as the focal point of a host of shadowy experiences, events, thoughts, and desires, that enables us to have any identity at all.
Yet, we must remember: as Bogan tells us at the height of this focal point's visibility to others - at "noon" - this same body is invisible to ourselves.
Tuesday, November 06, 2007
On Reading
Since I lack the time to read novels right now because of school, I have been listening to novels in my car on the commute (about 45 minutes one way). I read Chuck Palahniuk's new book "Rant", and just started Michael Chabon's "The Yiddish Policeman's Union".
I remember once hearing someone else who read a book by listening. It was funny, because, even though they understood it, they said, "well, I read that, but it didn't count, since I listened to it." This is curious to me, and makes me wonder: since I listened to "Rant", did I actually read it?
What does it mean to say I've "read" a book? In the ancient world, to "read" something always meant to "read aloud", usually in a group context. What would they say about having "read" a text, if they were in the group that listened? Would they have said they read it? I'm sure I could find some textual evidence, maybe in Augustine or Epictetus that would attest to this.
In any case, the ancients had a different way with language. Even the way they learned language was more oral than we do. For instance, the "unit" they learned was actually the syllable, rather than the "word." Learning this way made sense to them, because you primarily hear syllables, whereas words are comprehended as a number of "sounds elements," i.e. syllables. We see words as units because we think of words on a page.
This reminds me of that discussion Wittgenstein has about reading. Reading is not clear at all he thinks. Try to think about it - when do you say reading has happened? When I have passed my eyes over a line, read them in my mind, and thereby comprehend? Or is it rather when I "reproduce", or derive a reproduction from the "original" line? I like this example Wittgenstein gives: "Try this experiment: say the numbers from 1 to 12. Now look at the dial of your watch and read them. - What was it that you called 'reading' in the latter case? That is to say: what did you do, to make it into reading?"
The point, of course for Wittgenstein, is that we think of reading, or any activity, within a family of other terms (that's why he can say: "the look of a word is familiar to us in the same kind of way as its sound."). That's why its weird for some people to think of "listening" to a book on tape as the same activity of "reading". We listen to music, to the tv, etc., but we never listen to "novels". Actually, when we say "I've read such and such a book" we use that term in a different sense than when we say "I'm reading this sentence." It didn't "count" for that person I talked to because it wasn't the "activity", but the result was the same.
So, the question is: if I am in a social situation, talking about literature, and someone says, "oh, I've read "The Yiddish Policeman's Union", should my response be, "me too?" Would I be lying?
I remember once hearing someone else who read a book by listening. It was funny, because, even though they understood it, they said, "well, I read that, but it didn't count, since I listened to it." This is curious to me, and makes me wonder: since I listened to "Rant", did I actually read it?
What does it mean to say I've "read" a book? In the ancient world, to "read" something always meant to "read aloud", usually in a group context. What would they say about having "read" a text, if they were in the group that listened? Would they have said they read it? I'm sure I could find some textual evidence, maybe in Augustine or Epictetus that would attest to this.
In any case, the ancients had a different way with language. Even the way they learned language was more oral than we do. For instance, the "unit" they learned was actually the syllable, rather than the "word." Learning this way made sense to them, because you primarily hear syllables, whereas words are comprehended as a number of "sounds elements," i.e. syllables. We see words as units because we think of words on a page.
This reminds me of that discussion Wittgenstein has about reading. Reading is not clear at all he thinks. Try to think about it - when do you say reading has happened? When I have passed my eyes over a line, read them in my mind, and thereby comprehend? Or is it rather when I "reproduce", or derive a reproduction from the "original" line? I like this example Wittgenstein gives: "Try this experiment: say the numbers from 1 to 12. Now look at the dial of your watch and read them. - What was it that you called 'reading' in the latter case? That is to say: what did you do, to make it into reading?"
The point, of course for Wittgenstein, is that we think of reading, or any activity, within a family of other terms (that's why he can say: "the look of a word is familiar to us in the same kind of way as its sound."). That's why its weird for some people to think of "listening" to a book on tape as the same activity of "reading". We listen to music, to the tv, etc., but we never listen to "novels". Actually, when we say "I've read such and such a book" we use that term in a different sense than when we say "I'm reading this sentence." It didn't "count" for that person I talked to because it wasn't the "activity", but the result was the same.
So, the question is: if I am in a social situation, talking about literature, and someone says, "oh, I've read "The Yiddish Policeman's Union", should my response be, "me too?" Would I be lying?
Saturday, November 03, 2007
Cache: Skeletons in the closet
Julie and I just watched "Cache" (hidden, in French), a film by Michael Haneke. It is a fascinating film. A couple, Georges and Ann, receive anonymous video-tapes that consist of hours and hours of a camera fixed on their apartment. The first tape has nothing with it. The second tape, a different angle and time from the first, has attached a child's picture of a boy, blood coming from his mouth. The third, this time connected with a picture of the farm house Georges grew up in, has the picture of a chicken with its head cut off. The next is just images of some apartment building, and then a door.
We learn that Georges believes the tapes are being sent from Majid. Majid was the son of Algerian farm-hands who lived on Georges' farm as a young child. When his parents were killed in the 1961 protest by Algerians (200 of which were drowned in the Seine), Georges' parents want to adopt Majid. Georges tells a few lies about Majid, and his mother sends Majid away to a children's home.
The stage is set here: Georges' guilt becomes his moving force. He goes to the apartment that was on the video, and of course Majid is there. Georges confronts Majid (now a broken middle-aged man), and Majid has no clue what he's talking about. After Georges threatens Majid, he leaves, and they receive another video. This time the video is of the conversation Georges just had with Majid, and then Majid's reaction: Majid cries.
After this, things start to unravel. Finally, Georges goes again to confront Majid. Majid says, 'good, you're here, I want you to be here.' Then Majid brings him into his kitchen, takes out a pocket knife, and slits his juggler vein.
This film did a brilliant job showing the effect of guilt, and the reality of it. Clearly, Georges projected his guilt on Majid. We don't know if Majid sent the tapes, but if he did, he acted pretty well when he was crying. I personally think there is something profoundly theological about the tapes: they are this thing that just comes into Georges life, unannounced, almost in a transcendent way. We never learn (although the last shot makes us suspicious) who the tapes are from, and what the purpose of them was.
Now, the question of whether or not Georges should feel guilty is important. I mean, Georges was a six year old kid when he lied, and his mother ultimately made the decision to send Majid away. Six year old kids are both selfish, and lack responsibility that you would impute to adults (for good reason - they also lack the freedom!). At the same time, his mother would have presumably sent Majid away without Georges' false testimony, and Majid's life has clearly been difficult and heartbreaking.
So, Georges certain would have some guilt. Yet, Georges will not confess to his wife, or to anyone, that he does feel this guilt. It is the lack of openness, the closure between Ann and Georges, and Georges with himself that is so striking. The rôle played by husband and wife seem to be political agents: they are there just for the functioning of the house, and that's it. For Georges it only makes sense that he would unwittingly project his guilt everyone around him: he won't talk about it, while it is burning him alive.
I think it is a very profound problem, this problem of guilt Haneke brings up. We continually deal with it, do we not? We're always acting in ways that hurt others, intentionally or unintentionally, and the consequences of these actions are beyond our control. We may want to use that as an excuse for our guilt, but at the same time, if we are honesty, it matters little our "intention" (or, if you're inclined to determinism, the mechnistic functions of our "memes").
The question is, what do we then do?
We learn that Georges believes the tapes are being sent from Majid. Majid was the son of Algerian farm-hands who lived on Georges' farm as a young child. When his parents were killed in the 1961 protest by Algerians (200 of which were drowned in the Seine), Georges' parents want to adopt Majid. Georges tells a few lies about Majid, and his mother sends Majid away to a children's home.
The stage is set here: Georges' guilt becomes his moving force. He goes to the apartment that was on the video, and of course Majid is there. Georges confronts Majid (now a broken middle-aged man), and Majid has no clue what he's talking about. After Georges threatens Majid, he leaves, and they receive another video. This time the video is of the conversation Georges just had with Majid, and then Majid's reaction: Majid cries.
After this, things start to unravel. Finally, Georges goes again to confront Majid. Majid says, 'good, you're here, I want you to be here.' Then Majid brings him into his kitchen, takes out a pocket knife, and slits his juggler vein.
This film did a brilliant job showing the effect of guilt, and the reality of it. Clearly, Georges projected his guilt on Majid. We don't know if Majid sent the tapes, but if he did, he acted pretty well when he was crying. I personally think there is something profoundly theological about the tapes: they are this thing that just comes into Georges life, unannounced, almost in a transcendent way. We never learn (although the last shot makes us suspicious) who the tapes are from, and what the purpose of them was.
Now, the question of whether or not Georges should feel guilty is important. I mean, Georges was a six year old kid when he lied, and his mother ultimately made the decision to send Majid away. Six year old kids are both selfish, and lack responsibility that you would impute to adults (for good reason - they also lack the freedom!). At the same time, his mother would have presumably sent Majid away without Georges' false testimony, and Majid's life has clearly been difficult and heartbreaking.
So, Georges certain would have some guilt. Yet, Georges will not confess to his wife, or to anyone, that he does feel this guilt. It is the lack of openness, the closure between Ann and Georges, and Georges with himself that is so striking. The rôle played by husband and wife seem to be political agents: they are there just for the functioning of the house, and that's it. For Georges it only makes sense that he would unwittingly project his guilt everyone around him: he won't talk about it, while it is burning him alive.
I think it is a very profound problem, this problem of guilt Haneke brings up. We continually deal with it, do we not? We're always acting in ways that hurt others, intentionally or unintentionally, and the consequences of these actions are beyond our control. We may want to use that as an excuse for our guilt, but at the same time, if we are honesty, it matters little our "intention" (or, if you're inclined to determinism, the mechnistic functions of our "memes").
The question is, what do we then do?
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