George Schrader Channels Thoreau

Today’s been a reading day for me.  I am preparing to begin summer classes; I am teaching a course on The Seven Deadly Sins.  I happened upon a paper by George Schrader, a philosopher whose work I always find admirable, called “Monetary Value and Personal Value”.  It ends thus:

The problem for contemporary man is, I believe, to free himself sufficiently from the tyrannical dominance of monetary value to be able to judge in his own terms what things are worth to him as an individual with his own needs and purposes.  To do this, he must programatically turn aside from the prima facia monetary value of his own needs, his labor, and the goods he confronts and look toward that dimension of himself and his world which stands in contrast to the entire domain of monetary value. He must ask such simple questions as:  Do I really care that my clothes should be so white? Do I really wish to look so pretty? What do I really care about, and what will in fact and not simply in representation answer to that concern?  Only by insisting on asking such questions can he avoid having all of his values decided for him.  And only thus can he have his own world.

Of course the texture of the prose here is not Thoreauvian (except, perhaps, for the questions)–but the thought, well, it sure sounds like the “Economy” chapter of Walden.

Ed Mooney on Living One’s Own Life

I feel like I’m entering a wonderfully complex discussion, and fear I may be just muddying the waters, but let me just dive in. It’s surely correct that the self knowledge we seek is not informational, not a “knowledge that x”. We know Socrates knows himself because he’s steady in his living, and seems to ‘know what he’s doing’ in complex situations that could baffle an ordinary mortal. So knowing himself seems close to knowing how to be himself, or knowing what ‘living-as-Socrates’ must amount to. Now that knowledge is not observational (HE doesn’t conduct observations) and probably isn’t intentional: he doesn’t say to himself “I must try out living as Socrates today.” It may be retrospective: we can imagine him reflecting after a good bit of life is behind him on whether he’s happy with his comportment–has he been living a strange life, or his own life.  That’s a funny question to ask, perhaps, yet people can get alienated from themselves, and regret that they’re “living-as-my-father-wants” rather than “living my own life.”

Prospectively, I think self knowledge is a “knowing how” that requires intimate acknowledgment of one’s desires, feelings, commitments and their weights, and so forth, and that sort of knowing how — knowing how to dig through all that — always questioning, always weighing, always proceeding in fear and trembling that one might be kidding oneself — is hard to share or expose or make public and will sound like a confession full of fits and starts and ill-formed thoughts. But along with that ‘reflective” and “confessional” side seems to be a willingness to pledge or promise, to stay true to something often only dimly apprehended. So Socrates remained true to things (say the assurance that the oracle was trustworthy, or that Diotima had something worthy to say) even while it’s hard to say what undergirds that pledge to honor a truth intrinsic to who one must be. “Living-as-Socrates”, knowing how to do that, is something Socrates has to work out for himself — we can’t guide him.

And if we LEARN from Socrates, how does that happen? Perhaps, as Kelly suggests, if I learn from a poem it may show up in my writing my own poem. If I learn ‘knowing how live out the unfolding self I am” by holding Socratic living in mind, that can’t mean Socrates has authority to tell me how to live. If I learn from him, it will not be that I learn how to “live-as-Socrates” (except in the most general way: for example, ‘think about what words you use in probing yourself’). Learning from him will be much more learning how to “live-as-me” — “learning” what can I pledge myself to, to give my life that sort of solidity and continuity that in the longer run I can look back (and my friends can look back) and say: “for all his (propositional, informational, doctrinal) ignorance he knew himself, he led his own life. And “learning what I can pledge myself to” is perhaps mostly just pledging-in-the-relative-dark: not ‘finding out” but “doing.”

This is a comment on a previous post, a comment by Ed Mooney.  I have found it of so much interest that I wanted to station it in a more visible spot.  I plan to write something responsive in the next couple of days.  (The title here is mine, not Ed’s.)

The Deadly “Virtues”–Auden

Certain sins can manifest themselves as their mirror opposites which the sinner is able to persuade himself are virtues.  Thus, Gluttony can manifest itself as Daintiness, Lust as Prudery, Sloth as Senseless Industry, Envy as Hero Worship.

A Really Alive Person–A Comment from Gabriel Marcel

A really alive person is not merely someone who has a taste for life, but somebody who spreads that taste, showering it, as it were, around him; and a person who is really alive in this way has, quite apart from any tangible achievements of his, something essentially creative about him…

“Courage”–Charles Wagner

Where is this good, of which I speak, to be found? We must seek for it. Those who seek for it and are capable of seeing it, will find it. I urge many young people to investigate this unknown region. They will discover many salutary herbs which will serve them as elixirs.

The truth is, that no one has any idea of the number of good people who live about us. The amount of suffering patiently borne, the injuries pardoned, the sacrifices made, the disinterested efforts, are impossible to count. It is a world full of unknown splendours, like the profound grottoes lighted by the marvellous lamp of Aladdin. These are the reserves of the future; these are the silent streams that run beneath the earth, and without which the sources of good would long since have become exhausted, and the world have returned to barbarism. Happy is he who can explore the sacred depths! At first, one feels profane, small, out of place. There are people of such a simple benevolence, of such natural disinterestedness, that one feels poor and unworthy beside them; but this is a grief which is salutary, a humiliation which exalts us. What can be better for a young man than to feel himself small and inferior in the presence of truth, of abnegation, and of pure goodness? If he is troubled, moved, bewildered, downcast; if he weeps; if his life, when compared with those which he sees about him, seems to him like a childish sketch by the side of a canvas of a great master, — so much the better for him. This humility is a proof in his favour, and places him at once in the path of progress. They say that young nightingales, whose voices are not yet formed, are very unhappy when they come into the presence of those older birds who fill the nights of summer with their music. When they hear them, they cease to sing, and remain silent for a long time. This is neither from a spirit of envy nor ill temper; but the ideal presented to them bewilders and disturbs them. They listen, they are intoxicated by the melody, and while thinking, perhaps, in their little bird brains, — “I can never hope to equal thee!” they become so inspired that they end by singing in their turn. Hail to the good listener!

St. Mark the Ascetic on Wickedness

Wickedness is an intricate net; and if someone is careless when partially entangled, he gets completely enmeshed.

This strikes me, to almost borrow a phrase from Cavell, as St. Mark’s religious interpretation of a perception he shares with Wittgenstein.

Tagore’s Lament

I read this recently in Tagore’s Gitanjali.  Interestingly parallel to Paul’s famous lament late in Romans 7.

Obstinate are the trammels, but my heart aches when I try to break them.
Freedom is all I want, but to hope for it I feel ashamed.
I am certain that priceless wealth is in thee, and that thou art my best friend, but I have not the heart to sweep away the tinsel that fills my room.
The shroud that covers me is a shroud of dust and death; I hate it, yet hug it in love.
My debts are large, my failures great, my shame secret and heavy; yet when I come to ask for my good, I quake in fear lest my prayer be granted.

Moral Kangaroos

A key passage (and one of my favorites) from Gaskell’s Wives and Daughters. Cynthia is talking to Molly.

“Nonsense, Molly!  You are good.  At least, if you are not good, what am I?  There’s a rule-of-three sum for you to do!  But it’s no use talking; I am not good, and I never shall be now.  Perhaps I might be a heroine still, but I shall never be a good woman, I know.”

“But do you think it easier to be a heroine?”

“Yes, as far as one knows of heroines from history.  I’m capable of a great jerk, an effort, and then a relaxation–but steady, every-day goodness is beyond me.  I must be a moral kangaroo!”

Today Redux

“No matter what happens tomorrow, or for the rest of my life, I am happy now, because I am in love with you.”  This is the line that releases Phil Conners (Bill Murray) from his apparently endless string of Groundhog Days.  Why does it have this power, how does it liberate him?  Because he finally finds a way to be present to the present, to deserve it.  And isn’t his desert a matter of his finally risking himself, finally becoming more than a visitor in Punxsutawny, in his own life, tethering himself and his happiness to the town and to Rita?  When he says to Rita, at the end of the movie, “Let’s live here!”  he expresses a decision he has, without realizing it, already made.  By choosing to stay, he earns the freedom to leave.

Phil’s problem is not that he is trapped in today, but that he has constantly withheld himself from today, never had a today.  He lives Groundhog Day over and over and over; but not today.  His first today precedes his first tomorrow in a very, very long time.  Phil abandoned today long before he got to Punxsutawny.  The only way to have a tomorrow is to have a today.