tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-25622184416513391122023-06-20T06:46:13.215-07:00Grey City/White NorthNoah Cruickshankhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13548649447847765824noreply@blogger.comBlogger18125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2562218441651339112.post-54861671375784919982011-05-21T12:17:00.000-07:002011-05-21T12:19:57.255-07:00Fiction and Discourse<div class="MsoNormal"> <span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 32px;">Philosophy and poetry seem particularly apt for comparison. Since Plato’s </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 32px;"><i>Republic</i></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 32px;"><span style="font-style: normal;">, we have a standard juxtaposition of the two forms. We do seem to have a sense of what to say when asked to discuss their contrasts. But most of us find ourselves at a bit of a loss in our attempts to delineate narrative from either poetry or philosophy. We don’t quite know </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 32px;"><i>how</i></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 32px;"><span style="font-style: normal;"> to say they are all different.</span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 32px;"><span style="font-style: normal;"></span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 32px;">Poetry may have a narrative aspect, but the prominence of novel metaphor and strict form gives it a stunning distinction from philosophical discourse (and the roots of any critical enterprise are philosophical). One might define poetry as the mode of language that engenders metaphor, and in the creation of metaphor we are given a new way to experience the world. A metaphor that sticks with us is one that provides us with new insight on the concept it describes, and thus poetry is the place in human language for robust conceptual re-description. Before we read Gerard Manley Hopkins’ <i>The Windhover</i><span style="font-style: normal;">, we do not see a hawk as the “kingdom of daylight’s dauphin.” But once the metaphor has worked on us, our understanding of what a hawk could be, what a hawk could symbolize for us, has become something more, something greater. </span><i>The Windhover</i><span style="font-style: normal;"> is not narrative; it is, in a sense, the construction of symbol. Linguistic representation is both constitutive and constituting of its object.</span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 32px;"><span style="font-style: normal;"></span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 32px;">Philosophy – all critical writing, in fact – gives us an argument in (hopefully) clear terms. The writing has an aim, to convince us of something, to appeal to our rationality in such a way so that we change the way we think or behave. This does not mean that there isn’t some blending of the modes - poetry can certainly make claims, and there are plenty of philosophers who have created novel metaphors – but, to put it bluntly, poetry appeals to our hearts, while philosophy appeals to our heads. Poetry makes us see the world differently through the experience of understanding metaphor – the hawk is no longer just a hawk - whereas philosophy looks to our rationality to change our behaviors and beliefs.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 32px;"></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 32px;">Narrative is tension-filled; it straddles a line between the poetic re-describing of the world and critical arguments concerning reality, artwork, or what have you. But narrative is neither of those things, and we have trouble hitting on exactly what it is. Narrative surely creates metaphor – any form of symbolism is metaphorical in nature – but it too has a streak of rationality. To use the blunt metaphor from above, narrative appeals to both our heads and hearts. Although we should remind ourselves that both poetry and philosophy usually have aspects of narrative (there are no easy distinctions), the most obvious version of narrative in contemporary life is fiction, so it seems best that we focus on it in our considerations here.<a href="http://www.blogger.com/post-create.g?blogID=2562218441651339112#_ftn1" name="_ftnref1" title=""><span class="MsoFootnoteReference">[1]</span></a> One might argue that fiction, as our representative of narrative, blends the defining features of the other modes of linguistic discourse together.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 32px;"></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 32px;">But it is naïve, if not dangerous, to cast fiction as something like “critical discourse with poetic faculties.” It is not philosophy dressed up in fancy prose, nor is it poetry stretched out so that extended theoretical considerations might be plumbed. Fiction is both philosophy and poetry, and it is neither, which might leave us with the question, “if it is just some jumbled medium, why do we read it at all?”</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 32px;"></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 32px;">One might respond that fiction should be seen as some kind of hybrid mode of discourse, something created out of the fluidity between philosophy and poetry; a middle ground where the two play off against each other, a space where novel metaphor can rub shoulders with analytic argument. This would seemingly ignore the works of naturalist writers such as Zola in favor of writers like Proust. Fiction, in this view, is a kind of translator, letting two disparate, nigh-incommensurable, forms of communication talk to one another. It is the form of communication for forms of communication, the discursive mode that allows discursive modes to interact.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 32px;"></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 32px;">But that seems to me to be the wrong way to answer the question, in that it actually answers the question. Instead, we should wonder whether the question should be asked at all. Rather than trying to explain why fiction as a jumbled medium has its place in human life, we should instead be arguing that fiction is nothing of the kind, but its own mode that happens to resonate with the other discursive modes around it – it creates for us a space where poetry and philosophy can speak to us.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 32px;"></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 32px;">It seems to me that a brief foray into what great fiction <i>can</i><span style="font-style: normal;"> do is enough to silence that question. Though we may not give an adequate definition as to what fiction is, we may be able to provide a litany of differences from other discursive modes of language. My suggestion, then, is to turn to a work of fiction that is both critical and poetic, but is neither criticism nor poetry – and </span><i>cannot</i><span style="font-style: normal;"> be criticism or poetry. By </span><i>cannot</i><span style="font-style: normal;">, I mean that by attempting to translate the work into either critical poetic discourse, the work is lost. The work of fiction a form of communication must then be incommensurable with other forms. We cannot translate or paraphrase, we can only experience.</span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 32px;"><span style="font-style: normal;"></span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 32px;">J.M. Coetzee’s <i>The Lives of Animals</i><span style="font-style: normal;"> is an astounding work for prose style, deep characterization, and ability to make a series of academic lectures actually interesting. Wax as I could on the merits of the book, it stands to me as a perfect example of how fiction can subsume the questions and objects of poetry and philosophy, and cast them in an entirely new light – as part and parcel of the experience of a particular narrative. The novella concerns itself with the visit of Elizabeth Costello, an older Australian writer notable for recasting Joyce’s </span><i>Ulysses</i><span style="font-style: normal;">, to Appleton College, American liberal arts college<a href="http://www.blogger.com/post-create.g?blogID=2562218441651339112#_ftn2" name="_ftnref2" title=""><span class="MsoFootnoteReference">[2]</span></a> of Costzee’s creation. Costello, ostensibly invited to lecture on literature or her creative process, instead speaks of our treatment of animals, and our lives as animals. Her decision and words spark debate and strife within the insular academic community of Appleton, which includes her physicist son and antagonistic daughter-in-law.</span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 32px;"><span style="font-style: normal;"></span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 32px;">One might – and plenty of intelligent people have<a href="http://www.blogger.com/post-create.g?blogID=2562218441651339112#_ftn3" name="_ftnref3" title=""><span class="MsoFootnoteReference">[3]</span></a> - read <i>The Lives of Animals</i><span style="font-style: normal;"> as merely a staging ground for ethical arguments about our treatment of animals. This reading believes that the book has a thesis (what that thesis is will depend on the reader) that is expounded via narrative. This kind of understanding of the book is ultimately a misunderstanding. Coetzee is a strict vegetarian, and most likely shares some of Costello’s more radical notions about human activities towards animals, but to read Costello as her creator is similar to reading Ishmael from </span><i>Moby Dick</i><span style="font-style: normal;"> as Herman Melville. Connections between characters and their creators are a natural part of the creative process, but we should be wary of equating Coetzee with his creations.</span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 32px;"><span style="font-style: normal;"></span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 32px;">But neither could the story be thought of as purely poetic. The novella is almost plot-less; more than anything it is series of interactions between the various characters than a tale with a specific skeleton. But the story is not simply made up with the images it creates for us – striking as they are. If it were so, the real intellectual and emotional conflict between Coetzee’s creations would be lost. It is unclear what Coetzee thinks of his characters – in many of his novels he uses real people as parts of his casts, including himself – but one gets the sense that they are neither the kind of exact creations of someone like Zola nor pure expressions of artistic whimsy of Dickens. They seem to be somewhere in between, which makes them all the better examples for my argument here.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 32px;"></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 32px;">Elizabeth Costello is not merely a mouthpiece for a particular thesis about our horrific treatment of animals, but a living breathing woman – or as close to one as fiction can create. During her lectures, Elizabeth’s son John, in exasperation, thinks to himself, “Why can’t she just come out and say what she wants to say?” (Coetzee, 37). That is a question the superficial reading of <i>The Lives of Animals</i><span style="font-style: normal;"> would ask as well – “Why doesn’t Coetzee just come out and say what he wants to say in these lectures? Why isn’t he straight-forward with us?” John is exasperated because his mother will not enter the typical critical mode of discourse – she will not state in plain language what she means. This is a pretty basic frustration of human existence. We very rarely just come out and say what we want to say, sometimes because we are afraid, or unwilling, or angry, but other times because there </span><i>is no way</i><span style="font-style: normal;"> to just come out and say what we mean to say. Communication instead has to come through a kind of instigation of empathy, a sharing of a world-view. A fundamental fact of human interaction is that we often manage to communicate quite clearly by </span><i>not</i><span style="font-style: normal;"> saying what we mean.</span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 32px;"><span style="font-style: normal;"></span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 32px;">The reason Elizabeth cannot say what she means is because she has no thesis, no dictates that can be easily summarized. Her talks are meant to explore a kind of thinking about animals, not to codify it. “I was hoping not to have to enunciate principles,” she says, “If principles are what you want to take away from this talk, I would have to respond, open your heart and listen to what your heart says” (Coetzee, 37).. Again, Elizabeth Costello is not a mouthpiece for a moral code or critical thesis, but a woman with a particular perspective on the world. And in <i>The Lives of Animals</i><span style="font-style: normal;">, she tries to share that perspective – not convince us it is right, not enunciate it, not show its logic, but to share it. And that, in turn, is exactly what </span><i>The Lives of Animals</i><span style="font-style: normal;"> does as well; it shares a world with us.</span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 32px;"><span style="font-style: normal;"></span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 32px;"><i>The Lives of Animals</i><span style="font-style: normal;"> gives us the world of Elizabeth Costello. It allows us to inhabit it – if only for a while – and lets us confront her as she grapples with our callous and superficial stances on the things and creatures we exist amidst. We watch as she embodies the wounds that our lives with animals create. The book creates a space where she can ask us to listen to our hearts, and we can perhaps follow her advice. But it also gives space for those who disagree, for those who question or don’t understand – other academics who respond to her lectures, of course, but also her son, John, proud of his mother, yet ultimately confused about why she acts the way she does. We might share in his confusion – the book has space for that as well.</span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 32px;"><span style="font-style: normal;"></span></span>At the beginning of the second chapter (or lecture, as it may be), John finds himself defending his mother<br />
<br />
from the attacks of his wife, Norma. Norma attempts to put a kind of rational framework around<br />
<br />
Costello’s first lecture. “Presumably she was trying to make a point about the nature of rational<br />
<br />
understanding. To say that rational accounts are merely a consequence of the structure of the human<br />
<br />
mind; that animals have their own accounts in accordance with the structure of their own minds, to<br />
<br />
which we don’t have access because we don’t share a language with them” (Coetzee, 47). Norma gives<br />
<br />
Costello’s remarks a particular form, saying they exist as a kind of argument – and, notably, suggesting<br />
<br />
that Costello actually has a thesis, although her mother-in-law may deny it. John, asking what is wrong<br />
<br />
with the depiction Norma gives, is told that his mother is being naïve and shallow. Here we are given a<br />
<br />
particular depiction of Costello, one which we are free to ignore, argue against (in our thoughts, of<br />
<br />
course), or accept. We may in the end agree with John, remaining confused about what Costello wants to<br />
<br />
tell us but also willing to defend her from Norma’s criticism.<span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 32px;"> </span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 32px;"></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 32px;"><i>The Lives of Animals</i><span style="font-style: normal;">, then, gives us the chance to understand </span><i>Elizabeth Costello’s</i><span style="font-style: normal;"> opinions, not Coetzee’s.</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 32px;"> And, through the repudiations and interactions with other characters, we are given the space to interact with and repudiate her ourselves.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 32px;"><span style="font-style: normal;"></span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 32px;">So how is this accomplished? The world-sharing-ness of fiction cannot simply be attributable to its narrative structure. If that were the case, it would be indistinct from good anthropology or common journalism. As I noted before, fiction must be able to say what it means <i>without saying what it means</i><span style="font-style: normal;">, and while plot points can do this kind of work<a href="http://www.blogger.com/post-create.g?blogID=2562218441651339112#_ftn4" name="_ftnref4" title=""><span class="MsoFootnoteReference">[4]</span></a>, the author certainly has recourse to far more than just a plot.</span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 32px;"><span style="font-style: normal;"></span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 32px;">Consider the perspective of <i>The Lives of Animals</i><span style="font-style: normal;">. Elizabeth Costello does not tell her story, nor is she the character the narration remains closest to. Her son, John, is the ostensible protagonist. We learn his thoughts and feelings, not those of his mother. Everything we find out about her we must infer from what she says, what other characters say, and what John thinks about her. We are presented with multiple levels of discourse – there are the words on the page – the descriptions, quotations, etc. - and then what we can infer from those words. Our work in assessing a piece of philosophy or criticism is not to look for subtext or hints of the narrator’s intent<a href="http://www.blogger.com/post-create.g?blogID=2562218441651339112#_ftn5" name="_ftnref5" title=""><span class="MsoFootnoteReference">[5]</span></a>, but to glean meaning from the statements the author makes. There is no “first-order” meaning in an academic text, because there is no “second order” meaning to contrast it to. Elizabeth is in second order – we are not granted direct access to her, thus we must make our opinions about through her son’s perspective – all the while acknowledging that this perspective is necessarily skewed.<span class="MsoFootnoteReference"><a href="http://www.blogger.com/post-create.g?blogID=2562218441651339112#_ftn6" name="_ftnref6" title="">[6]</a></span></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 32px;"><span style="font-style: normal;"><span class="MsoFootnoteReference"><a href="http://www.blogger.com/post-create.g?blogID=2562218441651339112#_ftn6" name="_ftnref6" title=""></a></span></span></span>This kind of opinion-making or inference is exactly what we do in our everyday lives. I have no access<br />
<br />
to your thoughts or feelings, all I can do is form an opinion of you through interaction and experience.<br />
<br />
While we cannot personally interact with Elizabeth, we experience other people’s interactions with her,<br />
<br />
and experience her words as they ring out in our minds. Considering this, it becomes clearer how fiction<br />
<br />
differs from poetry or philosophy. Fiction is mimetic of everyday human experience, in that it gives us<br />
<br />
the ability to share in the perspective of another – something we do each and every day of our live.<br />
<br />
Poetry and philosophy may discuss everyday experience, make claims about it, or give new metaphors<br />
<br />
for understanding it, but neither can recreate it.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
By “everyday experience,” I do not mean something like “the rote necessities of human life,” or “the dull<br />
<br />
repetition of human life as it moves forward.” By everyday, I mean to describe what normally happens to<br />
<br />
us in our interactions with the world. Fiction obviously can share with humdrum existence with us, but<br />
<br />
that isn’t my point. Think of everyday experience as that which we all go through – learning,<br />
<br />
understanding one another, making educated guesses, exposing ourselves as thinking, feeling creatures.</div><div class="MsoBlockText"><o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoBlockText"><br />
Furthermore, fiction is not realistic to everyday experience in the sense that what it portrays could always<br />
<br />
actually happen<a href="http://www.blogger.com/post-create.g?blogID=2562218441651339112#_ftn7" name="_ftnref7" title=""><span class="MsoFootnoteReference">[7]</span></a>, but realistic in the sense that we can interact with characters and events in the way<br />
<br />
we interact with people and events in real life. In his aesthetic work, Stanley Cavell argues that we treat<br />
<br />
artworks the way we treat people. Perhaps that is the case, but we most certainly treat characters in great<br />
<br />
fiction as people – they may be flawed, or not fully fleshed out, but we still laugh at their jokes, and cry<br />
<br />
when they perish. We might feel that most – if not all – characters in stories are not fully dimensional to<br />
<br />
us in the way that real humans are. There can easily be thought of as mere technical constructions of the<br />
<br />
author – and on many occasions they are that; consider most of Dickens’ Mr. Gradgrind for example.<br />
<br />
That intuition is not without grounds, but, I think, if we consider how well we really know the many<br />
<br />
people in our lives, we might come to think of many of our fellow human beings as holding a kind of<br />
<br />
two-dimensional place in the narrative we create for ourselves. Characters in fiction can appear as artistic<br />
<br />
reproductions of emotional responses, or mouthpieces, or automatons, but so can regular people. A failed<br />
<br />
character is one that does not resonate with the reader, not one that is constructed this way or that.<br />
<br />
Likewise, a failed human connection is one where empathy cannot be shared.<br />
<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoBlockText"><br />
Fiction, like everyday reality, allows us the chance to broaden our understandings of others, to share in<br />
<br />
their perspectives. Now, as suggested above, sharing perspective does not mean something as simple as<br />
<br />
sharing a belief. If perspectives and beliefs were equal, then Costello’s preference <i>not</i><span style="font-style: normal;"> to talk about her </span><br />
<span style="font-style: normal;"><br />
</span><br />
<span style="font-style: normal;">principles wouldn’t make any sense. The kind of communication I’m pointing to is non-propositional in </span><br />
<span style="font-style: normal;"><br />
</span><br />
<span style="font-style: normal;">nature. To be sure, there are plenty of claims made about Costello throughout the novella, and Costello </span><br />
<span style="font-style: normal;"><br />
</span><br />
<span style="font-style: normal;">herself does certain aver a number of things. But, the sense of Elizabeth Costello we get from reading </span><br />
<i><br />
</i><br />
<span style="font-style: normal;"></span><i>The Lives of Animals</i><span style="font-style: normal;"> is not adequately expressed in a series of claims – nor is it presented that way. The </span><br />
<span style="font-style: normal;"><br />
</span><br />
<span style="font-style: normal;">interactions with her daughter-in-law, provide an example of this. After reading </span><i>The Lives of Animals</i><span style="font-style: normal;">, </span><br />
<span style="font-style: normal;"><br />
</span><br />
<span style="font-style: normal;">we may very well be able to state Costello’s beliefs as propositions, but that is only because we have </span><br />
<span style="font-style: normal;"><br />
</span><br />
<span style="font-style: normal;">either shared in her perspective, or, like Norma, we feel the need to create a framework of argument </span><br />
<span style="font-style: normal;"><br />
</span><br />
<span style="font-style: normal;">around Costello’s words.</span></div><div class="MsoBlockText"><br />
To share in another’s perspective, then, is to see how she understands her place in the world. Part of this<br />
<br />
understanding is her beliefs, no doubt, but it is also in the way she moves, in how she talks; it is in her<br />
<br />
comportment. By spending enough time with that person, we get a sense of the way she behaves – and<br />
<i><br />
</i><br />
<i>why</i><span style="font-style: normal;"> she behaves. We may not be able to articulate the way and why logically, or propositionally, but </span><br />
<span style="font-style: normal;"><br />
</span><br />
<span style="font-style: normal;">that does not mean that we lack an understanding of it.<a href="http://www.blogger.com/post-create.g?blogID=2562218441651339112#_ftn8" name="_ftnref8" title=""><span class="MsoFootnoteReference">[8]</span></a> The common metaphor in western culture is </span><br />
<span style="font-style: normal;"><br />
</span><br />
<span style="font-style: normal;">seeing through another’s eyes – and the common emotion noted is empathy. I’m a little concerned by the </span><br />
<span style="font-style: normal;"><br />
</span><br />
<span style="font-style: normal;">saccharine connotations of both the metaphor and emotion, but alas I have no better way to bring across </span><br />
<span style="font-style: normal;"><br />
</span><br />
<span style="font-style: normal;">my point. Once again we have multiple levels of discourse, as in </span><i>The Lives of Animals</i><span style="font-style: normal;">, which we read </span><br />
<span style="font-style: normal;"><br />
</span><br />
<span style="font-style: normal;">and synthesize into a whole.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoBlockText"><br />
So we are able to empathize with Elizabeth Costello – and we do so in a robust sense. The point is not<br />
<br />
that we understand how she feels in certain situations, but that we understand how she sees herself fitting<br />
<br />
into the world around her. The former is simply emotional content, the latter is the amalgam of<br />
<br />
everything that makes us human. When we treat another human being <i>as</i><span style="font-style: normal;"> another human being, we see </span><br />
<span style="font-style: normal;"><br />
</span><br />
<span style="font-style: normal;">her – as much as we can - as she sees herself. This does not mean that we </span><i>always</i><span style="font-style: normal;"> see her as she sees </span><br />
<span style="font-style: normal;"><br />
</span><br />
<span style="font-style: normal;">herself, or that the sharing of perspective somehow overshadows or clouds our own position<a href="http://www.blogger.com/post-create.g?blogID=2562218441651339112#_ftn9" name="_ftnref9" title=""><span class="MsoFootnoteReference">[9]</span></a>. What </span><br />
<span style="font-style: normal;"><br />
</span><br />
<span style="font-style: normal;">we get instead is an opening up of our own understanding of what it means to be in the world. That, in </span><br />
<span style="font-style: normal;"><br />
</span><br />
<span style="font-style: normal;">the end, is what fiction does for us. Both poetry and philosophy are attempts at capturing and describing </span><br />
<span style="font-style: normal;"><br />
</span><br />
<span style="font-style: normal;">the world, but through different channels. Different modes of discourse give different kinds of </span><br />
<span style="font-style: normal;"><br />
</span><br />
<span style="font-style: normal;">information. Fiction, by recreating our experience of other creatures in the world, broadens our </span><br />
<span style="font-style: normal;"><br />
</span><br />
<span style="font-style: normal;">understanding of how the world can be experienced by a subject.</span></div><div class="MsoBlockText"><br />
Indeed the act may be world forming in a particular way. The Australian philosopher Raymond Gaita<br />
<br />
argues in his book <i>The Philosopher’s Dog</i><span style="font-style: normal;"> that many of our basic concepts of cognition, ethics, and </span><br />
<span style="font-style: normal;"><br />
</span><br />
<span style="font-style: normal;">empathy are partially formed from our thousands of year old relationships with other species. So, for </span><br />
<span style="font-style: normal;"><br />
</span><br />
<span style="font-style: normal;">example, our concept of loyalty has been partially formed by our ongoing relationship with domesticated </span><br />
<span style="font-style: normal;"><br />
</span><br />
<span style="font-style: normal;">pets such as dogs and cats. Thus, Gaita argues, when we speak of “animal ethics” versus “human ethics” </span><br />
<span style="font-style: normal;"><br />
</span><br />
<span style="font-style: normal;">we not only do a disservice to the animals of which we speak, but also our very concept of ethics.</span></div><div class="MsoBlockText"><br />
The same argument seems true of literature. Fiction in its modern form is relatively new, but narrative<br />
<br />
certainly is not. I would say that many of our concepts surrounding empathy and solidarity are partially<br />
<br />
formed by our understanding of characters within a narrative. This is not a particularly original thought –<br />
<br />
Martha Nussbaum and Jonathan Lear argue as much in various books<a href="http://www.blogger.com/post-create.g?blogID=2562218441651339112#_ftn10" name="_ftnref10" title=""><span class="MsoFootnoteReference">[10]</span></a> - but I have never heard it<br />
<br />
phrased this way. My point is that the empathetic qualities of fiction – the world-sharing qualities – have<br />
<br />
in fact become integral to our conceptual understanding of our worlds, and the worlds of others. Again,<br />
<br />
this claim is not as sui generis as it may seem; one need only read a book to be reminded of it.<br />
<o:p></o:p></div><div style="mso-element: footnote-list;"><br />
<hr align="left" size="1" width="33%" /><div id="ftn1" style="mso-element: footnote;"><div class="MsoFootnoteText"><a href="http://www.blogger.com/post-create.g?blogID=2562218441651339112#_ftnref1" name="_ftn1" style="mso-footnote-id: ftn1;" title=""><span class="MsoFootnoteReference"><span style="font-size: 10pt;">[1]</span></span></a><span style="font-size: 10pt;"> I personally would call creative non-fiction and good journalism narrative mediums as well, but considering that fiction is the modern archetype, it seems best to focus on it here.<o:p></o:p></span></div></div><div id="ftn2" style="mso-element: footnote;"><div class="MsoFootnoteText"><a href="http://www.blogger.com/post-create.g?blogID=2562218441651339112#_ftnref2" name="_ftn2" style="mso-footnote-id: ftn2;" title=""><span class="MsoFootnoteReference"><span style="font-size: 10pt;">[2]</span></span></a><span style="font-size: 10pt;"> <i>The Lives of Animals</i></span><span style="font-size: 10pt;"> was in fact first presented as the Tanner lectures at Princeton, adding a rather strange meta-narrative quality to the work. Mulling Coetzee’s intentions in presenting a novellas as series of academic lectures is fascinating in itself, but should be saved for another time.<o:p></o:p></span></div></div><div id="ftn3" style="mso-element: footnote;"><div class="MsoFootnoteText"><a href="http://www.blogger.com/post-create.g?blogID=2562218441651339112#_ftnref3" name="_ftn3" style="mso-footnote-id: ftn3;" title=""><span class="MsoFootnoteReference">[3]</span></a> <span style="font-size: 10pt;">Peter Singer being a notable example.</span></div></div><div id="ftn4" style="mso-element: footnote;"><div class="MsoFootnoteText"><a href="http://www.blogger.com/post-create.g?blogID=2562218441651339112#_ftnref4" name="_ftn4" style="mso-footnote-id: ftn4;" title=""><span class="MsoFootnoteReference">[4]</span></a> <span style="font-size: 10pt;">Consider the “moral” of a story. Aside from nursery tales, the moral of a story (if the story has a set moral at all) is not stated baldly, it is inferred from the conclusion of the tale. Of course my point seemed to say that great fiction does not advance a clear thesis in the way philosophy does, so perhaps this is a bad example. But most fiction does not rise to such sophistication, and still provides an aesthetic experience, so it does not seem all that bad of an example in the end.</span></div></div><div id="ftn5" style="mso-element: footnote;"><div class="MsoFootnoteText"><a href="http://www.blogger.com/post-create.g?blogID=2562218441651339112#_ftnref5" name="_ftn5" style="mso-footnote-id: ftn5;" title=""><span class="MsoFootnoteReference"><span style="font-size: 10pt;">[5]</span></span></a><span style="font-size: 10pt;"> Though this is sometimes intriguing. Reading a philosopher’s writing in a psychological light can sometimes yield some interesting information. But to do this is to break the tacit agreement the writer has with you – you are meant to accept the words she uses as meaning exactly what she contends they mean, nothing more.<o:p></o:p></span></div></div><div id="ftn6" style="mso-element: footnote;"><div class="MsoFootnoteText"><a href="http://www.blogger.com/post-create.g?blogID=2562218441651339112#_ftnref6" name="_ftn6" style="mso-footnote-id: ftn6;" title=""><span class="MsoFootnoteReference"><span style="font-size: 10pt;">[6]</span></span></a><span style="font-size: 10pt;"> Does this mean that first-person narratives are somehow lesser in their ability to create experience for us? Certainly not. Even with a first-person narrator, there are usually multiple levels of meaning in a work (unless, of course, the work is bad). Ishmael in <i>Moby Dick</i></span><span style="font-size: 10pt;"> provides a perfect example of this.<o:p></o:p></span></div></div><div id="ftn7" style="mso-element: footnote;"><div class="MsoFootnoteText"><a href="http://www.blogger.com/post-create.g?blogID=2562218441651339112#_ftnref7" name="_ftn7" style="mso-footnote-id: ftn7;" title=""><span class="MsoFootnoteReference">[7]</span></a> <span style="font-size: 10pt;">We would lose nearly all of great literature if that were the case.</span> </div></div><div id="ftn8" style="mso-element: footnote;"><div class="MsoFootnoteText"><a href="http://www.blogger.com/post-create.g?blogID=2562218441651339112#_ftnref8" name="_ftn8" style="mso-footnote-id: ftn8;" title=""><span class="MsoFootnoteReference"><span style="font-size: 10pt;">[8]</span></span></a><span style="font-size: 10pt;"> It has been a silly assumption since Socrates that we must be able to articulate what we know. Indeed, you’ll have to forgive me for my rather shaky depiction in these pages, since it’s remarkably hard to describe something that does not always have propositional content.<o:p></o:p></span></div></div><div id="ftn9" style="mso-element: footnote;"><div class="MsoFootnoteText"><a href="http://www.blogger.com/post-create.g?blogID=2562218441651339112#_ftnref9" name="_ftn9" style="mso-footnote-id: ftn9;" title=""><span class="MsoFootnoteReference"><span style="font-size: 10pt;">[9]</span></span></a><span style="font-size: 10pt;"> It can, but it certainly does not need to.<o:p></o:p></span></div></div><div id="ftn10" style="mso-element: footnote;"><div class="MsoFootnoteText"><a href="http://www.blogger.com/post-create.g?blogID=2562218441651339112#_ftnref10" name="_ftn10" style="mso-footnote-id: ftn10;" title=""><span class="MsoFootnoteReference"><span style="font-size: 10pt;">[10]</span></span></a><span style="font-size: 10pt;"> Nussbaum’s <i>Poetic Justice</i></span><span style="font-size: 10pt;"> and Lear’s <i>Radical Hope</i></span><span style="font-size: 10pt;"> for example.<o:p></o:p></span></div></div></div>Noah Cruickshankhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13548649447847765824noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2562218441651339112.post-25650972414451424782011-04-14T20:17:00.001-07:002011-04-14T20:17:56.485-07:00New Song on BandcampHey everybody, got my bandcamp finally set up (it's a long story). There's a new song up.<br />
<br />
http://noahcruickshank.bandcamp.com/Noah Cruickshankhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13548649447847765824noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2562218441651339112.post-59965853258891537982011-04-01T11:00:00.000-07:002011-04-01T11:00:00.436-07:00Action Movies in a Post Racial Era - The Warriors as Paradigm<div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">My title would suggest that I believe we are in a post-racial era. We certainly are not - the repeated claims that President Obama is a Kenyan by birth are enough to shatter that hope we had in 2008. But my point in this post is not to make any specific political claim, but look at how film might provide interesting insight on a post-racial world.</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">Walter Hill's <i>The Warriors</i>, based on a novel by Sol Yurick, takes place in a post-apocalyptic New York. The film is a fever dream, taking place almost entirely at night as gangs of young men (and, sometimes, women as well) clash on the fetid and dirty streets. There is no rule of law - indeed, the film begins with a failed plot to bring every hoodlum in NY together to bring <i>down</i> what's left of the police force. Nearly everyone in the movie is vicious, and it's surprising how many lives are spared considering the brutality of the action sequences. But what interests me more about <i>The Warriors</i> is its take on racial (particularly black-white) relations.</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">The movie, like the novel it comes from, is partially based on the <i>Anabasis</i> by Xenophon. The history involves a group of Grecian mercenaries hired by Cyrus of Persia to help him defeat his brother in battle and take control of what at that point was the most powerful empire in the world. Cyrus dies, leaving the Greeks to fight, barter, and trek their way back home. Xenophon is an interesting man for many reasons - a friend to Socrates, obviously a skilled warrior - but his political skills are quite astounding. The ten thousand Greeks paid to help Cyrus were from all over - Sparta, Crete, Athens to name a few places - but in their flight home they became one. They were known as the "marching republic," with elected leaders (such as Xenophon).</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">The idea of otherness is quite interesting in this case. One must assume a certain level of chauvinism from the Greeks against the Persians (obviously working for a Persian was not something to scoff at, but considering the many wars between the two peoples, there is certainly bad blood between the two). In that sense, one can divide the <i>Anabasis</i> on ethnic lines - Greeks against Persians, one group against another. This is overly reductive, though, and I am not familiar enough with ancient Grecian politics to be comfortable arguing that the Greeks' dislike of Persia had anything to do with differing ethnicities. Even the idea of ethnicity, like that of race, is an anachronism here. Certainly there is a sense of the other, though. But, one might expect a similar sense of otherness between the different groups making up the ten thousand Greeks. But miraculously, Xenophon and the other leaders of this army managed not only live, but fight cohesively for a substantial period of time.<br />
I think when most people see the connection between <i>The Warriors</i> and the <i>Anabasis</i>, they're inclined to talk about the journey or fighting in impossible odds or some sort of reductive relation between the stories. But what's most interesting to me is that the film (I can't speak for the book), in following Xenophon, gives us a multi-racial brotherhood. The Warriors are of varying (and sometimes ambiguous) ethnic makeup, but no thought is given to black vs. white politics. One might think of this as eluding reality, especially given the race relations in 1979 New York. But that would suggest the movie has a kind of naivete about it, that it ignores the possible tensions between its characters. That doesn't seem to be the case. Instead, we are given a dystopian future where what binds men together are ties of geography and, in a sense, tribalism. Tribalism not based on any ethnic background, but (the movie never tells us) something else.<br />
<i>The Warriors</i>, like the <i>Anabasis</i> before it, gives a look at what post-racial cohesion could be. Now to be clear, this is something more than just "hey blacks and whites can work together" - there's something to that extent in the movie <i>Predator</i>, with Arnold Schwarzenegger and Carl Weathers having a kind of competitive friendship. Firstly, their friendship is competitive, as seen in that ridiculous <a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=r99ioxHcIQQ">arm wrestling scene</a> (quick note, I love <i>Predator</i>, but it's not a great movie, let's be honest). Secondly, Arnold is the only one left standing at the end of that movie. What's important and compelling about <i>The Warriors</i> is that not only do most of them survive, it is their group unity that leads to that survival. The single character who attempts to break that unity over and over again (James Remar as Ajax, maybe his only great role) ends up breaking off from the group and being arrested. Unity is underscored in this film in very obvious ways.<br />
Also, when the characters are attacked by what they call "skinheads" there are <a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=eRm1niHPDpo">very clearly black</a> members of the skinhead posse. So even the idea of what a skinhead is has been co-opted into some new, post-(racial? maybe post black/white?) form. None of our usual notions of race relations apply in this film. In a sense we have no stepping stones to understand how different ethnic groups interact, because the social world seems to be so dynamically different from ours.<br />
This is not an obvious point, and the film doesn't spend any time telling us about it - which is good, since if it did its power would be lost. Through <i>The Warriors </i>we're allowed to look at how a post-racial world might function, all without the movie or characters commenting on that functionality. And someone could watch the movie and not notice any of this at all; that's what makes the movie so brilliant.<br />
So what we have here is an example, through a low-budget action film, of what the future may be like - both good and bad (this is a dystopian story after all). </div>Noah Cruickshankhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13548649447847765824noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2562218441651339112.post-30379901736433336222011-03-05T16:26:00.000-08:002011-03-05T16:26:23.760-08:00Finding Atlantis: Journeys without DestinationOne of my former professors at the University of Chicago, <a href="http://www.uic.edu/depts/engl/people/prof/oizenberg/bio.html">Oren Izenberg</a>, once talked about the poetry of ease. We have a tendency in our depiction of poetry to forget poems which highlight a kind of rest, a view of the work which does not force us to act, but lets us remain as we are, content to float forward. Izenberg's point was to flesh out and attempt to defend ease as a genuine aspect of great poetry, and I will leave such a task to him, but the idea of idleness as a boon has remained with me, and I find it in two great meditations on the wayward journey: W.H. Auden's <a href="http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/atlantis/"><b>Atlantis</b></a> and Joni Mitchell's <a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=H-zSeDn9Y-k"><b>Barangrill</b></a>.<br />
<i><br />
</i><br />
<i>Atlantis</i> may not seem like a poem with any sense of ease. The reader may be wracked by "gales of abnormal force", and must make a "terrible trek" through the wilds of the island to at last reach the fabled city. Indeed, even the rhyme scheme is not totally in sync - the first line slant rhymes with the fifth, for example - giving the entire poem a shaky quality. The quatrains don't quite fit together. But nonetheless, Auden does not frighten or bewilder us. The journey has a kind of lazy quality, where the reader must ramble from one set of circumstances to another, all the while knowing that he or she may never reach the intended destination.<br />
<br />
Indeed we do not. Only a glimpse of Atlantis is seen before we are meant to say "Good-bye now, and put to sea." And in the end we are not blessed by a god of knowledge or salvation, but by the master of the roads, the patron god of travelers. Atlantis, in the end, is not the point, or if it is, it only provides us a moment of peace before we embark again upon the journey. But there is not sense of hopelessness about this poem. Instead there's a breezy quality, as if seeing Atlantis is just one more sight to see, that the dancing with the Thracians or the nights spent with the Corinthian tart play just as large a role in our salvation. The ease, then, of this poem is the ease of letting things take one as they may. We might have to make a terrible trek "through squalid woods and frozen tundras where all are soon lost," but nonetheless we must "stagger onward rejoicing." We may be set on getting to Atlantis, but we are happy enough to enjoy the detours. The end goal of the journey remains, but Auden gently reminds us that a certain perspective of travel - or enlightenment, really - changes the nature of the journey itself.<br />
<br />
It seems to me that this kind of idleness exists in <i>Barangrill</i> as well. There are a number of structural similarities - the narration is to the listener, in the second person, and once again we have a ambiguous final destination - and these most likely account for the tonal resonance between the two pieces. <span style="font-family: Times; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">The short description of <i>Barangrill</i></span><span style="font-family: Times; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;"> I found on wikepedia’s (which we all know to be the world’s most reputable source for information) page on <i>For the Roses</i></span><span style="font-family: Times; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;"> was a “sprightly rap which extols the uncomplicated virtues of a roadside truck stop.” It is somewhere on the way, presumably not intrinsic to the journey nor providing some unexpected impact. But the appeal of this truck stop and Mitchell’s passing encounters there carry the weight of the song, the destination in question only called out after at the end of each verse – and never replied to. The closest we get to knowing anything about Barangrill is that it is hopefully on the way to Folly, the presumed final destination. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Times; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;"><br />
</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Times; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">Symbolism of the names aside, <i>Barangrill</i> provides another example of the wayward encounters which Auden expounds in <i>Atlantis</i></span><span style="font-family: Times; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">. Indeed, <i>Barangrill</i> could be a missing stanza from the poem. Mitchell seems to share in Auden's suggestion that a sense of ease about the journey is the only way to move forward. The song is bright and "sprightly" as wikipedia says, though it also feels comfortable, it is a snug song to listen to. Although Mitchell can certainly have an ironic edge, I don't believe that the amiability of <i>Barangrill</i> is meant to ironically mask a darker meaning. It's meant to be an easygoing song - it may very well be the embodiment of easygoing-ness.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Times; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;"><br />
</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Times; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">I don't mean to suggest that we can take platitudes from these works - something like "it's not the destination, but the journey" or other such nonsense. The point instead is to show how a certain perspective of ease can ultimately help the journey along, or make it broader and stranger than if one headed in a b-line towards one's final destination. Maybe Auden and Mitchell are just telling us to stop and smell the flowers, but that seems a bit reductive to the wild pagan dances of <i>Atlantis</i> or the waitresses talking about zombies of <i>Barangrill</i>.</span><br />
<!--StartFragment--><!--EndFragment-->Noah Cruickshankhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13548649447847765824noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2562218441651339112.post-14886902724332425802011-03-04T15:27:00.001-08:002011-03-05T16:27:13.366-08:00Allegory and Irony in My Kinsman, Major Molineux<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; margin-left: -58.5pt; margin-right: -22.5pt; margin-top: 0in; text-indent: .5in;"><u><br />
</u></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; margin-left: -58.5pt; margin-right: -22.5pt; margin-top: 0in; text-indent: .5in;"><u><br />
</u></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; margin-left: -58.3pt; margin-right: -22.3pt; margin-top: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">Hawthorne’s <i>My Kinsman, Major Molineux</i><span style="font-style: normal;">, allegorizes the cultural rift between agrarian, country-based America and industrial, city-based America. Robin, the protagonist and a “country-boy” everyman, spends his first night in the city thwarted and laughed at by the various customs and people. But Hawthorne’s use of allegory is, as always, subtly ironic. While Robin’s night in the city creates a tale of the clash between the urban and rural that existed during the time of the story’s genesis, </span><i>My Kinsman, Major Molineux</i><span style="font-style: normal;"> undercuts this tale with its resolution, hinting that town and county are not so diametrically opposed after all.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; margin-left: -58.3pt; margin-right: -22.3pt; margin-top: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">Our introduction to Robin casts him in an allegorical light, portraying him as a representative of the rural life that existed during Hawthorne’ time, <o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoBodyTextIndent">He was a youth of barely eighteen years, evidently country-bred…upon his first visit to town. He was clad in a coarse grey coast, well worn, but in excellent repair…his stockings of blue yarn, were the incontrovertible handiwork of a mother or a sister; and on his head was a three-cornered hat, which in its better days had perhaps sheltered the graver brow of the lad’s father. (4)<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: -.5in;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-left: -58.3pt; text-indent: -.2pt;">Robin is ‘barely’ eighteen; he is on the brink of legal manhood, but the use of ‘barely’ instead of ‘just turned’ or ‘newly’ suggests that he is still holds youthful qualities such as naiveté. The word ‘barely’ gives the sense that Robin has not fully matured into adulthood. This already connotes the stereotype of a “country bumpkin,” someone less alive to the ways of the world as his city counterparts, and Hawthorne cements this connotation with “evidently country-bred;” it is obvious that Robin is out of place in the town. At least for now, Robin is depicted in the stereotypical role of a country youth in the city, a fish out of water.<a href="http://www.blogger.com/post-create.g?blogID=2562218441651339112#_ftn1" name="_ftnref1" style="mso-footnote-id: ftn1;" title=""><span class="MsoFootnoteReference">[1]</span></a> As if giving proof of the stereotype, Robin’s clothes are described as part of an obviously rural lifestyle. His coat is “coarse,” and thus probably hand-made, but in “excellent repair,” owing to the rural, agrarian tradition of mending clothes and handing them down in the family<a href="http://www.blogger.com/post-create.g?blogID=2562218441651339112#_ftn2" name="_ftnref2" style="mso-footnote-id: ftn2;" title=""><span class="MsoFootnoteReference">[2]</span></a>. His stockings are not made from a textile establishment, but hand-made as well. Textile mills certainly did not exist at the time the story takes place, but they did for Hawthorne’s readers, and knowing that something was hand-made has an anachronistic resonance. Because of the position of Hawthorne’s writing – knee deep in the industrial revolution – his contemporary readers would equate hand-made with rural and of an earlier time. Robin’s clothes suggest he is outdated, and this is most clearly seen in his hat. The hat itself has “seen better days,” and presumably belonged to Robin’s father, so in appearance it is probably ragged and does not fit Robin’s head very well. His father’s brow is called “graver,” probably in the sense of “more important,” thus Robin looks like a child dressed in grown-ups’ clothes. Since the hat is old it is probably out of fashion, adding to the shabbiness of his looks. In these few lines Hawthorne gives us what we would expect from stereotypical country boy stepping into the city for the first time, someone who looks out of place in his own clothes as well as the urban environment around him.<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-left: -58.3pt; text-indent: .5in;">While his clothes connote a country stereotype, descriptions of his equipment, name, and body connect Robin to nature. The cudgel represents another aspect of the allegorical conflict between urban and rural life. It is “formed of an oak sapling, and retaining a part of the hardened root…” (4). As opposed to a pistol or knife – man made weapons – Robin holds what can be called a “natural” weapon. The making of the cudgel has none of the complex physical processes that go into making more modern weapons like swords and guns, weapons common in cities. The cudgel itself is from the root of a tree, the part responsible for nourishment, connecting Robin with the natural process of growth. By carrying a piece of wood as his weapon – as an extension of the power of his arms - Robin ties his strength to the natural world. This connection with nature is furthered by the introduction of his name. The robin is a naturally occurring species in New England, thus Hawthorne connotes his protagonist with bird imagery, and nature. Furthermore, his “curly hair, well-shaped features, and bright, cheerful eyes were <i>nature’s</i><span style="font-style: normal;"> gifts” (4, italics mine). By depicting Robin’s body as something marked by nature, Hawthorne cements the connection between his protagonist and the natural world. Robin is not only a stereotypical country boy; he appears in the tale as a sort of avatar of nature, clearly out of place within the city.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-left: -58.3pt; text-indent: .5in;">This avatar quality is further strengthened by Robin’s encounters in the city, and the effects those encounters have. As the night progresses, he “seem(s) to feel more fatigue from his rambles since he crossed the ferry, than from his journey of several days on the other side” (8), as if the city itself is enervating. This enervation appears again in the last page of the story, where Robin’s “cheek (is) somewhat pale, and his eye not quite so lively as in the earlier part of the evening” (17). One can mark up such physical changes to the futility of his search for the Major, but considering how closely Robin is tied with nature imagery, it seems fair to say that the city itself saps his strength. Placing a natural figure in an urban context leads to the weakening of that figure, and Robin is no exception.<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; margin-left: -58.3pt; margin-right: -22.5pt; margin-top: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">There is one more critical aspect of this urban versus rural allegory that must be put in place before considering how Hawthorne undermines the allegory. The reason Robin comes to the city at all is to acquire the patronage of Major Molineux. The narrator explains it as such,<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoBodyTextIndent2">The Major, having inherited riches, and acquired civil and military rank…had manifested much interest in Robin and an elder brother…(and) had thrown out hints respecting the future establishment of one of them in life. The elder brother was destined to succeed to the farm…it was therefore determined that Robin should profit by his kinsman’s generous intentions, especially as he had seemed to be rather the favorite, and was thought to possess other necessary endowments. (13)<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: -22.5pt;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-left: -58.3pt; text-indent: -.2pt;">Robin’s future is founded on both nepotism and patronage, things that were coming to an end by the time of the industrial revolution in America.<a href="http://www.blogger.com/post-create.g?blogID=2562218441651339112#_ftn3" name="_ftnref3" style="mso-footnote-id: ftn3;" title=""><span class="MsoFootnoteReference">[3]</span></a> Robin’s reliance on these old customs is in direct conflict with the “mythos of equality” in America from the revolution onward. Hawthorne writes in a period where old symbols of patronage and nepotism, such as secret societies, have been publicly shamed.<a href="http://www.blogger.com/post-create.g?blogID=2562218441651339112#_ftn4" name="_ftnref4" style="mso-footnote-id: ftn4;" title=""><span class="MsoFootnoteReference">[4]</span></a> Robin trades in outdated social conventions, just as he wears outdated clothes. That Robin should “profit by his kinsman’s generous intentions” and not his own hard work is something very “un-American,” especially in Hawthorne’s Jacksonian milieu. What may be rather common in a rural setting – indeed, without these customs young men would probably have no opportunity to make lives for themselves in an agricultural world – is sneered upon in the city. Robin comes to town expecting to be welcomed and rewarded, an assumption that shows just how in over his head he is.<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-left: -58.3pt; text-indent: .5in;">But while Robin is clearly not the smartest lad – the use of “shrewd” as an adjective describing him is at least mildly ironic - we are not meant to laugh at him as the barber’s boys do. While he thinks very highly of the Major, there is not a sense in the book of Robin being arrogant. He makes mistakes, but they are due to a lack of understanding as opposed to a pretension on his part. If he were a comic figure the allegory would be backwards from the way it is in the story. It would be an allegory concerning how country-folk have pretensions about the city that are false and how they deserve comeuppance for such folly. But in <i>My Kinsman, Major Molineux</i><span style="font-style: normal;"> it is clearly the city that has a harmful influence – as discussed earlier – and is quite dangerous, as seen in Robin’s nightmare. Instead of a comic yokel, the reader is given a sympathetic country-boy who possesses all the stereotypes therein without losing his humanity. That in itself is evidence that the allegory of this tale is not meant to be taken at face value.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-left: -58.3pt; text-indent: .5in;">The nightmare also provides a place where the allegory is both strengthened and undermined at the same time. In a sense, it is the crown of the allegory – it is the last event Robin experiences before deciding to forsake the city, and it portrays the demise (at least in Robin’s imagination) of the Major. The nightmare shows Robin’s goals – embodied in the form of Major Molineux – tarred and feathered, destroyed by the city mob. From this alone, the allegory seems complete: city life, as represented by the procession, has destroyed Robin’s prospects, as represented by the Major. But instead of sounding a note of defeat in his dream, Robin joins his tormentors, taking part in the revelry, and laughing the loudest of anyone. This inclusion in the mob might suggest that Robin dreams that he has succumbed to city life, but Hawthorne’s description does not suggest a kind of subjugation by the mob. Robin, “sen(ds) forth a shout of laughter that echoed through the street; every man shook his sides, every man emptied his lungs, but Robin’s shout was the loudest there…the congregated mirth went roaring up the sky!” (17). Robin frolics best of all, not destroyed or subjugated by the city, but mastering it. Here the allegory goes awry, if urban and rural life were incompatible, Robin, who represents rural life, could not possess such a mastery of urban customs. While it is only a dream, this “dream mastery” suggests the possibility of acclimation, and it is just that possibility that the story ends with. <o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoBlockText" style="line-height: 200%; margin-left: -58.3pt;">After the nightmare, when Robin decides to go home empty handed, it appears as if the tale provides a clear moral: agrarian country culture cannot survive in the face of the new, industrial, city centered culture. Robin, as a country-boy stereotype, an avatar of nature, and a proponent of old modes of economic ascendance, fails in his acclimation to the modernity of the city. But the story belies this conclusion with its final lines. The gentleman, who accompanies Robin at the end of his journey, upon hearing Robin’s resolve to head home, bids him to remain, “Some few days hence, if you continue to wish it, I will speed you on your journey. Or, if you prefer to remain with us, perhaps, as you are a shrewd youth, you may rise in the world, without the help of your kinsman, Major Molineux” (17). The gentleman does not offer Robin opportunity through nepotism, as Major Molineux has, but the chance to “rise in the world” by his own hand. He suggests that if Robin relinquishes his assumptions about how one can make one’s way in the world, he could do quite well. Thus the allegory changes from a simple tale of how the city corrupts and is impenetrable to country folk to a lesson on how one must change one’s assumptions in changing times. <o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; margin-left: -58.3pt; margin-right: -22.5pt; margin-top: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">The gentleman does not ask Robin to renounce every aspect of his countrified character, but to consider other ways of making a life for himself. This follows the remark he makes to Robin earlier, “May not one man have several voices, Robin, as well as two complexions?” (14). Several voices suggest several ways of speaking, which in turn suggests several ways of looking at the world. An understanding of this plethora of perspective seems embedded in the gentleman’s suggestion that Robin should stay. This plurality can avail Robin in his transition to city life, counseling that the inevitable clash between town and country – the clash this tale allegorizes – is not inevitable after all. This explains why Robin is able to laugh at the end of his nightmare. While it is a terrifying experience, he can also join the revelry, and indeed excel at it. Robin has already found this plurality of voice within his own dream life. When Robin comes to the town, he is deep in the old, usually agrarian, customs of inheritance and family ties. At first Robin naively believes that he has the power to acclimate to his new surroundings, noting to himself, “You will be wiser in time,” (5) as if it will only take a night for him to become accustomed to this new life. The gentleman’s proposition, that in time he may move up in the world, suggests that this presumption is not totally unfounded. By realizing that reliance on one’s family is not the only way to prosper, Robin perhaps might rise in the world. Thus the story suggests that urban, industrial life, and country, agrarian life are not incompatible – as long as one does not hold onto traditional assumptions of how the world works. Though, as always in Hawthorne, the tentative language – that “perhaps” Robin may rise – leaves such a conclusion tenuous.<o:p></o:p></div><div style="mso-element: footnote-list;"><br />
<hr align="left" size="1" width="33%" /><div id="ftn1" style="mso-element: footnote;"><div class="MsoFootnoteText"><a href="http://www.blogger.com/post-create.g?blogID=2562218441651339112#_ftnref1" name="_ftn1" style="mso-footnote-id: ftn1;" title=""><span class="MsoFootnoteReference">[1]</span></a> <span style="font-size: 10pt;">The country people stereotype predates Hawthorne’s writing, and thus would have been known to his readers - consider the distinctions between country and city people in works such as <i>Pride and Prejudice</i></span><span style="font-size: 10pt;">, published twenty years before <i>My Kinsman, Major Molineux</i></span><span style="font-size: 10pt;">, or in much of Dickens’ work which appeared in England contemporaneously.<o:p></o:p></span></div></div><div id="ftn2" style="mso-element: footnote;"><div class="MsoFootnoteText"><a href="http://www.blogger.com/post-create.g?blogID=2562218441651339112#_ftnref2" name="_ftn2" style="mso-footnote-id: ftn2;" title=""><span class="MsoFootnoteReference">[2]</span></a> <span style="font-size: 10pt;">Obviously practices like this happened in cities as well, but remember we are currently dealing with stereotypes, not fact.</span></div></div><div id="ftn3" style="mso-element: footnote;"><div class="MsoFootnoteText"><a href="http://www.blogger.com/post-create.g?blogID=2562218441651339112#_ftnref3" name="_ftn3" style="mso-footnote-id: ftn3;" title=""><span class="MsoFootnoteReference">[3]</span></a> <span style="font-size: 10pt;">It is true that nepotism lives on, but not without shady connotations. The point is that Robin is of a perspective where nepotism is the norm.</span></div></div><div id="ftn4" style="mso-element: footnote;"><div class="MsoFootnoteText"><a href="http://www.blogger.com/post-create.g?blogID=2562218441651339112#_ftnref4" name="_ftn4" style="mso-footnote-id: ftn4;" title=""><span class="MsoFootnoteReference">[4]</span></a> <span style="font-size: 10pt;">Consider America’s reactions to the Masons in the late eighteenth and early nineteenth centuries.</span></div></div></div>Noah Cruickshankhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13548649447847765824noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2562218441651339112.post-72522342419931493352011-01-30T19:45:00.000-08:002011-03-05T16:31:19.163-08:00January Hipster Music RoundupThe Decemberists' <i>The King is Dead</i> opens with a bang - a clash of symbols as Colin Meloy blows on the harmonica as hard as he can. It's a fitting introduction, and a statement of purpose. Unlike <i>The Hazards of Love</i> (which was awful, let's be honest) which began with airy singing and possibly a harmonium, this latest album wants to throw you right into it, and succeeds. Meloy's songwriting is as catchy and strong as ever, and the one-two punch of the opener <i>Don't Carry it All</i> and the second number, <i>Calamity Song</i>, remind us of why we all bought <i>The Crane Wife</i> in the first place. The Decemberists know rousing, jaunty numbers, and this is an album full of them, which in the end is a weakness as much as a strength.<br />
<i>The King is Dead</i> is a good album, certainly - there's only one turkey in the bunch, but I'll get to that - but, as the Slate review rightly notes, it is the work of a chastened artist. No one liked <i>The Hazards of Love, </i>and even fewer people bought it. A return to one's roots is not always a retreat, but along with this step back comes a loss of adventure that marked their previous albums. <i>The King is Dead</i> in the end sounds like a collection of tracks that appeared on their earlier albums - <i>July, July!</i> and <i>Yankee Bayonet</i> for example. While <i>July, July! </i>came out as a unique sound in the midst of <i>Castaways and Cutouts</i>, here every song kind of sounds like every other one. What made their early forays into country so interesting is that those forays brushed up against prog experiments or sea shanties. This is what I mean by a loss of adventure - on their first four albums one was never quite sure what style or story they'd tackle next. Here it's the same tale, over and over. It's a good tale, true, but makes you wish they'd thrown in something like <i>When the War Came</i> into the middle of their proceedings.<br />
Maybe they try to with the truly horrible <i>Why We Fight</i>. It's the most straight-shooting rock song on the album, but the lyrics are banal (something out of character and deadly for Meloy), and the whole thing kind of sounds like a Dave Mathews Band song. It almost obscures the two beautiful tracks that sandwich it, <i>June Hymn</i> and <i>Dear Avery</i>. But perhaps this is them being true to form as well, their first three albums all had one or two songs that should have become b-sides. While the album is certainly an enjoyable listen, here's hoping that their number one slot on the billboard charts makes The Decemberists stretch their legs a little bit on their next outing.<br />
<b>Grade: B</b><br />
<b><br />
</b><br />
Speaking of stretching legs, The Decemberists could take a lesson or two from Sam Beam. The man has consistently expanded his sonic pallet from album to album, seemingly never looking back. <i>Kiss Each Other Clean</i> is another step in that opening up, and while it doesn't have the immediacy of Iron & Wine's previous album, <i>The Shepherd's Dog</i>, it has some of the best songs of his career.<br />
I've already said enough about the opening track and lead single, <i>Walking Far From Home</i> (you can read my post about it <a href="http://greycitywhitenorth.blogspot.com/2010/12/walking-far-from-home-america-depicted.html">here</a>), but suffice it to say that in the opening five minutes Beam takes his place among American songwriters. The opening is transcendent and beautiful, which does make the next song a bit of a let down. At first <i>Me and Lazarus</i> doesn't come across as that impressive - especially considering that Nick Cave beat Beam <a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=j4reV9SRMUY">to the punch</a> a number of years ago - but the song does very well on repeated listening, becoming a funky consideration of death and life unfulfilled. <i>Tree By the River</i>, the next single from the album, is a kind of poppy version of <i>Sixteen, Maybe Less </i>from Beam's collaboration with Calexico. The sentiment is the same, but it's much more fun to sing along with this version of the story.<br />
Maybe the best song on the album, though, is its centerpiece, <i>Rabbit Will Run</i>, a morality tale told by an unrepentant sinner with an ambiguous crime. The music surrounding Beam's alternately clean then effected voice is genuine creepy, moving from fuzzing synth to atonal fluting, all keeping the maniacal voice of the narrator rushing forward. Consider <i>Rabbit Will Run</i> something like <i>Upward Over the Mountain</i> turned on its head, with the singing not pining for the lost love of his mother and regretful of the wrongs he's done, but reveling in his misdeeds and contending that he has "furthered the world in his way." It's a haunting piece, and one that shows how strong a storyteller Beam is. There seems to me to be a lack of respect for songwriters who can inhabit the voices and minds of others - something we deeply respect in our novelists - and that saddens me. Listening to an Iron and Wine song is not getting into Beam's head, it's exploring a world he has created for us. There's a lack of solipsism here that I think we should be grateful for.<br />
The album's closer, <i>Your Fake Name is Good Enough for Me</i> - which many critics have noted is a kind of counterpoint to <i>Walking Far From Home</i> - once again amps up the jazz and the litany of ambiguous imagery. The song begins with a fast moving flurry of charges and mantras, all culminating in an almost religious repetition of the things we (humans? the characters in the song? who knows) will become, ranging from profound - the hammer and the nail, the wary and the wild - to absurd - an ice cream cone, a disco ball - suggesting that "we" are all things, all masses of contradiction. Like <i>Walking Far From Home</i>, a Whitman-like embodiment of all things becomes apparent in Beam's output.<br />
<i>Kiss Each Other Clean</i> won't sound at first like an Iron & Wine album, and it may take you a spin or two to really engage with the songs, but take your time, it will be worth your while.<br />
<b>Grade: A</b>Noah Cruickshankhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13548649447847765824noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2562218441651339112.post-64041069038695386402011-01-16T15:48:00.000-08:002011-03-05T16:30:57.664-08:00Do You Believe in Magic?Animated movies that intend to have any true emotional import must walk a very fine line. Normally such work is directed at children, and usually becomes cloying and saccharine. Usually understatement has been thrown out the window long before the first reel is set to the projector. Even somewhat "adult" movies such as <i>Toy Story 3</i> miss the mark now and again.<br />
But what about animated movies for adults? I don't mean those that adults can watch with the children, and read a subtext that the tots won't understand until they are seventeen and more able to pick up irony. I mean using animation as a medium to tell a story that perhaps only an adult will understand - or will only resonate with a person over a certain number of years. We have a tendency to think such movies don't exist - aside from indie fare like <i>Waking Life</i>, I suppose, but that movie is not animated in the normal sense. What about a movie that looks, even sounds like it could be for children, but fundamentally is not? Namely, that the emotions raised and parsed are those of maturity, and the conclusions the film reaches are not necessarily the most reassuring.<br />
This is the predicament of Sylvain Chomet's <i>The Illusionist</i>. This is not a movie for children - no, there are no racy scenes (though the backside of a rather drunken Scotsman is glimpsed) nor vulgar language (indeed, the movie is nearly without dialogue, and what there is comes mostly in French or Gaelic), but it is in the end a movie that children will not be able to understand.<br />
The movie centers on a aged vaudeville performer, who peddles his magic act to diminishing crowds in near empty music halls which lack the luster they once had. Needing money, he ventures out to a tiny island in Scotland to perform at a local bar, and forms a bond with the girl who works of the establishment. None of this is a particularly novel setup for a plot, nor is it something beyond, the scope of many children's' movies, but what comes next is pivotal, and heartbreaking. I don't want to give too much away (you should see the movie yourself), but suffice it to say that the relationship between the young woman and the aged illusionist is not a simple one of a surrogate family. The two embark upon a shared fantasy, one that comes at a tremendous cost. This kind of mutual and self-deception is, I think, what makes the movie as powerful as it is (it is beautiful as well, but there are plenty of beautiful, terrible films).<br />
A number of critics have complained of a lack of characterization in the film. I take issue with that - the characters are quite fully formed, but they are not prone to wild displays of emotion or personality. The whole movie is quiet, in its way. Perhaps one might think Chomet is a bit too subtle for his own good, but I am inclined to believe that if one pays close enough attention, all that is needed to feel involved in the lives of these characters is there on the screen.<br />
It seems to me that for most of us if a movie is animated it must either be so visually alluring or so narratively innovative that it attracts our attention. Chomet's landscapes are dazzling, as are the little subtleties he puts within the frame, but they are not so different from a Disney film that we are shocked by his technical prowess. Nor is the plot utterly unique. But that should not dissuade you from seeing this gorgeous little film. It's not the tools at Chomet's disposal that we should judge him for, but what he does this those tools. And that, I think, is where his innovation lies.Noah Cruickshankhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13548649447847765824noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2562218441651339112.post-5976134602496908252011-01-13T12:01:00.001-08:002011-03-05T16:30:40.098-08:00New Song!Hey Everybody,<br />
Just finished a new song, here it is<br />
<br />
<a href="https://docs.google.com/leaf?id=0BxG8Mc1uxL3TOWUxNTM4MmMtNDM3Mi00NzEwLThlNjgtMWZhYWZkNTJmZGI4&hl=en&authkey=CIeBr9AF">Disgrace</a>Noah Cruickshankhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13548649447847765824noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2562218441651339112.post-17493777352535375532010-12-25T20:28:00.000-08:002011-03-05T16:30:28.668-08:002010 Music Round UpMost years I try to come up with a top ten list of my favorite songs/albums around this point in December, and usually it's hard to get past six or seven. Not so this year, the music output has been kind of incredible. So, instead of rating I'm going to try to be as clever as possible:<br />
<br />
Biggest Let Down: Broken Bells - what the hell, guys? Three great Shins albums and an incredible collection of Danger Mouse productions (remember Demon Days?, Gnarls?), and we're given a collection of midtempo songs with no pulse. It felt both meticulous and half-baked.<br />
<br />
Biggest Surprise: David Gray, Foundling - Gray's been on a slow descent since 98, I'd say, and even White Ladder probably isn't as good as Sell, Sell, Sell. But, Foundling is surprisingly good. Musically it's pretty normal singer-songwriterly stuff, but it sounds (save for the incredibly dull "Forgetting") like he's gotten his lyrical muse back. Best words he's written in years.<br />
<br />
Best Release of Stuff 30 years old but never before seen the light of day: Bruce Springsteen, The Promise.<br />
<br />
Best Album I Heard This Year Not from This Year: Midlake, The Trials of Van Occupanther - Boy is this good. Imagine if America made a good album, or if Radiohead decided to make 70s folk.<br />
<br />
Rookie Award - Album: Janelle Monae, The Archandroid - Yes, technically she released an EP before this, but she's still pretty new on the scene. This chick can sing, dance, and boldly take us where no one has gone before. The album's kind of like an afro-futurist Diamond Dogs, but Monae might have a better grasp on disparate music styles than Bowie (she's at least faster about it, anyway).<br />
<br />
Rookie Award - Song: Nicki Minaj, Monster - Money's so tall that her body's gotta climb it. This song would kind of suck without her. Instead, it's incredible (we'll ignore Jay-Z's terrible guest spot between NM and Kanye).<br />
<br />
Best Album by Old Men Who Probably Should Have Packed it Up Long Ago: (Tie) Robert Plant, Band of Joy/ Blue Rodeo, The Things We Left Behind - Blue Rodeo's latest LP was released in Canada in 2009, but not in the states until 2010, so I feel justified in counting it. Great alt-country, catchy as hell. Robert Plant is once again in fine form on Band of Joy, and once again willing to do whatever the hell he wants. What the hell Jimmy Page doing right now?<br />
<br />
Best Album by a Band that Deserves Way More Recognition: Shearwater, The Golden Archipelago - Shearwater was originally a side project for members of Okkervil River, but frankly, it's a better band. OR's latest album - a series of songs with 13th Floor Elevator Roky Erickson - had a few bright spots was mostly on the boring side (almost made my biggest let down). Shearwater's Jonathan Meiburg has an incredible voice and a keen eye for natural beauty. Pick this album up... NOW...<br />
<br />
Best Album I Dance Around to When I'm Alone: (Tie) Robyn, Body Talk / Scissor Sisters, Night Work - Both of these albums have something over the other. Robyn remains totally accessible throughout every detour she takes, while the Sisters can sometimes leave me out in the cold with their experiments. But when SS is firing on all cylinders they provide cleverer lyrics and more interesting music. The choice is yours, consistency vs. intermittent brilliance.<br />
<br />
Best Album by a Violinist: Owen Pallett, Heartland - It distresses me that this onetime member of Arcade Fire has to usually be introduced as a onetime member of Arcade Fire. His albums have been consistently better (ignoring AC's Funeral, of course), and he is a WAY better lyricist than Winbag Butler. Heartland is a concept album of sorts, exploring the nature of character and its relation to authorship. All that, and still fun to listen to.<br />
<br />
Best Album by a Cartoon Band: Gorillaz, Plastic Beach - Okay, it's not like there's any competition (well, does Major Lazer count?), but this album is fantastic nonetheless. A great next step after Demon Days (which, it appears, is mostly discounted by critics although I love it).<br />
<br />
Best Live Album: David Bowie, A Reality Tour - just google the setlist, you'll see.<br />
<br />
Running out of cleverness, other albums I loved this year:<br />
<br />
The National, High Violet - Probably my favorite album of the year, but don't hold me to that!<br />
LCD Soundsystem, This is Happening<br />
Yeasayer, Odd Blood<br />
Shad, Tsoi<br />
The Roots, How I Got Over<br />
Kanye West, Good Ass Job (I refuse to call it by its ridiculous actual name)<br />
Joanna Newsome, Have One on Me<br />
Grinderman, Grinderman 2<br />
Cee Lo Green, The Ladykiller<br />
Big Boi, Sir Lucious Leftfoot the Son of Chico Dusty<br />
<br />
Stuff that gets me excited for next year:<br />
Iron and Wine, Walking Far from Home<br />
<br />
Other stuff I discovered this year but not from this year:<br />
<br />
Wye Oak, The Knot<br />
Elvis Perkins, Ash Wednesday<br />
Phoenix, Wolfgang Amadeus Phoenix (yes, yes, I was very late to the draw on this one)<br />
The Books, The Lemon of Pink<br />
<br />
Stuff that came out this year I enjoyed but I haven't given the time to yet:<br />
<br />
Midlake, The Courage of Others<br />
The Black Keys, Brothers<br />
Sleigh Bells, Treat<br />
John Legend and the Roots, Wake Up!<br />
The Books, The Way Out<br />
Blue Water White Death, Blue Water White Death<br />
<br />
<br />
All right, what did I miss?Noah Cruickshankhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13548649447847765824noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2562218441651339112.post-91990854040390685042010-12-17T07:45:00.001-08:002011-04-09T10:35:23.162-07:00Language is No Medium for Desire: Confession, Absolution and Linguistic Identity in J.M. Coetzee<div class="MsoBlockText"><b><u>The Problems of Endless Confession</u></b></div><div class="MsoBlockText" style="line-height: 200%; margin-right: -.25in;">The idea of secular confession hounds J.M. Coetzee’s literary and critical work from the late seventies into the eighties. His characters routinely confess, and routinely question the nature and sincerity of their confessions. Coetzee the literary critic diagnoses the problems of truthful and sincere confession in his discussions of Tolstoy, Rousseau and Dostoyevsky. Confession, when taken up by a self-conscious mind, can spiral out into an endless act, either because self doubt leads to a critical position on one’s truthfulness that can never be answered, or because one chooses to stand behind one’s confession as the “truth” and thereby ignore all other interpretations, leading to an endless defense of the self. Both forms of endlessness come from the inability of the self-conscious mind to fully understand itself. Thus confession in Coetzee’s criticism poses problems of self-knowledge.<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoBlockText" style="line-height: 200%; margin-right: -.25in;">There is a further element to the endlessness of confession that Coetzee only hints at in his critical work and interviews, that of the inability of language to adequately represent feelings, desires, mental states, motives, etc. of the confessant. Not only can the confessant never truly know whether the motives for her confession are the “right” ones – the ones that actually motivate her – but the very language she uses to confess cannot display what she means to communicate. This problem of linguistic identity – the problem that our identity described by language does not match, or is reductive of, our true identity – occurs throughout Coetzee’s novels from the late seventies to the eighties.<br />
We need a sense of Coetzee’s critical depiction of confession in order to grasp how his novels depict the linguistic problems the confessant faces. With both the critical and literary portrayals of confession under our belts, I will try to provide some possible reasons for why the literary Coetzee does not match up with Coetzee the critic. Accordingly, we must begin with <i>Confession and Double Thought.<a href="http://www.blogger.com/post-create.g?blogID=2562218441651339112#_ftn1" name="_ftnref1" style="mso-footnote-id: ftn1;" title=""><span class="MsoFootnoteReference">[1]</span></a></i></div><h1 style="margin-right: -.25in;"><b>Confession and Truth in Coetzee’s Criticism</b></h1><h1 style="margin-right: -.25in;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small; font-weight: normal;">I</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small; font-weight: normal; line-height: 32px;">n <i>CDT</i><span style="font-style: normal;">, Coetzee uses literary works to provide examples of secular confession, and the problems that these examples entail. There are two distinct problems of confession, “how to know the truth about the self without being self-deceived,” i.e. how to know if one is confessing truthfully, “and how to bring the confession to an end in the spirit of whatever they [the authors of these examples] take to be the secular equivalent of absolution” (</span><i>CDT</i><span style="font-style: normal;">, 252, brackets mine). In religious confession, the confessant is granted absolution at the end of the confessional act. In a secular confession, it is unclear what the parallel to absolution is. Thus the second problem is not only a question of how confession should end – how does it reach its destination in absolution –but </span><i>where</i><span style="font-style: normal;"> it should end – what exactly its destination is.</span></span></h1><h1 style="margin-right: -.25in;">Tolstoy</h1><h1 style="margin-right: -.25in;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small; font-weight: normal; line-height: 32px;">Coetzee uses Tolstoy, Rousseau, and Dostoyevsky as his examples of authors who both pose these problems and attempt to answer them. He begins with Tolstoy, and Pozdnyshev’s confession in <i>Kreutzer Sonata</i><span style="font-style: normal;">. Tolstoy attempts to solve both problems in one stroke, by “short-circuiting self-doubt and self-scrutiny in the name of an autonomous truth” (</span><i>CDT</i><span style="font-style: normal;">, 263). If a truth that is independent of the confessant arises from the confession, self-doubt and self-deceit are rendered harmless. By expressing such a truth the confessant reaches absolution, and thus ends the need for confession.</span></span></h1><h1 style="margin-right: -.25in;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small; font-weight: normal; line-height: 32px;"><span style="font-style: normal;"></span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small; font-weight: normal; line-height: 32px;">Tolstoy presents a moment of confession as Pozdnyshev tells the story of his life during a train ride. A frame narrator sits with Pozdnyshev and listens to his tale, but he provides no commentary; the reader must presume that Pozdnyshev is taken at his word. But, Coetzee points out, the confession is without any self-reflection. We are told a story of a man who performs a number of bad acts which he know understands are wrong – sleeping with prostitutes, using contraception, etc. - which, he claims, leads to his murdering his wife. Now he has seen the light, and regrets what he has done. Never once does Pozdnyshev question whether his justifications are sound – the murder of his wife follows from his sins, and that is that. It is one thing to question the logic of one’s justifications and ultimately conclude that those justifications are sound, but Pozdnyshev does not question them at all.</span></h1><h1 style="margin-right: -.25in;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small; font-weight: normal; line-height: 32px;"></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small; font-weight: normal; line-height: 32px;">There are many cases in literature where characters do not possess an ounce of self-reflection and ultimately miss the true motives for their actions. But, Tolstoy writes as if Pozdnyshev does no such thing. Tolstoy goes out of his way to argue that there is no ambiguity to Pozdnyshev’s confession. Firstly, the frame narrator does not to share the reader’s suspicions that Pozdnyshev is self-deceived, and, furthermore, Tolstoy adds an “Afterword” to <i>Kreutzer Sonata</i><span style="font-style: normal;"> where he claims “what Pozdnyshev believes to be wrong with society…is wrong” (</span><i>CDT</i><span style="font-style: normal;">, 258). Thus “A confession embodying a patently inadequate self-analysis is mediated through a narrator who gives no hint that he questions the analysis, and the analysis is then reaffirmed…by the author writing outside the fiction” (Ibid).</span></span></h1><h1 style="margin-right: -.25in;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small; font-weight: normal; line-height: 32px;"><span style="font-style: normal;"></span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small; font-weight: normal; line-height: 32px;">“At all levels of presentation” in <i>Kreutzer Sonata</i><span style="font-style: normal;"> “there is a lack of reflectiveness” (</span><i>CDT</i><span style="font-style: normal;">, 258). But one cannot assume that Tolstoy is being sloppy, apparently blind to his own work, since there are plenty of cases in his oeuvre where he is well aware of a character’s self deception. Tolstoy believes that self-deceit is overcome by the truth – since Pozdnyshev speaks the truth, the objections Coetzee raises are silenced. “Whatever the will behind the confession might be,” Coetzee explains, “the truth transcends the will behind it.” (</span><i>CDT</i><span style="font-style: normal;">, 263). In the end it does not matter </span><i>why</i><span style="font-style: normal;"> Pozdnyshev confesses, only that he confesses the truth. Tolstoy grants him absolution – he is out of prison and a better man when he tells his story – so the truth of his confession must absolve him. Tolstoy does not suggest that self-reflection is unneeded or specious, but that once the truth emerges it is silenced.</span></span></h1><h1 style="margin-right: -.25in;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small; font-weight: normal; line-height: 32px;"><span style="font-style: normal;"></span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small; font-weight: normal;">Coetzee takes Tolstoy’s position to be problematic, arguing:</span></h1><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-right: .5in;">…Whatever authority a confession bears in a secular context derives from the status of the confessant as a hero of the labyrinth willing to confront the worst within himself….A confessant who does not doubt himself when there are obvious grounds for doing so (as in Pozdnyshev’s case) is no better than one who refuses to doubt because doubt is not profitable. Neither is a hero, neither confesses with authority. (<i>CDT</i><span style="font-style: normal;">, 263-264)<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-right: .5in;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 32px;"><br />
</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 32px;">Tolstoy’s defense for </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 32px;"><i>Kreutzer Sonata</i></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 32px;"><span style="font-style: normal;"> is that “Pozdnyshev speaks the truth so his confession is genuine.” But for confession, in either a secular or religious context, </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 32px;"><i>why</i></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 32px;"><span style="font-style: normal;"> something is said is equally important as </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 32px;"><i>what</i></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 32px;"><span style="font-style: normal;"> is said by the confessant. If a murderer confesses to his crime in an attempt to appeal to our sympathies so that he will not face the gallows, we would not consider the confession genuine, but self-serving. Since Pozdnyshev never doubts himself, is never “willing to confront the worst within himself,” he never confesses with authority. A confession is supposed to reveal the confessant in some way, but if the confessant has no authority over the confession, there is no reason to suppose the confession reveals anything at all. So the autonomous truth is an inadequate solution to the two problems of confession. Secular confession, then, needs self-reflection to have any authority. But, as we shall see, whatever authority self-reflection brings is fragile.</span></span></div><h1 style="margin-right: -.25in;">Rousseau</h1><h1 style="margin-right: -.25in;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small; font-weight: normal; line-height: 32px;">In the <i>Confessions,</i><span style="font-style: normal;"> Rousseau answers the problem of self-deceit by an appeal to </span><i>how</i><span style="font-style: normal;"> he confesses. Unlike Tolstoy, who dismisses the need for self-reflection in the name of a higher truth that confession reveals, Rousseau provides no interpretation at all. He gives us “everything that has happened to me, all my acts, thoughts and feelings” (</span><i>Confessions</i><span style="font-style: normal;">, Book 4; I, 159) and not a narrative of his life. What Rousseau aims for is not a story of the things he has done, but a display of his “inner self” – “What I have promised to relate is the history of my soul” (</span><i>Confessions, </i><span style="font-style: normal;">Book 7, I 252). By focusing on his “inner self,” Rousseau claims to dodge the problem of self-deceit. As Coetzee puts it, “Rousseau’s position is thus that self-deception with respect to present recollection is impossible, since the self is transparent to itself” (</span><i>CDT</i><span style="font-style: normal;">, 265).</span></span></h1><h1 style="margin-right: -.25in;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small; font-weight: normal; line-height: 32px;"><span style="font-style: normal;"></span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small; font-weight: normal; line-height: 32px;">In response to skepticism about this position, Rousseau asserts that his language is unmediated, and thus provides us with truthful confession. He contends that the very style and words he uses are the immediate, un-interpreted expression of his inner self. The confessions are written “without affectation, without constraint,” and thereby are truthful. “The immediacy of the language Rousseau projects is intended as a guarantee of the truth of the past it recounts” (<i>CDT</i><span style="font-style: normal;"> 268) - since there is no interpretation at all, merely expression through language<a href="http://www.blogger.com/post-create.g?blogID=2562218441651339112#_ftn2" name="_ftnref2" style="mso-footnote-id: ftn2;" title=""><span class="MsoFootnoteReference">[2]</span></a>, the truth is displayed.</span></span></h1><h1 style="margin-right: -.25in;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small; font-weight: normal; line-height: 32px;"><span style="font-style: normal;"></span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small; font-weight: normal; line-height: 32px;">The displayed truth need not be historically accurate. By leaning on the immediacy of his language, Rousseau attempts for what Coetzee calls, following Starobinski, authenticity. “Authenticity does not demand that language reproduce a reality;” Coetzee explains, “instead it demands that language manifest its ‘own’ truth. The distance between the writing self and the source of the feelings it writes about is abolished…for the source is always here and now” (<i>CDT</i><span style="font-style: normal;"> , 268). Thus Rousseau can claim he is being truthful, in a sense, because he appears to be accurately expressing his inner self, and has professed his “inner truth.”</span></span></h1><h1 style="margin-right: -.25in;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small; font-weight: normal; line-height: 32px;"><span style="font-style: normal;"></span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small; font-weight: normal; line-height: 32px;">It would seem that Rousseau puts us in the same intractable position as Tolstoy does. His claim of authenticity – his claim that his true self is expressed in his confession – leaves us once again with no room for interpretation. If Rousseau gives us his true self, full stop, then there is no reason for us to interpret his motives for acting or confessing. But Coetzee takes issue with this as well, providing a rereading of <i>Confessions</i><span style="font-style: normal;"> where he takes Rousseau to be “inconsistent.” Coetzee creates a plausible interpretation in his rereading (</span><i>CDT</i><span style="font-style: normal;">, 269-273), which ultimately puts Rousseau in peril. </span><i>Confessions</i><span style="font-style: normal;"> was not supposed to need interpretation, yet Coetzee creates a plausible one from the text. This does not necessarily mean that Rousseau was self-deceived when confessing, but it is unclear what the truth of his confession is – if there is any truth to it at all.</span></span></h1><h2 style="margin-right: -.25in;">Dostoevsky</h2><h2 style="margin-right: -.25in;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small; font-weight: normal;">T</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small; font-weight: normal; line-height: 32px;">he lack of reflection both in <i>Kreutzer Sonata</i><span style="font-style: normal;"> and </span><i>Confessions</i><span style="font-style: normal;"> leads to a lack of authority for the confessants in those books. A self-reflective confessant is required for authority, a person who questions the truth of his confession, and if faced with a better interpretation of his motives (a “deeper” truth, as Coetzee calls it) adopts that interpretation. But this raises the question of where the confessant should “</span><i>stand</i><span style="font-style: normal;"> his ground” (</span><i>CDT</i><span style="font-style: normal;"> 273), where he should stop the confession, and say, “these are my motives, this is why I confess now.” There appear to be two answers to the question of where to stand in the face of a new interpretation, together they create a dilemma.</span></span></h2><h2 style="margin-right: -.25in;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small; font-weight: normal; line-height: 32px;"><span style="font-style: normal;"></span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small; font-weight: normal; line-height: 32px;">Firstly, the self-reflective confessant “may refuse to yield to the new truth (the new interpretation), thereby adopting precisely the stand of the self-deceived subject who prefers not to avow the ‘real’ truth of himself to himself, and prefers not to avow this preference, and so on to infinity” (<i>CDT</i><span style="font-style: normal;">, 274). By standing his ground with a particular interpretation of his motives and actions, a confessant denies the validity of any other interpretation. But Coetzee suggests that this denial is endless. The confessant who refuses to yield must disavow the knowledge that he is refusing to yield – for to admit that he chooses one interpretation from many is to admit that his choice is not the only possible truth. But that disavowal must be denied as well, or it too sheds light on the self-deception the confessant perpetrates. Coetzee concludes that the confessant who stands his ground has no way of knowing whether he is any different from the self-deceived confessant – from Pozdnyshev, or possibly Rousseau. Thus refusing to yield proves untenable.</span></span></h2><h2 style="margin-right: -.25in;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small; font-weight: normal; line-height: 32px;"><span style="font-style: normal;"></span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small; font-weight: normal; line-height: 32px;">Yet,</span></h2><h2 style="margin-right: -.25in;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small; font-weight: normal; line-height: 32px;"></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small; font-weight: normal;">If the confessant is </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small; font-weight: normal;"><i>in principle</i></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small; font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-style: normal;"> prepared to shift his ground with each new reading [of his confession] as long as he can be convinced that it is ‘truer’ than the last one, then he is no more than a biographer of the self, a constructor of hypotheses about himself that can be improved upon by other biographers. In such an event, his confession has no more authority than an account given by any other biographer…it does not proceed from self-knowledge. (</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small; font-weight: normal;"><i>CDT</i></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small; font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-style: normal;">, 273, brackets mine)</span></span></h2><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-right: .5in;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 32px;">If the confessant does not necessarily take a stand, she then loses any authority she has over her confession. In response to the question “are you telling the truth?” the most she can say is “this interpretation of the truth seems the best fit.” This is the second horn of the dilemma, both endless and self-defeating. It is endless because there is always room for more interpretation, and thus more confession in the vein of that new interpretation. It is self-defeating because by never taking a stand – by taking a “wait and see” approach to the truth of her confession - the confessant gives up any authority she has as confessant. As discussed above, a confession without authority is at best ambiguous, at worse meaningless.</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 32px;"></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 32px;">So how does one then end confession, either as a writer or a confessant?<a href="http://www.blogger.com/post-create.g?blogID=2562218441651339112#_ftn3" name="_ftnref3" style="mso-footnote-id: ftn3;" title=""><span class="MsoFootnoteReference">[3]</span></a> Coetzee sees an answer in the work of Dostoyevsky, who acknowledges the problems of the positions described above. In the end, Dostoyevsky relies on grace as the cessation of confession – a divine moment where the confessant learns to forgive herself.</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 32px;"></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 32px;">Most confessants in Dostoyevsky’s work are self-conscious, and they are aware of the possibilities of self-deceit and multiple interpretations of motives. What then becomes of confession when these possibilities and interpretations are explicit?</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; margin-left: -1.0in; margin-right: -.25in; margin-top: 0in; text-indent: .5in;"><o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-right: .5in;">The possibility we face is of a confession made via a process of relentless self-unmasking which might yet not be the truth but a self-serving fiction, because the unexamined, unexaminable principle behind it may not be a desire for the truth but a desire to <i>be a particular way</i><span style="font-style: normal;">. (</span><i>CDT</i><span style="font-style: normal;">, 280)<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-right: .5in;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 32px;">Even if the confessant decided to plumb the depths of her soul to find </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 32px;"><i>the truth</i></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 32px;"><span style="font-style: normal;"> of her confession, it is not clear that she understands </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 32px;"><i>why</i></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 32px;"><span style="font-style: normal;"> she feels the need to confess in the first place. She may have an interpretation that is solid – let us suppose that she has done the kind of rigorous self-reflection that both Rousseau and Pozdnyshev do not – but still no understanding of what her reasons for confessing are. Perhaps her motives for confession are not because she wishes to tell the truth, but because she wishes to </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 32px;"><i>be a particular way</i></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 32px;"><span style="font-style: normal;">, to be the kind of person who confesses. This leads us to another possibility of endless confession – the constant questioning of one’s motives to confess – but it also presents the possibility of ending confession as well. To grasp the reasons why one confesses also presents the possibility of sating those reasons. In identifying and addressing her motives to confess, the confessant has a chance to forgive herself of the acts she confesses.</span></span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 32px;"><span style="font-style: normal;"></span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 32px;">This too is problematic, “Self-forgiveness means the…end of the downward spiral of self-accusation whose depths can never be plumbed because to decide to stop at any point by an act of will, to decide that guilt ceases at such and such a point, is itself a potentially false act that deserves its own scrutiny” (<i>CDT</i><span style="font-style: normal;">, 290). It is unclear if the confessant knows for sure that she has forgiven herself; self-forgiveness is a common delusion. Dostoyevsky poses this problem in </span><i>The Possessed</i><span style="font-style: normal;"> but provides no answer for it, aside from suggesting that one might find certainty of self-forgiveness in Christianity.</span></span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 32px;"><span style="font-style: normal;"></span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 32px;">Dostoyevsky does not suggest that Christianity has a hard and fast rule to know when one is self-deceived, but rather that it is something beyond the realm of rules that lets the confessant know she is absolved – what Coetzee calls <i>grace</i><span style="font-style: normal;">. He sums up the relationship between confession and grace at the end of his section on Dostoyevsky,</span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-right: .5in;">The endless chain (of confession) manifests itself as soon as self-consciousness enters; how to enter into the possession of the truth of oneself, how to attain self-forgiveness and transcend self-doubt, would seem, for structural reasons, to have to remain in a field of mystery; and even the demarcation of this field, even the specification of the structural reasons, would similarly have to remain unarticulated; and the reasons for this silence as well. (<i>CDT</i><span style="font-style: normal;">, 291)<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-right: .5in;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 32px;">The understanding of how a confession can be truthful itself cannot be confessed. If indeed the confessant manages to achieve the truth of herself, that is not something she can express. Grace is something beyond language – beyond any communicability – but is, perhaps, achievable. Coetzee will pick up the relationship between confession and incommunicability in his novels of the period in which he wrote </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 32px;"><i>CDT</i></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 32px;"><span style="font-style: normal;">.</span></span></div><h3 style="margin-right: -.25in;">Confession and Language in Coetzee’s Literature </h3><h3 style="margin-right: -.25in;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small; font-weight: normal;">D</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small; font-weight: normal; line-height: 32px;">avid Atwell notices the discrepancy between Coetzee’s discussion of confession in <i>CDT</i><span style="font-style: normal;"> and his literature, couching it in the terms of deconstruction. In his interview with Coetzee in </span><i>Doubling the Point<a href="http://www.blogger.com/post-create.g?blogID=2562218441651339112#_ftn4" name="_ftnref4" style="mso-footnote-id: ftn4;" title=""><span class="MsoFootnoteReference">[4]</span></a></i><span style="font-style: normal;">, Atwell notes,</span></span></h3><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-right: .5in;">It is logical that you [Coetzee] should bring deconstruction to bear on the analysis of confession where the problem of the self’s residence within language is so visible; but despite this…you imply that you find the arguments valuable but ultimately (and paradoxically) too large, too incautious….By contrast, it seems…in the <i>fiction</i><span style="font-style: normal;"> you seem willing or able to exploit the resources of deconstruction more easily: in </span><i>Barbarians<a href="http://www.blogger.com/post-create.g?blogID=2562218441651339112#_ftn5" name="_ftnref5" style="mso-footnote-id: ftn5;" title=""><span class="MsoFootnoteReference">[5]</span></a></i><span style="font-style: normal;">, the unstable and inconclusive features of signification feature prominently; Michael K is himself a kind of Derridian trace (refusing to occupy a fixed place in the system); and in </span><i>Foe</i><span style="font-style: normal;">…the tongueless Friday is a guardian of significant silence or absence. (</span><i>DTP</i><span style="font-style: normal;">, 245, brackets mine)<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-right: .5in;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoBodyTextIndent" style="line-height: 200%; margin-right: -.25in; text-indent: 0in;">We should both take up Atwell’s point and move away from it. Take it up in the sense that the following pages will explore the confessional moments in Coetzee’s texts where language is inadequate to fully express what is to be confessed. But, for the sake of clarity and brevity, we should not remain within the jargon of deconstruction. Atwell is right to point out the break between Coetzee the critic on confession and Coetzee the author, and I would like now to fully illustrate what that break entails.<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoBodyTextIndent" style="margin-right: -.25in;"><u><br />
</u><br />
<u>In the Heart of the Country</u><o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoBodyTextIndent" style="line-height: 200%; margin-right: -.25in;">Linguistic problems of confession follow a trajectory in Coetzee’s work, beginning <i>In the Heart of the Country<a href="http://www.blogger.com/post-create.g?blogID=2562218441651339112#_ftn6" name="_ftnref6" style="mso-footnote-id: ftn6;" title=""><span class="MsoFootnoteReference">[6]</span></a></i><span style="font-style: normal;">. The book is confessional, a series of small chapters where the female narrator, Magda,<a href="http://www.blogger.com/post-create.g?blogID=2562218441651339112#_ftn7" name="_ftnref7" style="mso-footnote-id: ftn7;" title=""><span class="MsoFootnoteReference">[7]</span></a> attempts over and over again to disclose exactly who she is. All the problems of confession Coetzee discusses in his literary criticism appear in </span><i>IHC</i><span style="font-style: normal;">. “To explain is to forgive,” Magda says, “to be explained is to be forgiven, but I, I hope and fear, am inexplicable, unforgivable” (</span><i>IHC</i><span style="font-style: normal;">, 5). These lines echo the discussion of absolution and self-knowledge of </span><i>CDT</i><span style="font-style: normal;"> concerning Dostoyevsky, but there is this linguistic element at play as well.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoBodyTextIndent" style="line-height: 200%; margin-right: -.25in;">Consider the moment when Magda’s colored farmhand brings home his bride. At first Magda begins to give an account of the woman, describing her “toes demurely inward” and her “soft flesh” (<i>IHC</i><span style="font-style: normal;">, 26). But then, “words begin to falter. Words are coin. Words alienate. Language is no medium for desire. Desire is rapture, not exchange. It is only by alienating desire that language masters it” (ibid). Very quickly into Magda’s description of this new presence in her life, she finds she no longer has the ability to adequately describe her. This is not a case of not knowing how to describe the woman – not knowing the “right” words to use – but the inadequacy of words themselves. Words falter because they are “coin” – representatives of exchange, something we use to lubricate transactions and interactions, but having no worth aside from representational value. This makes them inherently alienating – there is a distance between the words and what they are meant to represent, so that when something like desire is put into words, the very nature of desire is changed. Language is no medium for desire because once desire is expressed in language it becomes something different – desire as represented in language is alien to the desire that exists in the self, the desire that the subject wishes to express.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoBodyTextIndent" style="line-height: 200%; margin-right: -.25in;">Already we can see how confession is troubled by such alienation. As discussed above, confession must address the motives of the confessant – it must address the reasons why the confessant desires to confess. A true, robust confession will never just be a disclosing of acts, but also of desires. What then can the confessant do if the very means of confession distorts what is to be disclosed? How can Magda properly depict herself if the very language she uses alienates <i>who</i><span style="font-style: normal;"> she is?<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoBodyTextIndent" style="line-height: 200%; margin-right: -.25in;"> One might consider <i>IHC</i><span style="font-style: normal;"> as one woman’s attempts to confront this problem. At points Magda wishes to be rid of language – “Would that I had never learned to read” (</span><i>IHC</i><span style="font-style: normal;">, 49) she curses – knowing that her problem is one of expression. But in confession, Coetzee rightfully shows us, expression and self-knowledge are inextricable from each other. “I was born into a language of hierarchy, of distance and perspective,” Magda says, “It was my father tongue. I do not say it is the language my heart wants to speak, I feel too much the pathos of its distances, but it is all we have... I have no words left to exchange whose value I trust” (</span><i>IHC</i><span style="font-style: normal;">, 97). She admits that she has been born into a language, one of rules and customs that she must abide by if she is to communicate. Her linguistic identity – the identity she expresses when she speaks – is one defined by the rules of her “father tongue.” It is not an adequate language, not the one her “heart wants to speak,” but she has nothing else. Any claims she has of self-knowledge rely on the rules of her father-tongue, because any claim she makes is necessarily in that father-tongue – it is “all we have.” But the expression of claims of self-knowledge - the act of confession - is inadequate, because the medium of expression is inadequate. By saying she has no words left to exchange whose value she trusts, Magda admits that there is no part of her lexicon which she knows will adequately express what she means to convey. As the Magistrate in </span><i>Barbarians </i><span style="font-style: normal;">suggests, “perhaps whatever can be articulated is falsely put” (64). Confession thus becomes even shakier than Coetzee presents it in his criticism.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoBodyTextIndent"><br />
</div><div class="MsoBodyTextIndent"><u>The Life and Times of Michael K</u><o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoBodyTextIndent" style="line-height: 200%; margin-right: -.25in;">The inadequacy of linguistic expression gets taken up again in <i>The Life and Times of Michael K<a href="http://www.blogger.com/post-create.g?blogID=2562218441651339112#_ftn8" name="_ftnref8" style="mso-footnote-id: ftn8;" title=""><span class="MsoFootnoteReference">[8]</span></a></i><span style="font-style: normal;">, but from a different angle. </span><i>Michael K</i><span style="font-style: normal;"> is a litany of how human beings fail to communicate with each other. While Magda cannot believe that her words will communicate what she wishes to disclose, Michael K constantly finds himself at a loss for words. Magda tries to step over her failure to communicate by continuing to speak, to keep sending out words into the world in the hopes that something will ring true; Michael K, by contrast, falls silent. Throughout </span><i>Michael K</i><span style="font-style: normal;"> there are countless times he either cannot understand what is asked of him, or cannot conjure words with which to speak. In either case, he becomes quiet. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoBodyTextIndent" style="line-height: 200%; margin-right: -.25in;">K himself embodies failures of communication. He has a harelip, and has moments where a “fog” comes over him; he is unable to speak with any degree of success, becoming more a tired beast than a man. Throughout his odyssey to bury his mother he is hounded by the question, “Do you understand?”<a href="http://www.blogger.com/post-create.g?blogID=2562218441651339112#_ftn9" name="_ftnref9" style="mso-footnote-id: ftn9;" title=""><span class="MsoFootnoteReference">[9]</span></a> Very often he does not, and answers with question with “sorry,” or “no.” The most heartbreaking example of his inability to understand comes at his mother’s death bed, where “She seemed to be whispering something, but he could not make out what” (<i>Michael K</i><span style="font-style: normal;">, 30). His mother’s dying words are something K does not have access to. He can only be silent in response.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoBodyTextIndent" style="line-height: 200%; margin-right: -.25in;">It is not merely K’s inability to understand that plagues him, he also cannot speak. At the breakfast table of a family who has taken him in, he tries to give thanks, “…the urge again came over him to speak….His heart was full, he wanted to utter his thanks, but finally the right words would not come. The children stared at him; a silence fell; their parents looked away” (<i>Michael K</i><span style="font-style: normal;">, 48). In a sense this is the same problem as in </span><i>IHC</i><span style="font-style: normal;"> – K looks for the </span><i>right</i><span style="font-style: normal;"> words, the words that can adequately express the thankfulness he feels towards the family. But, finding nothing, he remains silent. In an attempt to confess his feelings he finds he has no means of doing so, and instead forgoes the whole confession. This response fares no better than Magda’s over-expression: his silence is turned away from, or stared at quizzically. “What is he doing?” the characters around him must be asking themselves. To remain quiet in the face of not finding the “right” words leaves one no better off than if one speaks with the “wrong” words.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoBodyTextIndent" style="line-height: 200%; margin-right: -.25in;">As in <i>IHC</i><span style="font-style: normal;">, K’s problems of expression are inextricable with his self-understanding. Like Coetzee’s previous protagonist, K cannot express himself, even to himself.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoBodyTextIndent" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; margin-left: 0in; margin-right: .5in; margin-top: 0in; text-indent: 0in;">Always, when he tried to explain himself to himself, there remained a gap, a hole, a darkness before which his understanding baulked, into which it was useless to pour words. The words were eaten up, the gap remained. His was always a story with a hole in it: a wrong story, always wrong. (<i>Michael K</i><span style="font-style: normal;">, 110).<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoBodyTextIndent" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; margin-left: 0in; margin-right: .5in; margin-top: 0in; text-indent: 0in;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoBodyTextIndent" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: 0in;">The notion of an absence, or gap, is prevalent in all of Coetzee’s work during the era to which <i>Michael K</i><span style="font-style: normal;"> belongs. What is important is that the gap cannot be plastered over by language. This passage is emblematic of K’s failure of words. He cannot find the right ones with which to explain himself, to confess – any words he does try become swallowed whole. What remains is a failure of self-explanation, a failure of self-understanding. He cannot explain himself because there are no words that adequately perform the explanation. There is no sense of suspicion as there was in </span><i>IHC</i><span style="font-style: normal;">. K does not think that his words are somehow destroyed or perverted as he speaks them. The problem is that the words are not good enough from the get go. Once again, language is an inadequate means for expression, and furthermore an inadequate means for self-knowledge.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoBodyTextIndent" style="line-height: 200%;">K’s problems are not entirely different from Magda’s. For both of them, words cannot express what they feel in their hearts, and thus they cannot confess with authority. The distinction is that K cannot find the words at all while Magda does not trust the words she uses.<a href="http://www.blogger.com/post-create.g?blogID=2562218441651339112#_ftn10" name="_ftnref10" style="mso-footnote-id: ftn10;" title=""><span class="MsoFootnoteReference">[10]</span></a> This distinction will be blurred in Coetzee’s greatest novel from this period, <i>Foe</i><span style="font-style: normal;">.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoBodyTextIndent"><u><br />
</u><br />
<u>Foe</u><o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoBodyTextIndent" style="line-height: 200%; margin-right: -.25in;"><i>Foe</i><span style="font-style: normal;"> gives answers to the linguistic problems of the previous works, although the answers may be inadequate. The two main characters of </span><i>Foe</i><span style="font-style: normal;"> are new incarnations of the protagonists of </span><i>IHC</i><span style="font-style: normal;"> and </span><i>Michael K</i><span style="font-style: normal;">. Susan Barton, like Magda, is a woman who tries to tell her story but finds that she cannot trust the words she uses. Michael K’s problem of not having the right words is taken a step further in Friday, who has no words at all. In the final chapters of </span><i>Foe</i><span style="font-style: normal;">, the titular character who may or may not be the author of </span><i>Robinson Crusoe</i><span style="font-style: normal;"> attempts to provide Susan and, by proxy, Friday, absolution. It is unclear whether this attempt succeeds, but here Coetzee takes the problems of confession he has laid out in earlier works and provides a glimmer of an answer to them.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoBodyTextIndent" style="line-height: 200%; margin-right: -.25in;">In dialogue with Foe, Barton divulges her worries, both for herself and Friday. These worries are the same as those voiced in <i>Michael K </i><span style="font-style: normal;"> and </span><i>IHC</i><span style="font-style: normal;">.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoBodyTextIndent" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; margin-left: 0in; margin-right: .5in; margin-top: 0in; text-indent: 0in;">[Friday] desires to be liberated, as I do too. Our desires are plain, his and mine. But how is Friday to recover his freedom…? When I am rid of Friday, will I then know freedom?…As to Friday, how can Friday know what freedom means when he barely knows his name? (<i>Foe</i><span style="font-style: normal;">, 148-149, brackets mine)<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoBodyTextIndent" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; margin-left: 0in; margin-right: .5in; margin-top: 0in; text-indent: 0in;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoBodyTextIndent" style="line-height: 200%; margin-right: -.25in; text-indent: 0in;">The word Barton uses to label her desire and the desire itself have come apart. Friday, devoid of words entirely, may not even be able to understand the desire of which Barton speaks. In a sense, Magda and K are now in the same room, their plights united into a problem of language that is twofold. Foe responds reassuringly, <o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoBodyTextIndent" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; margin-left: 0in; margin-right: .5in; margin-top: 0in; text-indent: 0in;">There is not need for us to know what freedom means, Susan. Freedom is a word like any word. It is a puff of air, seven letters on a slate. It is but the name we give to the desire you speak of, the desire to be free. What concerns us is the desire, not the name…It is enough that we know the names of our needs and are able to use these names to satisfy them… (<i>Foe</i><span style="font-style: normal;">, 149)<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoBodyTextIndent" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; margin-left: 0in; margin-right: .5in; margin-top: 0in; text-indent: 0in;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoBodyTextIndent" style="line-height: 200%; margin-right: -.25in; text-indent: 0in;">Foe’s answer echoes Magda’s claim that language is all she has. But instead of that being a burden, Foe suggests it is simply something we should accept. Words as signifiers are not as exacting as we would like, but what does that matter if they do a suitable job? As long as the word freedom can be used to satisfy Susan’s need for freedom, what does it matter if it is a puff of air? Foe goes on to say that even with the frailty of words it still makes sense to teach Friday language, so that he may be able to express his desires. Thus the point of confession is not that we express our desires perfectly, but that we express them at all.<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoBodyTextIndent" style="line-height: 200%; margin-right: -.25in;">Is this answer suitable? Coetzee is never one to make such a bald statement. There are many reasons to distrust Foe’s easy answer – most glaringly the fact that his name is <i>foe</i><span style="font-style: normal;"> – and it appears that Susan is unhappy with Foe’s attempts to put her at ease. But perhaps Foe’s name provides an example of how names are ultimately meaningless; in no sense is Mr. Foe a typical antagonist. His name may have great signification, but searching for that great signification is probably akin to searching for the meaning of freedom, a fruitless quest. Here we have a fourth possibility of endless confession - the possibility that Coetzee refuses to admit within his criticism - that of endlessly searching for the words which truly signify the desire one wishes to confess. And it appears that the answer to this endlessness is the same answer in </span><i>CDT</i><span style="font-style: normal;"> – silence.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoBodyTextIndent" style="line-height: 200%; margin-right: -.25in;">At the end of <i>Foe</i><span style="font-style: normal;">, an unnamed narrator takes us to “the home of Friday,” which is “…not a place of words. Each syllable, as it comes out, is caught and filled with water and diffused. This is a place where bodies are their own signs” (</span><i>Foe</i><span style="font-style: normal;">, 157). This place is where </span><i>Foe</i><span style="font-style: normal;"> ends – where the confession, so to speak, stops. The reader is left with silence, with the absence and diffusion of words, instead of a worded conclusion.<a href="http://www.blogger.com/post-create.g?blogID=2562218441651339112#_ftn11" name="_ftnref11" style="mso-footnote-id: ftn11;" title=""><span class="MsoFootnoteReference">[11]</span></a> Foe, in an earlier section, suggests the same, saying “there comes a time when we must give reckoning of ourselves to the world, and then forever after be content to hold our peace” (</span><i>Foe</i><span style="font-style: normal;">, 124). Notice also that this silence comes </span><i>after</i><span style="font-style: normal;"> confession – it is not the silence of Michael K. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoBodyTextIndent" style="line-height: 200%; margin-right: -.25in;">It appears, then, that the answer to the problems of confession is one that cannot be articulated. Barton does not take Foe’s moral to heart, but that is probably because it does not explain <i>how</i><span style="font-style: normal;"> to hold one’s peace, only that one must. Coetzee’s suggestion in his literary criticism that the ending of confession must remain hidden, outside of words, is given once again in his fiction. But if the problems of confession all have similar structures - in that they are both possibly endless and answered by silence – why does Coetzee shy away from speaking of the problem of linguistic identity in the critical realm?<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoBodyTextIndent" style="margin-right: -.25in;"><b><u><br />
</u></b><br />
<b><u>Conclusions</u></b><span style="font-weight: normal;"><o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoBodyTextIndent" style="line-height: 200%; margin-right: -.25in;">I hope to provide some provisional answers to the question posed at the end of the last section here, starting with Coetzee’s own answer to Atwell’s point.<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoBodyTextIndent" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; margin-left: 0in; margin-right: .5in; margin-top: 0in; text-indent: 0in;">I feel a greater freedom to follow where my thinking takes me when I am writing fiction than when I am writing criticism. One reason is that…I am not a trained philosopher…It would be pointless for me to try to rethink Dostoyevsky in Derridean terms…because I don’t have the mind for it, to say nothing of the philosophical equipment.<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoBodyTextIndent" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; margin-left: 0in; margin-right: .5in; margin-top: 0in; text-indent: 0in;">Another reason for what strikes you as a paradox (the missing discussion of language in the criticism) has to do with the two discursive modes. Stories are defined by their irresponsibility…. The <i>feel</i><span style="font-style: normal;"> of writing is one of freedom, of irresponsibility, or better, of responsibility toward something that has not yet emerged, that lies somewhere at the end of the road. When I write criticism…I am always aware of the responsibility toward a goal that has been set for me….<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoBodyTextIndent" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; margin-left: 0in; margin-right: .5in; margin-top: 0in; text-indent: 0in;">Where I do my liberating, my playing with possibilities, is in my fiction. (<i>DTP</i><span style="font-style: normal;">, 246)<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoBodyTextIndent" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; margin-left: 0in; margin-right: .5in; margin-top: 0in; text-indent: 0in;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoBodyTextIndent" style="line-height: 200%; margin-right: -.25in; text-indent: 0in;">Coetzee’s answer seems simple enough – he does not have the mind or patience to explore certain issues in criticism, but fiction gives him free reign to do so. Perhaps this is the case, but Coetzee’s confession, like Pozdnyshev’s, can be read more than once. Consider his point about the two discursive modes. Narrative as a communicative medium is wildly different than that of criticism – it is “irresponsible” Coetzee says. But it is not merely that fiction allows him to work out ideas unhindered, the very communication of those ideas is of a different kind. This, strangely enough, is linked to the problem of linguistic identity in confession. Narrative allows the speaker – the confessant – to enter into a discourse where words should not always be taken at face value<a href="http://www.blogger.com/post-create.g?blogID=2562218441651339112#_ftn12" name="_ftnref12" style="mso-footnote-id: ftn12;" title=""><span class="MsoFootnoteReference">[12]</span></a>, and where plot and the telling of the plot can separate from each other and have points of contention.<a href="http://www.blogger.com/post-create.g?blogID=2562218441651339112#_ftn13" name="_ftnref13" style="mso-footnote-id: ftn13;" title=""><span class="MsoFootnoteReference">[13]</span></a> Indeed, many of Coetzee’s books do this. <o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoBodyTextIndent" style="line-height: 200%; margin-right: -.25in;">In narrative, words need not tightly correspond to what is meant by the speaker. In criticism, words are not supposed to have such ambiguity. Thus the problem of linguistic identity – the problem of words being untrustworthy or untenable – is one that criticism and regular confession cannot embody in their use of language. Narrative is rife with multiple interpretations, failures of communication, and the like. Not only does Coetzee not want to discuss problems of linguistic identity in his criticism, it seems that he <i>cannot</i><span style="font-style: normal;">, or cannot do so adequately. It is in narrative discourse that the idea that “words are coin,” can be fully expressed. Perhaps Coetzee is ignorant of this, and like Pozdyshev is content to stand by only one set of motives. Or, perhaps, he is all too aware, and knows that on certain things he must keep silent.<o:p></o:p></span></div><span style="font-family: Times; font-size: 12pt;"><br clear="ALL" style="page-break-before: always;" /> </span> <br />
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-left: .5in; mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-align: center; text-autospace: none; text-indent: -.5in;"><span style="font-family: TimesNewRomanMS;">Works Cited <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-left: .5in; mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none; text-indent: -.5in;"><span style="font-family: TimesNewRomanMS;">Coetzee, J. M., and David Attwell. <i>Doubling the Point: Essays and Interviews</i></span><span style="font-family: TimesNewRomanMS;">. Cambridge, MA: Harvard UP, 1992. Print. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-left: .5in; mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none; text-indent: -.5in;"><span style="font-family: TimesNewRomanMS;">Coetzee, J. M. <i>Foe</i></span><span style="font-family: TimesNewRomanMS;">. New York, NY, USA: Penguin, 1987. Print. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-left: .5in; mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none; text-indent: -.5in;"><span style="font-family: TimesNewRomanMS;">Coetzee, J. M. <i>In the Heart of the Country</i></span><span style="font-family: TimesNewRomanMS;">. New York, NY: Penguin, 1982. Print. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-left: .5in; mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none; text-indent: -.5in;"><span style="font-family: TimesNewRomanMS;">Coetzee, J. M. <i>Waiting for the Barbarians</i></span><span style="font-family: TimesNewRomanMS;">. Harmondsworth, Middlesex, England: Penguin, 1982. Print. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoBodyTextIndent" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; margin-left: 0in; margin-right: -.25in; margin-top: 0in; text-indent: 0in;"><span style="font-family: TimesNewRomanMS;">Coetzee, John M. <i>Life and Times of Michael K</i></span><span style="font-family: TimesNewRomanMS;">. [Harmondsworth]: Penguin, 1983. Print.</span><o:p></o:p></div><div style="mso-element: footnote-list;"><br />
<hr align="left" size="1" width="33%" /><div id="ftn1" style="mso-element: footnote;"><div class="MsoFootnoteText"><a href="http://www.blogger.com/post-create.g?blogID=2562218441651339112#_ftnref1" name="_ftn1" style="mso-footnote-id: ftn1;" title=""><span class="MsoFootnoteReference"><span style="font-size: 10pt;">[1]</span></span></a><span style="font-size: 10pt;"> Hereafter referred to as <i>CDT</i></span><span style="font-size: 10pt;">.<o:p></o:p></span></div></div><div id="ftn2" style="mso-element: footnote;"><div class="MsoFootnoteText"><a href="http://www.blogger.com/post-create.g?blogID=2562218441651339112#_ftnref2" name="_ftn2" style="mso-footnote-id: ftn2;" title=""><span class="MsoFootnoteReference"><span style="font-size: 10pt;">[2]</span></span></a><span style="font-size: 10pt;"> This indeed <i>is</i></span><span style="font-size: 10pt;"> a form of interpretation, and the root of the problem of confession that only appears in Coetzee’s literature, but for now let us grant Rousseau his point.<o:p></o:p></span></div></div><div id="ftn3" style="mso-element: footnote;"><div class="MsoFootnoteText"><a href="http://www.blogger.com/post-create.g?blogID=2562218441651339112#_ftnref3" name="_ftn3" style="mso-footnote-id: ftn3;" title=""><span class="MsoFootnoteReference"><span style="font-size: 10pt;">[3]</span></span></a><span style="font-size: 10pt;"> One might instead use the phrase “as a writer <i>and</i></span><span style="font-size: 10pt;"> confessant.” Indeed, this conflation (or equivocality) between the two roles will play an important part in Coetzee’s literature.<o:p></o:p></span></div></div><div id="ftn4" style="mso-element: footnote;"><div class="MsoFootnoteText"><a href="http://www.blogger.com/post-create.g?blogID=2562218441651339112#_ftnref4" name="_ftn4" style="mso-footnote-id: ftn4;" title=""><span class="MsoFootnoteReference">[4]</span></a> <span style="font-size: 10pt;">Hereafter referred to as <i>DTP</i></span><span style="font-size: 10pt;">.</span></div></div><div id="ftn5" style="mso-element: footnote;"><div class="MsoFootnoteText"><a href="http://www.blogger.com/post-create.g?blogID=2562218441651339112#_ftnref5" name="_ftn5" style="mso-footnote-id: ftn5;" title=""><span class="MsoFootnoteReference">[5]</span></a> <span style="font-size: 10pt;"><i>Waiting for the Barbarians</i></span><span style="font-size: 10pt;">, Coetzee. Hereafter the novel will be referred to as <i>Barbarians.</i></span></div></div><div id="ftn6" style="mso-element: footnote;"><div class="MsoFootnoteText"><a href="http://www.blogger.com/post-create.g?blogID=2562218441651339112#_ftnref6" name="_ftn6" style="mso-footnote-id: ftn6;" title=""><span class="MsoFootnoteReference">[6]</span></a> <span style="font-size: 10pt;">Hereafter referred to as <i>IHC</i></span><span style="font-size: 10pt;">.</span></div></div><div id="ftn7" style="mso-element: footnote;"><div class="MsoFootnoteText"><a href="http://www.blogger.com/post-create.g?blogID=2562218441651339112#_ftnref7" name="_ftn7" style="mso-footnote-id: ftn7;" title=""><span class="MsoFootnoteReference">[7]</span></a> <span style="font-size: 10pt;">At one point the narrator refers to herself as Magda, but it is unclear whether that is her true name, or further whether Magda is the same narrator as in previous chapters. Nonetheless, for brevity’s sake I will refer to the narrator of <i>IHC</i></span><span style="font-size: 10pt;"> as Magda.</span></div></div><div id="ftn8" style="mso-element: footnote;"><div class="MsoFootnoteText"><a href="http://www.blogger.com/post-create.g?blogID=2562218441651339112#_ftnref8" name="_ftn8" style="mso-footnote-id: ftn8;" title=""><span class="MsoFootnoteReference"><span style="font-size: 10pt;">[8]</span></span></a><span style="font-size: 10pt;"> Hereafter referred to as <i>Michael K</i></span><span style="font-size: 10pt;">.<o:p></o:p></span></div></div><div id="ftn9" style="mso-element: footnote;"><div class="MsoFootnoteText"><a href="http://www.blogger.com/post-create.g?blogID=2562218441651339112#_ftnref9" name="_ftn9" style="mso-footnote-id: ftn9;" title=""><span class="MsoFootnoteReference">[9]</span></a> <span style="font-size: 10pt;">His conversation with the nurse taking care of his mother is a fabulous example of this (<i>Michael K</i></span><span style="font-size: 10pt;">, 28).</span></div></div><div id="ftn10" style="mso-element: footnote;"><div class="MsoFootnoteText"><a href="http://www.blogger.com/post-create.g?blogID=2562218441651339112#_ftnref10" name="_ftn10" style="mso-footnote-id: ftn10;" title=""><span class="MsoFootnoteReference">[10]</span></a> <span style="font-size: 10pt;">This is a reduction - Magda does speak of not being able to imagine the right words (<i>IHC</i></span><span style="font-size: 10pt;">, 97) – but is useful to help distinguish the various linguistic problems of confession.</span></div></div><div id="ftn11" style="mso-element: footnote;"><div class="MsoFootnoteText"><a href="http://www.blogger.com/post-create.g?blogID=2562218441651339112#_ftnref11" name="_ftn11" style="mso-footnote-id: ftn11;" title=""><span class="MsoFootnoteReference"><span style="font-size: 10pt;">[11]</span></span></a><span style="font-size: 10pt;"> Of course the conclusion is <i>worded</i></span><span style="font-size: 10pt;"> in a sense, this is still a book.<o:p></o:p></span></div></div><div id="ftn12" style="mso-element: footnote;"><div class="MsoFootnoteText"><a href="http://www.blogger.com/post-create.g?blogID=2562218441651339112#_ftnref12" name="_ftn12" style="mso-footnote-id: ftn12;" title=""><span class="MsoFootnoteReference">[12]</span></a> <span style="font-size: 10pt;">Coetzee is one of many authors to use unreliable narrators.</span></div></div><div id="ftn13" style="mso-element: footnote;"><div class="MsoFootnoteText"><a href="http://www.blogger.com/post-create.g?blogID=2562218441651339112#_ftnref13" name="_ftn13" style="mso-footnote-id: ftn13;" title=""><span class="MsoFootnoteReference">[13]</span></a> <span style="font-size: 10pt;">Consider something like irony, its home is in common speech and narrative, not criticism.</span></div></div></div>Noah Cruickshankhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13548649447847765824noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2562218441651339112.post-74458634058869492182010-12-05T14:25:00.000-08:002011-03-30T11:36:05.158-07:00Walking Far from Home - America Depicted in SongVery rarely do I get to use Hegel and Woody Guthrie in the same post, but I've luckily hit upon a topic that can quell the needs of both my inner nerd and inner lover of great folk music. What I want to explore is an example of sublation in folk music, all centered around the idea of moving through the American landscape. We should begin with our "thesis", what has been called on many occasions the greatest folk song ever written, "<a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=wxiMrvDbq3s">This Land is Your Land</a>" by Guthrie. Here are the <a href="http://www.arlo.net/resources/lyrics/this-land.shtml">lyrics</a>. (Note, the lyrics and the youtube version don't quite match up, but not to the the point where I think we can't talk about them as a unit).<br />
At least for the first three verses, Guthrie gives us a depiction, from the point of a walking traveler, of a beautiful landscape - America is portrayed with all the natural glory it possesses. But while the subject matter of these verses is the bounty of the land, it is couched in democratic terms. The beauty belongs to you and me, of course, but the singer also treks through the land on foot, the most universal way to travel. This is not a song about road tripping through the states and marveling about how beautiful everything is. The walker who guides us through our shared land is representative of us all. He moves across the ribbon of highway that connects us from California to the New York Island - something unnatural, it is important to note. The highway system created in the early twentieth century is in many ways the great democratic project - the roads are for everyone to use, regardless of money or class. If you don't have a car, so what? You can ramble alongside Guthrie, seeing the beauty of the land we all share.<br />
Even in the face of obstruction - the sign that says no tress passin' - the land still belongs to us all. Guthrie's lines in the fourth verse suggest that even though there are some who will fall into avarice, taking the shared land for themselves, they cannot fully succeed. The sign is blank on the back side, I think, for that very reason.<br />
The last verse is not all peaches and cream, of course. Guthrie is writing during the depression, and those people grumbling and wondering are justified in their discontent. But considering the rest of the song, I think it's safe to say that Guthrie is pushing us towards an understanding that America is a place where great goodness and beauty occurs, we just have to get out of our own way sometime. He ends with the chorus repeated twice, not just because it's catchy as hell, but because he wants to underscore the goodness he sees as he roams and rambles. It is not an entirely hopeful song, true, but it projects an idea of America that can be achieved, a place where the land truly is yours and mine.<br />
<br />
Think of such a depiction of America in contrast to Dylan's <a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=jHrK6L91BgA">A Hard Rain's A-Gonna Fall</a>. Here are the <a href="http://www.metrolyrics.com/a-hard-rains-a-gonna-fall-lyrics-bob-dylan.html">lyrics.</a><br />
Dylan takes the call and response structure from <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Lord_Randall">Lord Randall</a> to depict an America nearly bereft of beauty. A father asks his blue-eyed son about what he has seen on his travels, each time receiving dark images and tragic events. Guthrie was Dylan's idol, and in many ways his predecessor in American folk music. One could almost believe, then, that Dylan, being blue-eyed himself, is speaking to Guthrie, who plays a paternal role in much of Dylan's early music. Perhaps I am going too far, but consider the first four lines the son sings:<br />
<br />
I've stumbled on the side of twelve misty mountains<br />
I've walked and I've crawled on six crooked highways<br />
I've stepped in the middle of seven sad forests<br />
I've been out in front of a dozen dead oceans<br />
<br />
Much of the imagery is the same as in This Land is Your Land. Dylan is too smart for this to be coincidence - he is putting Guthrie's depiction of the beauty of the American landscape on his head. We have now moved, for whatever reason, into the shadowy version of what Guthrie gave us, where whatever beauty we once possessed has been crippled or perverted. This perversion is taken up again in the second verse, with the "highway of diamonds with nobody on it." Once again Guthrie's imagery of the desert of diamonds and highway as great equalizer becomes an empty and desolate place.<br />
Even Dylan's chorus is, in a way, antithetical to Guthrie's. Unlike the natural bounty that belongs to all of us in This Land is Your Land, here nature has a destructive, almost even presence. A hard rain's a-gonna fall - presumably destroying everything in its path. For Guthrie, nature was something to be marveled at and shared. For Dylan, it is something from which we must flee - the sound of thunder "roar(s) out a warnin'." Our walking narrator here has seen the bounty of the land, and it is frightening.<br />
Even the last lines seem coated in looming darkness. "What'll you do now?" the father asks, to which the son replies, "I'll go out again, and speak what I have seen." Yes, perhaps one could see the son then as a man on a heroic quest, out to tell us of the danger upon us, but it appears, at least from the son's perspective, that his task is a fruitless one. He'll stand in the ocean until he starts sinking - yes, maybe he'll be able to spread the word, but more likely he'll die trying. Going out into the chaos again, where the water is poisoned and souls are forgotten, seems like a doomed project. Unlike Guthrie's walker, who treks the land with a anthem of brotherhood, Dylan's narrator seems to be all alone, with nothing but foul portents to sing to those poor souls he meets.<br />
But Dylan's picture feels so dark as to be untenable, as the utopian ideal Guthrie gives us feel almost too light. What may be required, then, is the same kind of story as that which occurs in these songs, but where neither the darkness nor light has been forgotten. And for that, I humbly submit <a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=tdA492vICmY">Walking Far from Home</a> by Iron and Wine. Here are the <a href="http://www.passingafternoon.com/forum/index.php?topic=1143.0">lyrics</a> - with one caveat, the lyrics here say "I saw widows in the temple to the Lord" - I don't think he's saying "Lord" here, but "law", so "I saw widows in the temple to the law."<br />
Sam Beam, aka Iron and Wine, knows his folk music, and so I can say with assurance that he's familiar with both songs discussed above. More than that, I think, Walking Far from Home is his take on the same story, that of the traveler who speaks of what he sees as he treks across the American landscape (Beam's songs always take place in the states). The very first line invokes Guthrie's "As I was ramblin..." - and Beam's walking narrator sees highways and oceans like his predecessors. Guthrie's worries that appear in the last verse of This Land is Your Land appear again in the building that is as high as heaven, but unable to be entered because the door is too small - the skyscraper is the symbol of the American elite, and most of us have no access to the kind of lifestyle where one lives and works in such buildings. The doors are too small to let all of us in.<br />
But what makes this song a synthesis of Guthrie's and Dylan's works is its ability to blend both the beauty and the heartbreak of the two songs into one cohesive vision - the good and the bad of this world are placed side by side, and the singer cannot help but wonder at it all. Consider the second verse:<br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #390b05; font-family: Georgia, Verdana, Geneva, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 12px; line-height: 15px;"><br />
</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #390b05; font-family: Georgia, Verdana, Geneva, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 12px; line-height: 15px;">I saw rain clouds, little babies</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #390b05; font-family: Georgia, Verdana, Geneva, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 12px; line-height: 15px;"><br />
</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #390b05; font-family: Georgia, Verdana, Geneva, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 12px; line-height: 15px;">And a bridge that had tumbled to the ground</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #390b05; font-family: Georgia, Verdana, Geneva, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 12px; line-height: 15px;"><br />
</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #390b05; font-family: Georgia, Verdana, Geneva, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 12px; line-height: 15px;">I saw sinners making music</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #390b05; font-family: Georgia, Verdana, Geneva, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 12px; line-height: 15px;"><br />
</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #390b05; font-family: Georgia, Verdana, Geneva, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 12px; line-height: 15px;">And I dreamt of that sound, dreamt of that sound</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #390b05; font-family: Georgia, Verdana, Geneva, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 12px; line-height: 15px;"><br />
</span><br />
<br />
Rain clouds - which may or may not portend of a hard rain to fall - juxtaposed with babies, juxtaposed with a broken bridge. Images of nature, beauty, and destruction all side by side, all in one. The chaos of which Dylan sings is there in that broken bridge - something constructed by man that has collapsed, that cannot buttress the weight placed upon it. But in the same breath Beam sings of children, of life and rebirth. He sees sinners, but they are making music, devoting their energy to art, and something that haunts the narrator. Now haunted can be taken either way, but that, I suspect is the point. The image of sinners making music is ambiguous - it's unclear whether the music provides the sinners grace and when dreaming of it the narrator is remembering the transcendent power of music, or whether he cannot forget the revelry of evil people. Most of us I think would assume the former, but Beam doesn't give us an easy answer, especially considering the parallel to this image that occurs later on. A prisoner takes a pistol, saying "join me in song." That to me seems like an example of transcendence through music, but then again the man asking us to join him is both a prisoner, and brandishing a weapon. Is this a moment of grace or of terror? We cannot know, and either way the narrator is awestruck.<br />
This ambiguity and mingling of beauty and destruction goes throughout the song. Naked dancers in the city speak for us all - the degraded members of society speak for us, not, noticeably, the women in the temple to the law. Does that mean that their experience is exemplary of the American experience, i.e. a degraded one? Or does Beam mean that these women have an understanding of life that stands for all of us? Are we one with these women, or are their trials a show of how far off from Guthrie's dream we are? Maybe it is all these things at once.<br />
And, like Dylan's blue-eyed son, Beam's walking traveler feels a call. The blue-eyed son feels called to sing out about the terrors he has seen, though it is unclear what the call from the Lord Beam's narrator hears actually is. In expect it is a moment of transcendence, a taking in of all that he has seen that feels, to him, as if he is touched by the hand of God. Beam himself is agnostic, though many of his characters aren't, yet there is no reason, I think, to assume the man walking far from home is particularly religious. Notice that it is the circle of the wet road that comes like a call from the Lord - "like a call," not a call itself. He feels called, but it need not actually be from a divine hand. Obviously he, like his predecessors, feels the need to relate what he has seen, and perhaps that is all the call is, a call to speak. Nonetheless, what he must speak is neither the claim that this land is both yours and mine, or that a hard rain is a-gonna fall. It is something else, something both good and evil, wrapped up together. Perhaps, then, Walking Far from Home is the most true to the land it surveys.Noah Cruickshankhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13548649447847765824noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2562218441651339112.post-41033415739868424132010-11-22T20:24:00.000-08:002011-03-05T16:30:15.246-08:00Gaita, Coeztee, and the Lives of AnimalsThis unfortunately will only be skin deep.<br />
Writing about animals takes time and space, neither of which I have in a lowly blog post, so I'll have to make due with - and you'll have to forgive me for - skimming the surface. I want to talk about what it means to live with animals, and to do that I'll be doing a reading of a reading. Raimond Gaita, an Australian expert on Wittgenstein, uses a particular passage from J.M. Coetzee's novel <i>The Lives of Animals</i> to show how they way we live with animals is something deeper, and richer, than we generally understand. But first, I should tell you about Hugo.<br />
Hugo is the peach-faced lovebird my family has had since I was twelve. A replacement, for Sam, the first bird who foolishly flew into a window and broke his neck. Hugo has a different temperament than Sam, though they are brothers, and since he is still alive it seems best to speak of him. What has it meant for me to live, on and off, with this creature, for a decade? Well, not much on the face of it. Nowadays when I come over he swoops down onto my shoulder to nestle into the nape of my neck. We're on better terms than we used to be. There were times when I was younger that I screamed at him for eating one of my books or screeching in my ear as I was trying to concentrate. But if I pause for a moment, and consider the way the house is when he is there, I realize that indeed there is much to plumb in this extra-species relationship.<br />
My deportment around the house is entirely in line with the fact that there is another creature there with me. This is not something conscious. At no point did I decide to behave differently whether the bird is there or not. One might reply to this by saying, "well yes, obviously you'll act different, that sheds no light on anything,"but that would be, I think, to miss something. Yes, I might act a little differently if I walked into my house and the entire inside was completely different (this in fact happened once I had moved out and my brother-in-law moved in), but I suspect that this "acting differently" is of a different kind than the kind of deportment I assume when around Hugo. First of all, the former is something conscious, while the latter is embedded in my being in the world. There is something about the way we live with animals that comes before - and indeed makes up - our rational understanding of them. From here I shall turn to Gaita, and Coetzee.<br />
First, a quote from Elizabeth Costello, the protagonist of three of Coetzee's books, the first being <i>The Lives of Animals</i>. Costello is a animal-rights thinker par excellence, and here she addresses the contention that animals cannot fear death and thus their deaths are lesser events than the death of a human.<br />
<br />
Anyone who says that life matters less to animals than it does to us has not held in his hands an animal fighting for its life. The whole of the bring of the animal is thrown into that fight, without reserve. When you say that the fight lacks a dimension of intellectual or imaginative horror, I agree. It is not the mode of being of animals an intellectual horror: their whole being is in the living flesh. (<i>The Lives of Animals</i>, 65)<br />
<br />
Gaita sees that within this particular line of argument, Coetzee, "challenges assumptions about the connection between our sense of an animal's body and our unhesitating preparedness to say that animals believe this or know that. He urges us to attend to the role that the <i>living body, </i>the body of flesh and blood, plays in the constitution of our concepts, including our concepts of belief and knowledge. Like Wittgenstein, he seems to believe that we misunderstand the importance of the infinitely subtle inflections and demeanours of the body, the many forms of its expressiveness, if we take them only on as the basis for hypothetical attributions of states of consciousness to animals. Rather (I take him to suggest), they partly determine the meaning that words like "knowledge" and "belief," "hope" and "fear," and so on have in our life with language - language, Coetzee emphasizes, as it is used in disciplined ways in literature, and elicited in imaginative living with animals" (<i>The Philosopher's Dog</i>, 71-72)<br />
<br />
I doubt that Coetzee sees himself as being particularly Wittgensteinian. Considering that many, if not all, of his works exemplify aspects of deconstructionism, it is a safer bet that his position on the body comes from people like Lacan, Merleau-Ponty, and, ultimately, Heidegger and Freud. Furthermore, it is unclear whether Costello is speaking for Coetzee here. Considering that he's a strict vegetarian, I'm inclined to side with Gaita, but there's no real proof that Costello is speaking Coetzee's thoughts. But Gaita is right to pick up the body as a central theme in Coetzee's work. The living body, for both animals and humans, is the place of communication and knowledge that comes long before anything like states of consciousness. Gaita's larger point in <i>The Philosopher's Dog </i>is that many of our basic concepts - concepts that we assume have nothing to do with animal life - are at least partly constituted by our lives with animals.<br />
Our lives with animals are made up of bodily interaction, and not merely of a brutish kind. When Hugo nestles onto my shoulder, there is more going on than him landing on something warm. Is this some kind of intellectual interaction? No, but neither is it an example of a rational being interacting with an automaton - and let's be serious, birds are pretty stupid creatures generally. And so when considering how we should treat animals, we should note that we are not wrong to consider their feelings and grant them rights as living things, but secondly that we can go to far into anthropomorphism, ultimately asking meaningless questions about whether dogs or horses possess the concept of death. What does it matter if they have the mental apparatus to comprehend death when they can feel it coming with every inch of their bodies? The former means nothing in the face of the latter.<br />
As I said, I can only skim the surface, but what I hope the quotes above, and my time with Hugo, suggest is that our deportment towards animals is more deeply felt than we give it credit, and more important in constituting how we are in the world - i.e. <b>who</b> we are - than we may understand. Is that why I myself shy away from eating meat? Well, it wasn't at first, but it surely is now.Noah Cruickshankhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13548649447847765824noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2562218441651339112.post-70090558444330929702010-10-31T21:58:00.000-07:002011-03-05T16:29:06.166-08:00Space Oddities of Past and Present<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: verdana, helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: x-small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: 10px; line-height: 20px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Lucida Grande'; font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: 11px;"><br />
</span></span></span></span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: verdana, helvetica, sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 20px;">Wolf Parade and David Bowie. Yes, there are inevitable comparisons, stemming almost completely out of their musical styles and Spencer Krug's yodeling voice. Admittedly, "sounds like David Bowie" is a lazy and regular mark of indie criticism, so it's a bit expected that these boys from British Columbia by way of Montreal (or at least the two frontmen) would be put beside the thin white duke. But I'm not interested in a musical comparison (I do think the comparison is actually merited, but that's another essay), for now I want to consider their positions on space travel.</span></span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: verdana, helvetica, sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 20px;"><br />
</span></span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: verdana, helvetica, sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 20px;">Yup, space travel.</span></span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: verdana, helvetica, sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 20px;"><br />
</span></span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: verdana, helvetica, sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 20px;">Here are links to both songs and their lyrics:</span></span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: verdana, helvetica, sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 20px;"><a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=8LVC9eW9Q4E&ob=av3n">Space Oddity - live from Serious Moonlight Tour</a></span></span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: verdana, helvetica, sans-serif;"><a href="http://www.lyricsfreak.com/d/david+bowie/space+oddity_20036711.html">Space Oddity Lyrics</a></span><br />
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<a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=LLGs2H3gDJw">Yulia Music Video</a><br />
<a href="http://www.songmeanings.net/songs/view/3530822107858831295/">Yulia Lyrics</a><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: verdana, helvetica, sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 20px;"><br />
</span></span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: verdana, helvetica, sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 20px;">Obviously Bowie has the most famous song about space travel ever. Most people who have no idea who Bowie is probably still recognize <b>Space Oddity</b>. To be frank, this is not one of Bowie's best, but it does provide the framework for which Wolf Parade's <b>Yulia</b> will be created from. Whether Dan Boecker, the guitarist and songwriter of <b>Yulia</b>, is aware of it or not, the song is a kind of nightmare version of <b>Space Oddity</b>, one seen through the socio-political lens of the space race and the cold war.</span></span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: verdana, helvetica, sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 20px;">Bowie was influenced by the space race as well - the reason <b>Space Oddity</b> became such a hit was because it coincided with the lunar landing. Here we are in the late sixties, and although space has become another place where we can compete with our enemies (let's assume the anglo-american perspective here), Bowie sees it as something else. There's a case to be made that the end of <b>Space Oddity</b> is stark and depressing, but I don't buy it. Bowie has always been about theatricality, so why he would have our hero, Major Tom, singing as if he's reached enlightenment when he's actually cold and afraid is beyond me. Bowie has tragic, ironic songs, but you can tell they are such from the tenor of his voice (see "Heroes" or Five Years, for great examples of this). When Tom says "planet earth is blue, and there's nothing I can do," he seems to be at one with the universe. </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: verdana, helvetica, sans-serif; line-height: 20px;">He has said goodbye to his wife, in a way, by telling her he "loves her very much," and now faces the unknown.</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: verdana, helvetica, sans-serif; line-height: 20px;"> There's no fear from the fact that he's never coming home, just a serenity as he floats off into the void.</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: verdana, helvetica, sans-serif; line-height: 20px;">Boeckner reimagines Tom as he speaks to his wife, wondering what he would say if instead of being British (can we assume he is anything else), he is a Russian cosomonaut, probably drafted into an experiment from which he will not return. The song begins not with the preparations for takeoff, but with the denouement - the narrator is already long gone, up among the stars. But the description is in the past tense, "I was up there floating with (the stars)/ and you know that I am gone." This begins morbidly enough, but Boeckner isn't content to merely discuss the plight of a lost spaceman. The last line leading to the chorus tells us the political context of his tragedy - propaganda spills out over the radio. "The devil that you know," the devil that leads the speaker to his death, is playing a patriotic song, not a funeral dirge for its lost son.</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: verdana, helvetica, sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 20px;">The chorus too is indicative of the kind of desperation wants us to see in our hero, (maybe we should call him Major Boris or Major Dimitri). He is literally crying out his lover's name over and over again. This is not some sort of romantic gesture of love, he is screaming for what he has lost.</span></span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: verdana, helvetica, sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 20px;">It is clear in <b>Space Oddity</b> that Tom is meant to come home. "The circuit's dead, there's something wrong," says the man at ground control. Tom's fate is an accident, and it is tragic, to be sure, but he has no one to blame - indeed it appears that he is past blame or any kind of emotion aside from love by the end of the song. <b>Yulia</b> has a culprit for the cosmonaut's death, a switch is flicked at mission control. He is not meant to come home. It is unclear whether he is supposed to be some sort of experiment, or is just left up in space because it would be too much trouble to bring him home, but he is left, howling his lover's name and cursing those down below who have turned their backs on him. The best he can hope for is that they bring his body back, knowing that they will "edit him from history." His last request to Yulia is that she should not lionize him in the press , i.e. join the government in making him a hero and thus shifting the focus of the event away from the fact that they abandoned him </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: verdana, helvetica, sans-serif; line-height: 20px;">(he says "speak of me", not speak of what they've done to me, etc.). Instead she should point to the sky, as a reminder that he is gone. The pointing is a reminder of what has happened, an act running contrary to the propaganda machine described in the first verse.</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: verdana, helvetica, sans-serif; line-height: 20px;">T</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: verdana, helvetica, sans-serif; line-height: 20px;">he final verses of both songs are maybe the most indicative of their conflicting </span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: verdana, helvetica, sans-serif; line-height: 20px;">points of view on the lost astronaut's position. Take Bowie's lines:</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: verdana, helvetica, sans-serif; line-height: 20px;"><br />
</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: verdana, helvetica, sans-serif; line-height: 20px;">Planet Earth is blue, and there's nothing I can do</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: verdana, helvetica, sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 20px;"><br />
</span></span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: verdana, helvetica, sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 20px;">And now Boeckner's:</span></span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: verdana, helvetica, sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 20px;"><br />
</span></span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: verdana, helvetica, sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 20px;">There's nothing out here nothing out here nothing out</span></span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: verdana, helvetica, sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 20px;"><br />
</span></span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: verdana, helvetica, sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 20px;">While Bowie looks back to the earth, back to the humanity that Tom appears to be transcending, Boeckner's cosmonaut is in the void, caged in a cold nothingness with only fever dreams of home. Tom achieves some kind of transcendence - there's nothing he can do, but he seems perfectly all right with that. Considering Bowie's other songs in the late sixties - notably Karma Man - I think it would be wrong to see the "nothing I can do" as giving up or hopelessness. There's an acceptance in <b>Space Oddity</b>, but there's nothing of the kind in <b>Yulia</b>. Even the song titles evoke this difference - Bowie's clear reference to Space Odyssey, which ends with a character reaching some kind enlightenment, whereas Boeckner is focused on home, on the woman whom his character has been ripped away from. There is "nothing out here" in space, no meaning, no transcendence, only memories of the things he loves. It is an ending that may seem unsuitable for a three minute rock song, but that of course is the genius of it. We are left with our hero howling at the dark, knowing that there's nothing he can do, but that of course is what keeps him howling.</span></span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: verdana, helvetica, sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 20px;"><br />
</span></span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: verdana, helvetica, sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 20px;">Just a note, the music video I included above really does lay out the song, maybe too much. I think that the power of what Boeckner is saying shouldn't be lost in the overly literal video.</span></span>Noah Cruickshankhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13548649447847765824noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2562218441651339112.post-22661059860414884552010-10-19T20:01:00.000-07:002011-03-05T16:28:46.786-08:00The Host - Overturning the Expected in Monster MoviesI have been dragging my feet about netflix. My sister has had the service for years, and now and then I would become vampiric, "borrowing" her rentals to watch myself. But it is only recently that I actually got my own account (well, even that is a bit of a lie, I share the account with my roommate, and technically her name is on the bill), and, after seeing his masterful Mother in theaters, thought I'd see Bong Joon-Ho's creature-feature, The Host.<br />
I am an admitted horror-phile. Good horror stories transcend genre fiction, and usually are something more than a few spooks and some dead bodies (I usually use Stephen King and Clive Barker as my examples of horror writers who are incredible artists in their own rights - at some point I'll post a lengthy discussion of King's The Stand).<br />
What is so striking about The Host is how much it fails to resemble a horror movie. If you had to sum up the plot in a sentence, it would sound pretty standard: a mutated fish-monster steals a little girl and her family tries to get her back. The overarching narrative is quite generic, but how the story is told is actually quite radical. Bong Joon-Ho seems to know every beat of how a movie like this should go, and then purposefully misses those beats, or undermines them so heavily that they become something else. Take the appearance of the monster for instance:<br />
<a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=vaxwv1rndPI">http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=vaxwv1rndPI</a><br />
This is the third or fourth scene in the movie. It is broad daylight, and the monster is clearly visible throughout the entire thing, which, if you know monster movies, is odd, if not downright wrong. One of the central conceits of a monster movie is that the monster should remain as mysterious as possible for as long as possible - this is achieved to a greater or lesser degree depending on the movie(consider Alien, where the monster is seen for an instant in embryonic form, then lurks in the shadows until the very end - Ridley Scott masterfully keeps the creature away from the camera as it kills off the members of the Nostromo crew, giving us only glimpses to increase the tension and dread). Bong doesn't seem to care that he's breaking convention, possibly at the risk of losing some of the terror he might evoke in us. He wants us to see what the creature is, what it can do, and furthermore how ridiculous the protagonist looks as he tries to battle it. After this scene we immediately know what the stakes are - the daylight provides no safety, and Park Gang-du is in no way a reliable hero.<br />
What I mean by "not reliable" is that we as viewers cannot expect him to function the way the male protagonist in a monster movie generally does. He is not capable - indeed he is borderline moronic - and his attempts to slay the beast involve swinging around a parking sign. The rest of his family is more capable, but each of them has fundamental flaws. Normally in a movie such as this those flaws would send them to their watery deaths, but again, Bong has no interest in convention. <br />
There are only two significant deaths in the movie, one of which is expected (Park Gang-du's father), and one which is not at all. Hyun-seo, the lost child in the midst of all this, does not live to the end credits. This is tragic, considering what we've seen her go through, but it is also unexpected. Normally the adage goes that if someone is her position (someone kidnapped by the monster) is alive for the next scene or two after the kidnapping, she will survive the rest of the film. In fact, we very much expect her to get rescued (or rescue herself, she's quite a precocious little kid). Yes, there's a kind of reunion of father and child in the sense that Park Gang-du gets a surrogate son in the end, but that does not diminish the fact that he's lost his father and daughter to the creature. In fact, by lessening the body count, Bong makes those particular deaths matter all the more, and there are very few horror movies where the deaths of the characters really matter to the viewer.<br />
As I have suggested above, this movie is far beyond its genre beginnings. There are faults - the monster is not particularly convincing, and it is not totally clear why the American government is making up lies about a virus - but the central story, of a family trying to save one of its own from evil, is told in such a novel way that we are reminded why we love such kinds of stories. The Host will certainly be considered one of the great horror movies, but with any luck, we will consider it more than that as well.Noah Cruickshankhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13548649447847765824noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2562218441651339112.post-23875089602408904002010-10-11T11:51:00.000-07:002011-03-05T16:28:34.667-08:00New Song<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Lucida Grande'; font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: 11px;"><a href="https://docs.google.com/leaf?id=0BxG8Mc1uxL3TOGYwZTkxZWQtODMzZi00ZGY0LWE4ZDEtN2Y4NzFhOTkyNWI0&hl=en">https://docs.google.com/leaf?id=0BxG8Mc1uxL3TOGYwZTkxZWQtODMzZi00ZGY0LWE4ZDEtN2Y4NzFhOTkyNWI0&hl=en</a></span></span><br />
<div><br />
</div><div>Above is the link to my new song. It's called I'm On My Way.</div><div><br />
</div>Noah Cruickshankhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13548649447847765824noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2562218441651339112.post-89982607689459039792010-10-11T10:37:00.000-07:002011-03-05T16:28:23.463-08:00The Suburbs - Or, How Win Butler Betrayed Us KidsArcade Fire's Funeral seemed a work of divine majesty. I was young - 17 to be exact - and I can attest that the album by a motley band of Montrealers did for me what Sgt. Peppers did for my parents. It is definitional of my adolescent experience, and the adolescent experience of many of my friends and classmates. During my senior year of high school, I really only listened to Funeral and Alligator by The National (a band I am sure we will get to another time. So I wanted to start my criticism of what came after Funeral by noting that no matter what Win Butler does, I will still love and respect his first album. That may be understating it, Funeral is a fundamental text of my life.<br />
So what the hell happened? I am going to skip Neon Bible, a piece of shoddy lyrical craftsmanship that would only raise my ire to speak about. Instead I want to focus on the latest album, The Suburbs, which has moments that verge on a return to form, but of course this all comes at a price, one that is paid in the first five songs. A close reading of the text might be in order here, so I'll refer you to the fourth song, Rococo.<br />
<br />
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=az_2oiccZNo<br />
<br />
Here are the lyrics:<br />
<br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #333333; font-family: tahoma, helvetica, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 12px; line-height: 15px;">Let's go downtown and watch the modern kids</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #333333; font-family: tahoma, helvetica, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 12px; line-height: 15px;"><br />
</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #333333; font-family: tahoma, helvetica, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 12px; line-height: 15px;">Let's go downtown and talk to the modern kids</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #333333; font-family: tahoma, helvetica, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 12px; line-height: 15px;"><br />
</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #333333; font-family: tahoma, helvetica, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 12px; line-height: 15px;">They will eat right out of your hand</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #333333; font-family: tahoma, helvetica, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 12px; line-height: 15px;"><br />
</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #333333; font-family: tahoma, helvetica, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 12px; line-height: 15px;">Using great big words that they don't understand</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #333333; font-family: tahoma, helvetica, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 12px; line-height: 15px;"><br />
</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #333333; font-family: tahoma, helvetica, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 12px; line-height: 15px;">They say</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #333333; font-family: tahoma, helvetica, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 12px; line-height: 15px;"><br />
</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #333333; font-family: tahoma, helvetica, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 12px; line-height: 15px;"><br />
</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #333333; font-family: tahoma, helvetica, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 12px; line-height: 15px;">Rococo, rococo, rococo, rococo</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #333333; font-family: tahoma, helvetica, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 12px; line-height: 15px;"><br />
</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #333333; font-family: tahoma, helvetica, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 12px; line-height: 15px;">Rococo, rococo, rococo, rococo</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #333333; font-family: tahoma, helvetica, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 12px; line-height: 15px;"><br />
</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #333333; font-family: tahoma, helvetica, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 12px; line-height: 15px;"><br />
</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #333333; font-family: tahoma, helvetica, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 12px; line-height: 15px;">They build it up just to burn it back down</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #333333; font-family: tahoma, helvetica, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 12px; line-height: 15px;"><br />
</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #333333; font-family: tahoma, helvetica, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 12px; line-height: 15px;">They build it up just to burn it back down</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #333333; font-family: tahoma, helvetica, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 12px; line-height: 15px;"><br />
</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #333333; font-family: tahoma, helvetica, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 12px; line-height: 15px;">The wind is blowing all the ashes around</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #333333; font-family: tahoma, helvetica, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 12px; line-height: 15px;"><br />
</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #333333; font-family: tahoma, helvetica, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 12px; line-height: 15px;">Oh my dear god what is that horrible song they're singing</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #333333; font-family: tahoma, helvetica, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 12px; line-height: 15px;"><br />
</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #333333; font-family: tahoma, helvetica, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 12px; line-height: 15px;"><br />
</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #333333; font-family: tahoma, helvetica, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 12px; line-height: 15px;">Rococo, rococo, rococo, rococo</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #333333; font-family: tahoma, helvetica, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 12px; line-height: 15px;"><br />
</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #333333; font-family: tahoma, helvetica, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 12px; line-height: 15px;">Rococo, rococo, rococo, rococo</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #333333; font-family: tahoma, helvetica, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 12px; line-height: 15px;"><br />
</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #333333; font-family: tahoma, helvetica, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 12px; line-height: 15px;">Rococo, rococo, rococo, rococo</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #333333; font-family: tahoma, helvetica, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 12px; line-height: 15px;"><br />
</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #333333; font-family: tahoma, helvetica, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 12px; line-height: 15px;">Rococo, rococo, rococo, rococo</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #333333; font-family: tahoma, helvetica, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 12px; line-height: 15px;"><br />
</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #333333; font-family: tahoma, helvetica, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 12px; line-height: 15px;">Rococo, rococo!</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #333333; font-family: tahoma, helvetica, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 12px; line-height: 15px;"><br />
</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #333333; font-family: tahoma, helvetica, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 12px; line-height: 15px;">Rococo!</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #333333; font-family: tahoma, helvetica, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 12px; line-height: 15px;"><br />
</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #333333; font-family: tahoma, helvetica, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 12px; line-height: 15px;"><br />
</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #333333; font-family: tahoma, helvetica, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 12px; line-height: 15px;">They seem wild but they are so tame</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #333333; font-family: tahoma, helvetica, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 12px; line-height: 15px;"><br />
</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #333333; font-family: tahoma, helvetica, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 12px; line-height: 15px;">They seem wild but they are so tame</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #333333; font-family: tahoma, helvetica, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 12px; line-height: 15px;"><br />
</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #333333; font-family: tahoma, helvetica, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 12px; line-height: 15px;">They're moving towards you with their colors all the same</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #333333; font-family: tahoma, helvetica, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 12px; line-height: 15px;"><br />
</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #333333; font-family: tahoma, helvetica, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 12px; line-height: 15px;">They want to own you but they don't know what game they're playing</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #333333; font-family: tahoma, helvetica, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 12px; line-height: 15px;"><br />
</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #333333; font-family: tahoma, helvetica, arial, sans-serif; font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: 12px; line-height: 15px;"><br />
</span></span><br />
This coming from our supposed champion, who argued that "Us Kids Know" - that contrary to the given wisdom of our fathers we in fact held "the light" that was so bravely searched for in the cold dark night (listen to No Cars Go and Power Out again to see what I mean).<br />
Perhaps, as Butler suggests ad nauseam throughout The Suburbs, he is "past the feeling", so that the kids he identified with are nothing but superficial sheep who follow his every word. There seem to me to be two issues with this position, each of which I'll deal with.<br />
Firstly, it is unclear what reason he has to lose faith in youth. Is it merely age? Now that he has grown older, gone on massive worldwide tours, made more money than is imaginable, he sees through the masks that he once wore as a child? If anything, it was his earnestness that propelled Funeral, and I would defend that album to the last that it is an honest statement of emotion. Perhaps Butler disagrees, but if that's the case it isn't clear that his position now is any more tenable (or any less fake) then the one he previously inhabited. And that previous position lead him to being an incredibly successful rock star, so it is a little hard to see why he'd harbor such distain for the world-view he came from.<br />
Secondly, so what if the kids hide behind masks and use words they don't understand? That's what being a teenager is - trying on identities, using words and actions to mask the fact that you don't quite know who you are and the fear that someone will figure out your ruse. Butler appears to be damning such a position in Rococo, but for what? What does calling out this very normal aspect of adolescence actually do, other than shame the very kids who buy his album (and make it #1), and shame them unreasonably? Yes, we have a tendency as young adults to see our actions as "wild" - as counter to normativity, as expressions of our inner, wilder senses - and as we grow older we see that youthful rebellion is merely that, something "tame." But again, what is the problem with that? Does Butler look down on us because we do not go far enough? Or is it because we trade in self-deceit? If it's the former, he suffers from unbearable pretension. If it is the latter, he has forgotten what it means to be young.<br />
Butler uses the term Rococo in a twofold sense. One, it is the term the modern kids chant - presumably the term they don't understand - because it sounds smart, makes them sound assured, etc. But of course, their opinions on the world are rococo themselves - overly ornate while lacking any emotional or intellectual import. But Butler himself forgets that the Rococo period also had great acts of culture and the like - consider Montesquieu who was deeply embedded in his cultural milieu, in the middle of Rococo. To criticize youth by arguing that its projects are complex and pretty but ultimately empty is to forget the passion that youth has. Perhaps that passion is now and again misdirected, but the fact that it exists is admirable. Yes, the modern kids might not know what they are saying, but they'll figure it out, that's what happens when you grow up. You might become hardened, but that doesn't mean that whatever passion you once had somehow evaporates, though sadly this does appear to be the case for Win Butler. His past two projects have been extended rages against the establishment and the modern world (which, as I recall, has treated him fairly well), angst and hatred without any hint of the emotional core of Funeral. His work has in fact been sound and fury signifying nothing, which seems definitional of the Rococo that he suggests "the kids" flout as they hang in record stores or coffee shops downtown.Noah Cruickshankhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13548649447847765824noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2562218441651339112.post-42024843097331823512010-10-11T10:02:00.001-07:002011-04-09T10:30:40.223-07:00There are Some Things Words Can’t Describe<h1>There are Some Things Words Can’t Describe</h1><h1><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small; font-weight: normal;">The Absence of Tacit Knowledge in Davidson and Kuhn</span></h1><h1><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 32px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">Thomas Kuhn’s response to Donald Davidson’s </span></span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 32px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">On the Very Idea of a Conceptual Scheme</span></span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 32px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"> in </span></span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 32px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">Commensurability, Comparability, Communicability</span></span><a href="http://www.blogger.com/post-create.g?blogID=2562218441651339112#_ftn1" name="_ftnref1" title=""><span class="MsoFootnoteReference"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">[1]</span></span></span></a></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 32px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"> successfully rebuffs Davidson’s criticisms of Kuhn’s work, but it does so on Davidson’s terms. There are further arguments to be made on Kuhn’s behalf that do not so readily accept Davidson’s assumptions. Most notable is the assumption that language should be the representative of a conceptual scheme. This is not to suggest that there may be a better representative, or that a representative should exist at all, yet neither Kuhn nor Davidson note that to speak only of language is to ignore other aspects of a conceptual scheme. Kuhn himself seems to forget some of the fundamental points he made in </span></span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 32px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">On the Structure of Scientific Revolutions</span></span><a href="http://www.blogger.com/post-create.g?blogID=2562218441651339112#_ftn2" name="_ftnref2" title=""><span class="MsoFootnoteReference"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">[2]</span></span></span></a></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 32px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">. Tacit knowledge, Kuhn’s term for understanding a concept in a non-linguistic way, is highlighted in many parts of </span></span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 32px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">Structure, </span></span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 32px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">especially the postscript. By playing on Davidson’s turf and never mentioning tacit knowledge in </span></span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 32px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">CCC</span></span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 32px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">, Kuhn does himself a disservice. I will firstly examine what is right about Kuhn’s argument against Davidson, before pointing out more fully what both </span></span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 32px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">OVI </span></span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 32px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">and </span></span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 32px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">CCC </span></span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 32px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">appear to have missed. Lastly, I will give a truly Kuhnian response to Davidson, one that combines his points in </span></span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 32px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">CCC</span></span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 32px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"> with a discussion about the fact that Davidson does not seem to understand that talk about conceptual schema cannot be so easily degraded into talk about languages. Tacit knowledge must be recognized, something which Davidson never does, and Kuhn seems to have forgotten how to do.</span></span></span></h1><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; margin-left: -1.0in; margin-right: -.5in; margin-top: 0in; text-indent: .5in;"><br />
</div><h1>Davidson’s Criticisms</h1><h1><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small; font-weight: normal; line-height: 32px;">In <i>CCC</i><span style="font-style: normal;">, Kuhn notes that there are two major criticisms that Davidson, among others, launches at him. We should explore these criticisms, but first we must understand their context in Davidson’s overall project in </span><i>OVI</i><span style="font-style: normal;">. Davidson wonders whether talk about differing conceptual schemes is intelligible. His conclusion is that there is “no intelligible basis on which it can be said that (conceptual) schemes are different…(though) neither can we intelligibly say that they are one” (OVI, 198)<a href="http://www.blogger.com/post-create.g?blogID=2562218441651339112#_ftn3" name="_ftnref3" style="mso-footnote-id: ftn3;" title=""><span class="MsoFootnoteReference">[3]</span></a>. Integral to this conclusion is the argument that conceptual schemes, like languages, are translatable, and therefore share a common framework which one employs when moving from one scheme to another. In the end, Davidson believes, “we must say much the same thing about differences in conceptual scheme as we say about differences in belief: we improve the clarity and bite of declarations of difference, whether of scheme or opinion, by enlarging the basis of shared (translatable) language or of shared opinion. Indeed, no clear line between the cases can be made out” (OVI, 197).</span></span></h1><h1><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small; font-weight: normal; line-height: 32px;"><span style="font-style: normal;"></span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small; font-weight: normal; line-height: 32px;">So thinkers like Kuhn, who suggest that two conceptual schemes can be incommensurable (which in Davidson’s view means “not intertranslatable”), are talking rubbish. Just as languages are intertranslatable, so are conceptual schemes. Consequently, talking about opposing schemes does nothing for us, at least nothing that talk of differing languages or beliefs cannot handle on its own. Davidson points this out specifically when considering what it would mean for a new conceptual scheme to appear. “We get a new scheme out of an old scheme when the speakers of a language come to accept as true an important range of sentences they previously took to be false. We must not describe this change simply as a matter of coming to view old falsehoods as truth…a change has come over the meaning of the sentence because it now belongs to a new language” (OVI, 188). Changes of scheme rely on changes in language, and so “that truth is relative to a conceptual scheme – has not so far been shown to be anything more than the pedestrian and familiar fact that the truth of a sentence is relative to…the language to which it belongs. Instead of living in different worlds, Kuhn’s scientists may, like those who need Webster’s dictionary, be only words apart” (OVI, 189).</span></h1><h1><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small; font-weight: normal; line-height: 32px;"></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small; font-weight: normal; line-height: 32px;">For Davidson, the whole idea of translatability between conceptual schemes is merely a translation of language, and consequently the very idea of a conceptual scheme does not give us any new perspective or information. All of Kuhn’s talk in <i>Structure</i><span style="font-style: normal;"> and later texts is merely talk of language, and the idea of two languages being incommensurable is necessarily unintelligible. Davidson’s proof of this lies in his two major criticisms of Kuhn.</span></span></h1><h1><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small; font-weight: normal; line-height: 32px;"><span style="font-style: normal;"></span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small; font-weight: normal; line-height: 32px;">Kuhn distills Davidson’s comments against him in <i>CCC</i><span style="font-style: normal;">.</span></span></h1><div class="MsoBodyTextIndent">Most or all of the discussions of incommensurability have depended on the… assumption that, if two theories are incommensurable, they must be stated in mutually untranslatable languages. If that is so, a first line of criticism runs, if there is no way in which the two can be stated in a single language, then they cannot be compared, and no arguments from evidence can be relevant to choice between them. Talk about differences and comparisons presupposes that some ground is shared, and that is what proponents of incommesurability, who often talk about comparisons, have seemed to deny. At these points their talk is necessarily incoherent. A second line of criticism cuts at least as deep. People like Kuhn, it is said, tell us that it is impossible to translate old theories into a modern language. Then they proceed to do exactly that, reconstructing Aristotle’s or Newton’s or Lavoisier’s or Maxwell’s theory without departing from the language they and we speak every day. What can they mean, under these circumstances, when they speak about incommesurability? (CCC, 34-35)</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: -.5in; text-indent: .5in;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoBlockText" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: 0in;">By showing that the idea of non-intertranslatable languages is unintelligible, Davidson believes that we can safely say that Kuhn’s idea of incommensurability is incoherent. This conclusion helps prop up Davidson’s claim that any talk of differing conceptual schemes is a waste of time.<br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: normal;"><u><br />
</u></span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: normal;"><u>Kuhn’s Response:</u></span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: normal;"><u></u></span>Kuhn’s aim in <i>CCC</i><span style="font-style: normal;"> is to adequately answer these two criticisms, and hopefully prove that Davidson has misunderstood the claim that two languages can be incommensurable. His response relies on what he takes to be two mistaken assumptions Davidson makes in </span><i>OVI</i><span style="font-style: normal;">, each of which corresponds to one of the major criticisms. The first assumption is that incommensurable should be equated with “not translatable”, or “not comparable”. The second assumption is that translation and interpretation are the same thing. The first is a misunderstanding of Kuhn’s work, while the second is a misunderstanding of how we communicate between languages.</span><br />
<span style="font-style: normal;"></span>“The claim that two theories are incommesurable” Kuhn explains, “is then the claim that there is no language, neutral or otherwise, into which both theories, conceived as sets of sentences, can be translated without residue or loss” (<i>CCC</i><span style="font-style: normal;">, 36). Nowhere here do we have a statement concerning comparability. Also, in terms of translatability, this claim does not suggest that it is impossible, only that it operates </span><i>at a loss</i><span style="font-style: normal;">. Davidson’s understanding of the term incommensurable is incorrect. The first major criticism, that proponents of incommensurability continually compare languages, leading to incoherence in their theory, seems almost put to rest.</span><br />
<span style="font-style: normal;"></span>But this does not dispel Davidson’s point that the idea of incommensurability is unintelligible. To do that, Kuhn must explain what “operating at a loss” means in terms of translation. His explanation, which appears after he addresses the second mistaken assumption in <i>CCC</i><span style="font-style: normal;">, is better understood in light of his discussion on the difference between interpretation and translation. Following Kuhn’s lead, let us return to exactly what is meant by “at a loss” once we have briefly examined his response to the second assumption.</span><br />
<span style="font-style: normal;"></span>In response to Davidson’s second criticism, Kuhn argues that once again Davidson, among others, has made a faulty assumption.<br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: normal;">All three (Davidson, Kitcher and Putnam)</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: normal;"><a href="http://www.blogger.com/post-create.g?blogID=2562218441651339112#_ftn4" name="_ftnref4" style="mso-footnote-id: ftn4;" title=""><span class="MsoFootnoteReference">[4]</span></a></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: normal;"> sketch the technique of interpretation, all describe its outcome as a translation or a translation schema, and all conclude that its success is incompatible with even local incommensurability…The argument or argument sketch I have just supplied depends critically upon the equation of interpretation with translation….I believe it is wrong and that the mistake is important…The confusion is easy because actual translation often or perhaps always involves at least a small interpretive component. But in that case actual translation must be seen to involve two distinguishable processes. (</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: normal;"><i>CCC,</i></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: normal;"><span style="font-style: normal;"> 37)</span></span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: normal;"><span style="font-style: normal;"></span></span>So how are these processes, interpretation and translation, distinguishable? In translating, “the translator systematically substitutes words or strings of words in the other language for words or strings of words in the text in such as way as to produce an equivalent text in the other language” (<i>CCC</i><span style="font-style: normal;">, 38). Translation is the mere switching of symbols. The translator has done nothing but exchange one word or group of words that represents a concept for another (such as moving from “blanc” in French to ‘white” in English). No substantive work has been done beyond this switching. “The fact of translation has not…change[d] the meanings of words or phrases….The translation consists exclusively of words and phrases that replace (not necessarily one-to-one) words and phrases in the original” (</span><i>CCC,</i><span style="font-style: normal;"> 38). To call it merely symbol switching may be a bit misleading, but it is essentially what Kuhn’s depiction of translation is. When I translate “la neige est blanche” to “the snow is white,” I have done nothing except exchange some words for others. There is no loss of meaning, as Kuhn notes can happen in “actual translation,” and each of the words in French has the same meaning as the corresponding words in English. I do not need to give a gloss on the meaning of neige, it simply means snow. No extra work in moving between the French and English phrases is required.</span><br />
<span style="font-style: normal;"></span>But of course, this is not always the case. There are words in French that do not have equals in English, and where symbol swapping is not possible. What then is the translator to do? This is where interpretation comes into play. Kuhn describes the historian’s act of interpretation when moving from an older language to his own idiom,</div><div class="MsoBodyTextIndent" style="tab-stops: 373.5pt;">Most of the words in the older language are identical in form and function with words in the language of the historian and the historian’s audience. But others are new and must be learned or relearned. These are untranslatable terms for which the historian or some predecessor has had to discover or invent meanings in order to render intelligible the texts on which he works. Interpretation is the process by which the use of those terms is discovered… (<i>CCC</i><span style="font-style: normal;">, 45)</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 32px;">Interpretation is the invention or discovery of meaning. Unlike translation, where words and substituted for other words in a general manner, the process of interpretation involves a specific understanding of certain concepts and contexts in the language we are translating from and a similar understanding in the language we are translating to</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 32px;"><a href="http://www.blogger.com/post-create.g?blogID=2562218441651339112#_ftn5" name="_ftnref5" style="mso-footnote-id: ftn5;" title=""><span class="MsoFootnoteReference">[5]</span></a></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 32px;">. Kuhn uses the word ‘doux’/’douce’ to underline his point. The word in French can mean ‘sweet’, ‘soft’, ‘bland’, ‘tender’, or ‘gentle’ depending on the context of the French sentence. A translator would not be able to give an English equivalent word, for there is none that carries all these meanings. Instead, we have equivalent English words depending on the context in which we find ‘doux’/’douce’, like ‘soft’ when we are speaking about wool. To actively render the meaning of ‘doux’/’douce’ into the English language (if that is possible), one has to understand the context in which the word is used, and the underlying concept that the word represents in this context.</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 32px;"></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 32px;">This is not the same as an act of translation, for the interpreter must make judgments about the context and what the word means in this context. It is harder to see in an example such as ‘doux’/’douce’, since it is well known that it means soft in the context of wool. But on many (if not most) occasions, it is not so easy to identify how the usage of the word changes in context, and it is up to the historian or interpreter to “discover or invent” a reasonable guess about the usage. Interpretation involves an attempt to figure out the contextual usage of ambiguous words. That attempt involves understanding “the interrelated words in some local part of the web of language” (<i>CCC</i><span style="font-style: normal;">, 44), getting a grasp on words connected to the word in question. With interpretation, one cannot focus on one word at a time. One must see how one ambiguous term relates to the terms around it.</span></span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 32px;"><span style="font-style: normal;"></span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 32px;">This is Kuhn’s answer to how he manages to explain older scientific theories in a modern idiom, and it also sheds light on how things might be translated “at a loss.” When historians of science enlighten us about earlier conceptions of physics or biology, they give an interpretation, teaching us to see how certain words were once connected. How the words fit into “the web of language” has changed, and so we need an understanding of how each word works in relation to others in the previous language. Kuhn does precisely that in <i>Structure</i><span style="font-style: normal;">, explaining that words such as “principle” were attached to difference concepts and used in different contexts than they are now<a href="http://www.blogger.com/post-create.g?blogID=2562218441651339112#_ftn6" name="_ftnref6" style="mso-footnote-id: ftn6;" title=""><span class="MsoFootnoteReference">[6]</span></a>. Kuhn defends himself from Davidson’s second criticism by illustrating that his explanations of older sciences are not merely translations. He cannot merely swap older words for ones in our idiom, he has to figure out the relationship between words in the old language, and explain that relationship to us in the new.</span></span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 32px;"><span style="font-style: normal;"></span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 32px;">From this we can get a better understanding of what Kuhn means by “at a loss.” The word ‘doux’/’douce’ is once again a good example. ‘Doux’/’douce’ cannot be simply translated, but must be interpreted for its meaning to be transferred from one language to another. Thus it is an example of</span></div><div class="MsoBodyTextIndent" style="tab-stops: 373.5pt;">…terms that can be translated only by part and by compromise. The translator’s choice of a particular English word or phrase for one of them is ipso facto the choice of some aspects of the intension of the French term at the expense of others. Simultaneously it introduces intensional associations characteristic of English by foreign to the work being translated. (<i>CCC</i><span style="font-style: normal;">, 48)</span></div><div class="MsoBodyTextIndent" style="tab-stops: 373.5pt;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 32px;"><br />
</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 32px;">‘Doux’/’Douce’ is translated at a loss, because when choosing a certain word to represent it in the English translation, certain aspects of the word disappear. For example, if I choose to translate it into ‘soft’, my reader will never have the knowledge that the word used also has a connotation to ‘sweet’</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 32px;"><a href="http://www.blogger.com/post-create.g?blogID=2562218441651339112#_ftn7" name="_ftnref7" style="mso-footnote-id: ftn7;" title=""><span class="MsoFootnoteReference">[7]</span></a></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 32px;">. There are plenty of cases when the multiple meanings of a given word are important, as in wordplay or irony, and to choose a single word to represent multiple meanings is to lose something of what the word is in its original language. This is Kuhn’s sense of incommensurability. The only true way to understand ‘doux’/’douce’ is to understand the concepts it represents and the contexts in which it is used. That requires interpretation, not merely symbol swapping.</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 32px;"><a href="http://www.blogger.com/post-create.g?blogID=2562218441651339112#_ftn8" name="_ftnref8" style="mso-footnote-id: ftn8;" title=""><span class="MsoFootnoteReference">[8]</span></a></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 32px;"> And in turn, interpretation is required because the word in French does not have the same connotations as any word in English, and any word in English we would use as a representative has its own connotations, its own ‘intensional associations.’ ‘Doux’/’Douce’ is an incommensurability between English and French, because it cannot fit into the English web of language.</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 32px;"></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 32px;">Kuhn gives us a depiction of two different types of movement between languages, interpretation and translation, and it is on the former that his arguments rely. Davidson has neglected to see that we do not merely swap words when moving from one language to another, and that the “discovery or invention” of the meaning of words must come into play. Incommensurability has a place in talk of languages, for it does not mean that they cannot be compared, but only that one must be interpreted for the other.</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 32px;"></span><u>Tacit Knowledge</u><br />
<u></u><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 32px;">Unfortunately, Kuhn’s response in <i>CCC</i><span style="font-style: normal;"> is flawed as well: though his points are correct, his scope is too narrow. By keeping with Davidson’s analogy between conceptual schemes and languages, he betrays one of the most compelling points in </span><i>Structure.</i><span style="font-style: normal;"> His arguments for Davidson’s misunderstanding of incommensurability are sound, and there is no need to explore them further, save for when they must be integrated in a more complete, Kuhnian response to Davidson (to be discussed later). Kuhn himself seems to forget that language is not the be all end all of a conceptual scheme, at least not his understanding of it in </span><i>Structure.</i><span style="font-style: normal;"> There is a further, and equally powerful, attack to be made on Davidson, from Kuhn’s own work, that should be explored.</span></span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 32px;"><span style="font-style: normal;"></span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 32px;">When Davidson claims “We may accept the doctrine that associates having a language with having a conceptual scheme…(since) where conceptual schemes differ so do languages” (<i>OVI, </i><span style="font-style: normal;">184) why is Kuhn so ready to assent? We can challenge this claim, using Kuhn’s own appraisal of conceptual schemes. The trap that Kuhn has fallen into is that Davidson’s connection between languages and conceptual schemes is correct, at least generally. We do not want to push the (absurd) idea that language and concepts are not heavily entwined, so we must grant Davidson this connection. But we can also point out that something is missing.</span></span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 32px;"><span style="font-style: normal;"></span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 32px;">Kuhn uses Newton’s Second Law of Motion, f = ma, in the Postscipt of <i>Structure</i><span style="font-style: normal;"> to give us an idea of what that something is.</span></span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 32px;"><span style="font-style: normal;"></span></span>The sociologist, say, or the linguist who discovers that the corresponding expression (f = ma) is unproblematically uttered and received by the members of a given community will not, without much additional investigation, have learned a great deal about what either the expression or the terms in it mean, about how the scientists of the community attach the expression to nature…How have they learned, faced with a given experimental situation, to pick out the relevant forces, masses, and accelerations? (<i>Structure, </i><span style="font-style: normal;">188)</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: -.5in; text-indent: .5in;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoBlockText" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: 0in;">Already hinted at here is the idea that although we can read the statement, f = ma, and give a language definition for it, our understanding of it is somehow lacking when placed beside the understanding of a scientist. Scientists can “pick out the relevant forces, masses, and accelerations” where we generally cannot. The sociologist or linguist would only know the definitions of the words, not how to use the concepts behind those words in practical situations. Kuhn explains further,<br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: normal;">…While learning to identify forces, masses and accelerations in a variety of physical situations not previously encountered, the student has also learned to design the appropriate version of </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: normal;"><i>f = ma</i></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: normal;"><span style="font-style: normal;"> through which to interrelate them, often a version </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: normal;"><i>for which he has encountered no literal equivalent before<a href="http://www.blogger.com/post-create.g?blogID=2562218441651339112#_ftn9" name="_ftnref9" style="mso-footnote-id: ftn9;" title=""><span class="MsoFootnoteReference">[9]</span></a></i></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: normal;"><span style="font-style: normal;">. How has he learned to do this? A phenomenon familiar to both students of science and historians of science provides a clue. The former regularly report that they had read through a chapter of their text, understood it perfectly, but nonetheless had difficulty solving a number of the problems at the chapter’s end. Ordinarily, also, those difficulties dissolve in the same way. The student discovers… a way to see the problem as </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: normal;"><i>like</i></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: normal;"><span style="font-style: normal;"> a problem he has already encountered. (</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: normal;"><i>Structure,</i></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: normal;"><span style="font-style: normal;"> 189)</span></span></div><div class="MsoBlockText" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; margin-left: -.5in; margin-right: 0in; margin-top: 0in;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoBlockText" style="line-height: 200%;">Can this new discovery be described in language? Kuhn has given some sort of description of it, and when asked the student could probably describe how a new problem is analogous to an old one, but there is an aspect that has not been covered in either of these cases. What the student has done ultimately lies outside the realm of language<a href="http://www.blogger.com/post-create.g?blogID=2562218441651339112#_ftn10" name="_ftnref10" style="mso-footnote-id: ftn10;" title=""><span class="MsoFootnoteReference">[10]</span></a>. He has seen one problem as like another. Although the textbook has taught him new concepts and how they interrelate, he has trouble solving the practice problems until he begins to have an independent grasp on how these concepts fit into each problem. Giving the definition of a scientific concept is not the same thing as knowing how to use it in a problem, and this is the trouble the sociologist or linguist has. They have the definitions, but do not know how to use the concepts in the practical ways that scientists do. The definitions are the language aspects to the concepts, how they are used in differing situations is another aspect altogether. </div><div class="MsoBlockText" style="line-height: 200%;">The only way to grasp these non-language aspects is to move on from the text of a chapter and do the accompanying problems, slowly learning (usually by analogy) how the concepts are to be employed. “…What results from this process is ‘tacit knowledge’” Kuhn notes, “which is learned by <i>doing</i><span style="font-style: normal;"> science rather than by acquiring rules for doing it” (</span><i>Structure</i><span style="font-style: normal;">, 191). This tacit knowledge, knowledge of the non-linguistic aspects of a scientific concept, is something totally ignored in both </span><i>OVI </i><span style="font-style: normal;">and </span><i>CCC</i><span style="font-style: normal;">.</span></div><div class="MsoBlockText" style="line-height: 200%;">We can rightly criticize Davidson’s equation of language with conceptual scheme by saying that it seems to do away with tacit knowledge entirely. We can grant that where languages differ, so do conceptual schemes (at least generally), but also note that a conceptual scheme should not be represented merely by the language it is attached to. Look at the example of the sociologist failing to truly understand f = ma. It appears that the sociologist and scientist share linguistic definitions of the concepts of force, mass, and acceleration, but as Kuhn points out, the actual concepts themselves are different to the scientist. This seems to be an example where language remains constant but conceptual schemes differ<a href="http://www.blogger.com/post-create.g?blogID=2562218441651339112#_ftn11" name="_ftnref11" style="mso-footnote-id: ftn11;" title=""><span class="MsoFootnoteReference">[11]</span></a>. The sociologist and the scientist are not “words apart,” but “ways of looking at the world<a href="http://www.blogger.com/post-create.g?blogID=2562218441651339112#_ftn12" name="_ftnref12" style="mso-footnote-id: ftn12;" title=""><span class="MsoFootnoteReference">[12]</span></a>” apart.</div><div class="MsoBlockText" style="line-height: 200%;">Davidson is wrong to dissolve talk of conceptual schemes into merely talk of language, because tacit knowledge does in fact play an important role in the development of and use concepts. We can see this in the example of the student of science. In the Postscript to <i>Structure</i><span style="font-style: normal;"> Kuhn spends a fair amount of time illustrating the idea of tacit knowledge because it plays an important role in how students of science become scientists in their own right, and also sheds some light on how scientists view the world. Furthermore, since Kuhn’s notion of a paradigm is not a theory but a body of work, tacit knowledge also must clearly play a role there as well. One aspect of working under a paradigm is seeing and solving problems in the way of the paradigm, which means “picking out the relevant forces, masses, and accelerations” for example.</span></div><div class="MsoBlockText" style="line-height: 200%;">This seems a good place to dig our heels in to begin a defense of conceptual schemes, and it is terribly frustrating that Kuhn seems to entirely ignore it. Tacit knowledge is never once referenced in <i>CCC</i><span style="font-style: normal;">, and Kuhn even proclaims “If I were now rewriting </span><i>The Structure of Scientific Revolutions</i><span style="font-style: normal;">, I would emphasize language change more and the normal/revolutionary distinction less” (</span><i>CCC</i><span style="font-style: normal;">, 17). I am not arguing that Kuhn’s defense in </span><i>CCC</i><span style="font-style: normal;"> is a total failure, or that language is unimportant in his clash with Davidson, but language is not the only aspect to a conceptual scheme. To give a truly Kuhnian response is to merge the different aspects together. Just as a conceptual scheme is neither only linguistic or tacit knowledge, but both, and our response should involve both kinds of knowledge.</span></div><div class="MsoBlockText"><br />
</div><div class="MsoBlockText"><br />
</div><div class="MsoBlockText"><br />
</div><div class="MsoBlockText"><u>A Truly Kuhnian Response</u></div><div class="MsoBlockText"><br />
</div><div class="MsoBlockText" style="line-height: 200%;">Let us offer a quick response to Davidson, one that effectively counters his criticisms as well as notes that he has made a glaring mistake in dissolving talk of conceptual schemes into merely talk of language. Firstly, we can probe the latter, arguing that tacit knowledge serves as a prime example of how talking only of language loses something of the scope of conceptual schemes. We might go on to suggest that there may be conceptual schemes that differ where languages do not, considering the linguist versus the scientist when they use the words force, mass and acceleration<a href="http://www.blogger.com/post-create.g?blogID=2562218441651339112#_ftn13" name="_ftnref13" style="mso-footnote-id: ftn13;" title=""><span class="MsoFootnoteReference">[13]</span></a>. Opening the scope of the conversation to nonlinguistic aspects of conceptual schemes leaves room for many possibilities for exploration. </div><div class="MsoBlockText" style="line-height: 200%;">Secondly, we still must address the criticisms laid against Kuhn. One might ask, “why do this? Isn’t it enough that we have shown that Davidson’s entire argument stands on a flawed assumption?” But we have not quite done that. We have only argued that to talk of language is not enough. Kuhn’s arguments for the incommensurability of languages has not yet been defended, and furthermore, we must not make a mistake that mirror’s Davidson’s, speaking only of tacit knowledge and ignoring language altogether. This is where the arguments in <i>CCC</i><span style="font-style: normal;"> must be presented. Kuhn himself provides a robust defense of his position, so it is in our interest to borrow his when defending ourselves against Davidson.</span></div><div class="MsoBlockText" style="line-height: 200%;">Lastly, we must plant Kuhn’s talk of language in <i>CCC</i><span style="font-style: normal;"> into the overall talk of conceptual schemes. Kuhn already has done most of the work for us. We may make a brief analogy between his ‘web of language’ and what we might call a ‘web of concepts.’ Incommensurability between conceptual schemes is similar to one in language. Connections that exist between concepts in one web do not exist in another, and the only way to move from one to another is to understand the relations between these anomalous concepts, and when/how they appear contextually, to interpret.</span></div><div class="MsoBlockText" style="line-height: 200%;">It might appear that I have fallen into Davidson’s trap myself, suggesting an analogy between conceptual schemes and languages. Yet there is no reason to suppose that analogies do not exist. I have only argued that analogies should not imply equation. Words and concepts have similar problems of incommesurability because they <i>both</i><span style="font-style: normal;"> exist within a conceptual scheme. Language is a part of a conceptual scheme, so of course there exist similarities. Not all aspects of a conceptual scheme are those of language, but at least some are.</span></div><div style="mso-element: footnote-list;"><br />
<hr align="left" size="1" width="33%" /><div id="ftn1" style="mso-element: footnote;"><div class="MsoFootnoteText"><a href="http://www.blogger.com/post-create.g?blogID=2562218441651339112#_ftnref1" name="_ftn1" style="mso-footnote-id: ftn1;" title=""><span class="MsoFootnoteReference">[1]</span></a> <span style="font-size: 10pt;">From now on I will refer to <i>On the Very Idea</i></span><span style="font-size: 10pt;">… as <i>OVI</i></span><span style="font-size: 10pt;"> and <i>Commensurability</i></span><span style="font-size: 10pt;">… as <i>CCC.</i></span><span style="font-size: 10pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></div></div><div id="ftn2" style="mso-element: footnote;"><div class="MsoFootnoteText"><a href="http://www.blogger.com/post-create.g?blogID=2562218441651339112#_ftnref2" name="_ftn2" style="mso-footnote-id: ftn2;" title=""><span class="MsoFootnoteReference">[2]</span></a> <span style="font-size: 10pt;">From now on I will refer to it as <i>Structure</i></span><i>.</i></div></div><div id="ftn3" style="mso-element: footnote;"><div class="MsoFootnoteText"><a href="http://www.blogger.com/post-create.g?blogID=2562218441651339112#_ftnref3" name="_ftn3" style="mso-footnote-id: ftn3;" title=""><span class="MsoFootnoteReference"><span style="font-size: 10pt;">[3]</span></span></a><span style="font-size: 10pt;"> The page numbers correspond to the printing of OVI in Davidson, “Inquiries into Truth and Interpretation.”<o:p></o:p></span></div></div><div id="ftn4" style="mso-element: footnote;"><div class="MsoFootnoteText"><a href="http://www.blogger.com/post-create.g?blogID=2562218441651339112#_ftnref4" name="_ftn4" style="mso-footnote-id: ftn4;" title=""><span class="MsoFootnoteReference">[4]</span></a> <span style="font-size: 10pt;">Kitcher and Putnam level criticisms against Kuhn that are very similar to Davidson, and in <i>CCC</i></span><span style="font-size: 10pt;"> Kuhn addresses these criticisms en masse.</span> </div></div><div id="ftn5" style="mso-element: footnote;"><div class="MsoFootnoteText"><a href="http://www.blogger.com/post-create.g?blogID=2562218441651339112#_ftnref5" name="_ftn5" style="mso-footnote-id: ftn5;" title=""><span class="MsoFootnoteReference">[5]</span></a> <span style="font-size: 10pt;">Obviously translation involves knowledge of concepts and contexts as well, but how the relationship between the two is brought forth in the act of interpretation is different than in interpretation. The interpreter need not spend time deciding how the context of a given word should be represented in another language, to do so is by definition to interpret.</span></div></div><div id="ftn6" style="mso-element: footnote;"><div class="MsoFootnoteText"><a href="http://www.blogger.com/post-create.g?blogID=2562218441651339112#_ftnref6" name="_ftn6" style="mso-footnote-id: ftn6;" title=""><span class="MsoFootnoteReference">[6]</span></a> <span style="font-size: 10pt;">Of course, the words might also appear in the same context with a different meaning, but what I have said does not challenge that.</span></div></div><div id="ftn7" style="mso-element: footnote;"><div class="MsoFootnoteText"><a href="http://www.blogger.com/post-create.g?blogID=2562218441651339112#_ftnref7" name="_ftn7" style="mso-footnote-id: ftn7;" title=""><span class="MsoFootnoteReference">[7]</span></a> <span style="font-size: 10pt;">Obviously barring that they one day choose to learn French, or a French speaker explains this relationship to them.</span></div></div><div id="ftn8" style="mso-element: footnote;"><div class="MsoFootnoteText"><a href="http://www.blogger.com/post-create.g?blogID=2562218441651339112#_ftnref8" name="_ftn8" style="mso-footnote-id: ftn8;" title=""><span class="MsoFootnoteReference">[8]</span></a> <span style="font-size: 10pt;">One may also point out that I have not truly done ‘doux’/’douce’ justice. I have listed a number of English equivalents and spoken a little about the context, but a reader who does not speak French could hardly claim to know how to use the word. If I have done any interpretation, it has not been very good.</span></div></div><div id="ftn9" style="mso-element: footnote;"><div class="MsoFootnoteText"><a href="http://www.blogger.com/post-create.g?blogID=2562218441651339112#_ftnref9" name="_ftn9" style="mso-footnote-id: ftn9;" title=""><span class="MsoFootnoteReference">[9]</span></a> <span style="font-size: 10pt;">Italics are mine.<o:p></o:p></span></div></div><div id="ftn10" style="mso-element: footnote;"><div class="MsoFootnoteText"><a href="http://www.blogger.com/post-create.g?blogID=2562218441651339112#_ftnref10" name="_ftn10" style="mso-footnote-id: ftn10;" title=""><span class="MsoFootnoteReference"><span style="font-size: 10pt;">[10]</span></span></a><span style="font-size: 10pt;"> Obviously the problem itself is language-based, etc, but to quibble on that is to miss my point.<o:p></o:p></span></div></div><div id="ftn11" style="mso-element: footnote;"><div class="MsoFootnoteText"><a href="http://www.blogger.com/post-create.g?blogID=2562218441651339112#_ftnref11" name="_ftn11" style="mso-footnote-id: ftn11;" title=""><span class="MsoFootnoteReference"><span style="font-size: 10pt;">[11]</span></span></a><span style="font-size: 10pt;"> This is debatable, one could argue that the sociologist and scientist in fact speak a different language. Even if we grant that, the force of the point is not lost, there is a difference in tacit knowledge between the two men, and therefore the major difference between the two is not really a linguistic one.</span></div></div><div id="ftn12" style="mso-element: footnote;"><div class="MsoFootnoteText"><a href="http://www.blogger.com/post-create.g?blogID=2562218441651339112#_ftnref12" name="_ftn12" style="mso-footnote-id: ftn12;" title=""><span class="MsoFootnoteReference">[12]</span></a> <span style="font-size: 10pt;">Or at least ways of looking at the practical problems of science.</span></div></div><div id="ftn13" style="mso-element: footnote;"><div class="MsoFootnoteText"><a href="http://www.blogger.com/post-create.g?blogID=2562218441651339112#_ftnref13" name="_ftn13" style="mso-footnote-id: ftn13;" title=""><span class="MsoFootnoteReference">[13]</span></a> <span style="font-size: 10pt;">Once again, I am not trying to offer that this argument is correct, but I believe it is an option to be explored.</span></div></div></div>Noah Cruickshankhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13548649447847765824noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2562218441651339112.post-32557593536174279342010-10-11T10:01:00.001-07:002011-04-09T10:26:19.445-07:00The Terror of a Hypothetical: Blocking the Intuitions of the Ticking Bomb<h1>The Terror of a Hypothetical: Blocking the Intuitions of the Ticking Bomb</h1><h1><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small; font-weight: normal;"><u>Noah Cruickshank</u></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small; font-weight: normal;"><u> 3/8/10</u></span></h1><h1><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small; font-weight: normal;"><u></u></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small; font-weight: normal; line-height: 32px;">Dismantling the ticking time bomb hypothetical<a href="http://www.blogger.com/post-create.g?blogID=2562218441651339112#_ftn1" name="_ftnref1" style="mso-footnote-id: ftn1;" title=""><span class="MsoFootnoteReference">[1]</span></a> has proven to be an arduous task. In the face of empirical objections to the scenario - such as those found in Bob Brecher’s book <i>Torture and the Ticking Bomb</i><span style="font-style: normal;"> or Darius Rijali’s </span><i>Torture and Democracy</i><span style="font-style: normal;"> - the proponents of the TTB believe that they need only modify their examples to retain the hypothetical’s force. I shall do my best here to show that even with the strictest modifications to create the most likely scenario, the TTB still gives rise to the kind of empirical objections Brecher and Rijali pose. Thus, even the most airtight case of the TTB will still be riddled with both empirical and practical issues that suggest torture should not be used.</span></span></h1><h1><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small; font-weight: normal; line-height: 32px;"><span style="font-style: normal;"></span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small; font-weight: normal; line-height: 32px;">Still, a determined proponent of torture might accept those objections and still be committed to torturing in my particularly defined case of the TTB, arguing that there is still a <i>chance that torture might work</i><span style="font-style: normal;">. And if that chance still exists it is one that we are morally required to take. I would like to meet that position head on, and argue that even if we accept that we should torture in the deeply modified TTB, this does not commit us to anything in the real world. We can grant Charles Krauthammer that there is a hypothetical where it would seem that torture is required, without granting him that this hypothetical modifies the discussion of torture entirely, so “that the argument is not </span><i>whether </i><span style="font-style: normal;">torture is permissible, but </span><i>when…</i><span style="font-style: normal;">”<a href="http://www.blogger.com/post-create.g?blogID=2562218441651339112#_ftn2" name="_ftnref2" style="mso-footnote-id: ftn2;" title=""><span class="MsoFootnoteReference">[2]</span></a> Even if the hypothetical is airtight (which, I will show, even in the extreme case it is not), that does not mean that it necessarily has practical application. In the end, I believe that we can be always against torture for all intents and purposes even if we grant the TTB proponent my “nearly airtight” case, since we can deny that the hypothetical has any bearing on our practical positions on torture. To put it bluntly, just because torture </span><i>might work</i><span style="font-style: normal;"> in an extremely defined hypothetical is a woefully pitiful reason to use torture in real life.</span></span></h1><h1>The Ticking Bomb</h1><h1><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small; font-weight: normal; line-height: 32px;"> I will give my own detailed account of the TTB below, but let me first give a rough overview of how most examples of the TTB work. In a given essay on torture, we are told to imagine a case where a bomb is due to go off sometime in the near future. Someone with information about the bomb’s whereabouts or deactivation code has been taken into custody. After attempted interrogation, the person is unwilling to give up the needed information. If the bomb goes off, there will be a high number of casualties. Proponents of the TTB now want to insist that since torture might be a viable option in forcing the person to give up the information, it is a morally required option.</span></h1><h1><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small; font-weight: normal; line-height: 32px;"></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small; font-weight: normal; line-height: 32px;">The account above is incredibly vague, though as it turns out, it is not much worse than most accounts of the TTB in the literature on torture. There are a number of problems that occur in most presentations of the TTB, generally falling into 4 separate types: time constraints; the specific techniques that would be used and the efficacy of those techniques; who is victim of the torture; lastly, who is the torturer. To give brief descriptions of these problems now before looking at them more closely, writers generally do not define time constraints on the event specifically, do not explain what torture could or would be used and what should be expected to work, do not say who actually is being tortured, and do not say who is doing the torturing. While each of these problems bleed into the others, I will discuss each problem specifically and show how my example of the TTB attempts to counteract them specifically.</span></h1><h1><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small; font-weight: normal; line-height: 32px;"></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small; font-weight: normal; line-height: 32px;">Firstly, most proponents of the TTB have no idea how long torture usually takes to work. Krauthammer, for example, suggests that the bomb will go off in one hour. This relies on a complete misunderstanding of how torture is actually practiced. Rijali notes, “Physical interrogation methods (of torture), like psychological methods, take time, time that interrogators do not have in emergencies. Real torture…takes days, if not weeks…”<a href="http://www.blogger.com/post-create.g?blogID=2562218441651339112#_ftn3" name="_ftnref3" style="mso-footnote-id: ftn3;" title=""><span class="MsoFootnoteReference">[3]</span></a> In the face of Krauthammer’s one hour time limit, there would be no reason to torture the person withholding information, because there would not be enough time for the torture to be effective. Any example of the TTB that gives us only a few hours to interrogate a suspect already rules out the chance of torture actually working.</span></h1><h1><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small; font-weight: normal; line-height: 32px;"></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small; font-weight: normal; line-height: 32px;">A TTB proponent might then expand the time frame, giving the kind of example that Fritz Allhoff does, where there is “a bomb in a crowded office building that will likely explode tomorrow”<a href="http://www.blogger.com/post-create.g?blogID=2562218441651339112#_ftn4" name="_ftnref4" style="mso-footnote-id: ftn4;" title=""><span class="MsoFootnoteReference">[4]</span></a>, but this runs into trouble as well. First of all, will the bomb “likely” explode tomorrow, or will it actually explode? But more importantly, if the authorities in this hypothetical city are aware that an office building may explode in <i>a day</i><span style="font-style: normal;">, that gives them enough time to make sure people who work in office buildings could be alerted and begin a thorough search of office buildings in the area. It seems that the authorities could very easily tell everyone with an office job to take the next day off for their own safety. So expanding the time frame is problematic as well; too little time, and torture is useless, too much time and other means to save lives are available.</span></span></h1><h1><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small; font-weight: normal; line-height: 32px;"><span style="font-style: normal;"></span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small; font-weight: normal; line-height: 32px;">In light of this, I will begin to introduce my version of the TTB. Suppose that a four-man cell of <span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman';">Al-Qaeda has planted hydrogen bomb somewhere in New York. Let’s say the men are caught at 12:30 pm on a Monday and it is set to go off at 12:30 pm the next day, so the authorities have a day to interrogate, and possibly torture the subjects. Remember that the blast radius of a regular nuclear device is about two miles, and a hydrogen bomb is substantially more powerful than that. This means that if the bomb goes off, it is likely that not only New York city is leveled, but the greater New York area as well. New York is huge and populous, which means it would be nigh impossible to evacuate in a day, and also nigh impossible to effectively search for the hidden bomb. This does not mean that the authorities should not try to evacuate and search, but it is understood that unless they are granted a miracle, these methods alone will not stop a substantial loss of life. A day is still not a lot of time to torture with full efficacy, but it would be long enough to begin the torture process. It seems, on the face of it, that the time constraints are dealt with as best they can be. In this scenario there is not enough time to effectively use non-interrogational methods, but enough time for torture to maybe start having an effect on the captured terrorists.</span></span></h1><h1><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small; font-weight: normal; line-height: 32px;"><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman';"></span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small; font-weight: normal; line-height: 32px;"><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman';">But within this time frame, what torture methods are actually viable? Aside form Alan Dershowitz, who suggests that a sterilized needle be placed under the fingernails of the torture victims, most people who discuss the TTB never mention what <i>kinds of torture</i></span><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman';"> can or should be used. This vagueness also stems from a lack of understanding of how torture works, and to alleviate this problem I will now suggest what might be the best bets to try in the scenario I am constructing. Rijali notes, “Short time changes a torturer’s preferences. Torturers cannot use techniques that take time, like forced standing and sleep deprivation. They must push to maximal pain fast with techniques like whipping, harsh beating, violent shaking, and electroshock.”<a href="http://www.blogger.com/post-create.g?blogID=2562218441651339112#_ftn5" name="_ftnref5" style="mso-footnote-id: ftn5;" title=""><span class="MsoFootnoteReference">[5]</span></a> With the time frame being 24 hours, it is possible that we might be able to incorporate techniques such as forced standing that place the terrorist in an uncomfortable position, but unless those worked relatively quickly (within twelve hours, say), we would have to move on to the more brutal forms of torture that Rijali lists. We might perhaps throw waterboarding in as well, just as another method at our disposal, but it is unclear that waterboarding would provide the kind of maximal pain needed to perform adequate torture quickly. This problem also seems to apply to Dershowitz suggestion of needles.</span></span></h1><h1><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small; font-weight: normal; line-height: 32px;"><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman';"></span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small; font-weight: normal; line-height: 32px;"><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman';">This need to perform adequate torture in a relatively short time frame brings out the third problem that usually arises when confronting the TTB: who will be doing the torture? This is a particularly distressing point that most proponents of the TTB seem to overlook. Generally when posing the scenario, the question “Would <i>you</i></span><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman';"> do it?” - as in, “Would <i>you</i></span><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman';"> torture the terrorist?” – is asked.<a href="http://www.blogger.com/post-create.g?blogID=2562218441651339112#_ftn6" name="_ftnref6" style="mso-footnote-id: ftn6;" title=""><span class="MsoFootnoteReference">[6]</span></a> But from the outset, that is a problematic question, since most people – including writers of the TTB scenarios – have no idea <i>how</i></span><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman';"> to torture. If the <i>you</i></span><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman';"> in this question is an average person, we can expect the torture to be brutally misapplied and deeply ineffective. In a situation as dire as the TTB, it would be ludicrous to call on a neophyte if torture was the chosen option to extract information. As Brecher puts it, “The ticking bomb scenario requires us not to imagine what <i>we</i></span><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman';"> would do, but to imagine what we would require <i>someone else</i></span><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman';"> – a professional torturer – to do on our behalf; and…as the practice of their (sic) profession. The institutionalization of the profession of torture is a necessary condition of the example’s even getting off the ground…”<a href="http://www.blogger.com/post-create.g?blogID=2562218441651339112#_ftn7" name="_ftnref7" style="mso-footnote-id: ftn7;" title=""><span class="MsoFootnoteReference">[7]</span></a> The only way that torture <i>might</i></span><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman';"> work in a TTB scenario is if the person torturing knows what he is doing – he must be a professional. So to keep my scenario as airtight as possible, I will have to admit to there being professional torturers, and their use in this case. Lucky for us, we know the US has these kind of men working for them, so let us assume that one of them is in New York city with us, ready to torture these four Al-Qaeda members if the authorities say the word. This stipulation already deeply compromises the scenario – since by assenting to torture we would be implicitly assenting to the profession of torturer – but it seems the only real way to “get if off the ground,” as Brecher says.</span></span></h1><h1><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small; font-weight: normal; line-height: 32px;"><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman';"></span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: small; font-weight: normal; line-height: 32px;">Lastly, there is the problem of who the victims are. I have already said that in this TTB, our possible victims are a four Al-Qaeda operatives working together. Let us suppose there are no others in their specific group. Let us also suppose that the spy that brought them in is trustworthy, and has provided ample evidence to show that these are the men who planted the bomb. On occasion the TTB examples are so vague it is unclear who is to be tortured, and thus an easy way to reject the hypothetical is that we could be torturing an innocent person. I want to do away with such objections, so let us stipulate that we know for sure – due to the outstanding work of our intelligence agencies, that we have the men. Furthermore, they have been trained in interrogative techniques, and will not speak.<a href="http://www.blogger.com/post-create.g?blogID=2562218441651339112#_ftn8" name="_ftnref8" style="mso-footnote-id: ftn8;" title=""><span class="MsoFootnoteReference">[8]</span></a> Any question posed to them is responded to with silence. Thus their interrogators cannot get any of their techniques going to try to glean some information about the location of the bomb.</span></h1><h1><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: small; font-weight: normal; line-height: 32px;"></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: small; font-weight: normal; line-height: 32px;">Let me recapitulate the scenario for clarity. There is a hydrogen bomb under New York city and we have a day to find and defuse it. This is not enough time for a full evacuation of the city or a comprehensive search for the bomb. Due to some very good intelligence, we have all the members of the terrorist group (Al-Qaeda) who planted the bomb in our custody. The suspects will not talk, thus interrogational tactics are useless. We also have a professional torturer on hand, who would be able to make the best use of the brutal techniques needed for such a small time frame to get results. There is still no guarantee that torture will work to loosen these men’s tongues, but of all the TTB examples I have seen this gives us the best shot of torture being effective. Let us also suppose that this is top secret, and will not be known by the public, thereby quelling objections on the ground that this act of torture would have a devastating social impact. So now the question can be posed: should we tell our professional to go ahead and torture these men? I now want to give an empirical and practical case for why we should say, “No.”</span></h1><h1>Empirical and Practical Problems with the TTB</h1><h1><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small; font-weight: normal; line-height: 32px;">Even with the TTB as airtight a case as we can have it, there are still a multitude of problems that arise, all of which suggest that we should not torture. I want to go through the general problems of the TTB again and show that even in my scenario there is still a lot of evidence to show that torture would be ineffective, and furthermore the practical consequences of getting the hypothetical “off the ground” are also deeply worrying.</span></h1><h1><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small; font-weight: normal; line-height: 32px;"></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small; font-weight: normal; line-height: 32px;">Let us begin again with the time constraints. While managing to allot twenty-four hours for interrogation does give our professional torturer some time to work effectively, it is still not clear whether this would be enough. Rijali notes that “Hardcore believers, including presumably the common terrorist, do not break quickly.”<a href="http://www.blogger.com/post-create.g?blogID=2562218441651339112#_ftn9" name="_ftnref9" style="mso-footnote-id: ftn9;" title=""><span class="MsoFootnoteReference">[9]</span></a> This usually occurs for a few reasons: firstly, “For decades, guerilla organizations have made ‘torture contracts’ with their members: if you get arrested, keep the interrogators busy for twenty-four hours and let us change the passwords and locations…’”<a href="http://www.blogger.com/post-create.g?blogID=2562218441651339112#_ftn10" name="_ftnref10" style="mso-footnote-id: ftn10;" title=""><span class="MsoFootnoteReference">[10]</span></a> In our case of the TTB, the tortured Al-Qaeda operatives know that if they hold on for a day, the bomb will go off and the torture will end – either because they have been killed in the explosion or there is nothing for him to give up. By stipulating twenty-four hours to give time for the torture to work, we have also given the terrorists a goal – just get through the day. With something like this in their minds, the terrorists will be harder to break. Secondly, the CIA Kubark manual notes, “Persons of considerable moral or intellectual stature often find in pain inflicted by others a confirmation of the belief that they are in the hands of inferiors, and their resolve not to submit is strengthened.”<a href="http://www.blogger.com/post-create.g?blogID=2562218441651339112#_ftn11" name="_ftnref11" style="mso-footnote-id: ftn11;" title=""><span class="MsoFootnoteReference">[11]</span></a> An Al-Qaeda operative will surely view the American torturer as an inferior, and since the operative believes he is on a mission from God, there is a good chance torturing him will only strengthen his resolve to not speak.</span></h1><h1><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small; font-weight: normal; line-height: 32px;"></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small; font-weight: normal; line-height: 32px;">Concerning the efficacy of torture tactics in the TTB, there is a direct problem with attempting to achieve “maximal pain,” immediately. Suppose the torturer, through electroshock or harsh beatings, manages to reach the pain threshold for the victims, and yet they still do not break. Many torture victims describe a numbness that sets in once they reach a certain level of pain.<a href="http://www.blogger.com/post-create.g?blogID=2562218441651339112#_ftn12" name="_ftnref12" style="mso-footnote-id: ftn12;" title=""><span class="MsoFootnoteReference">[12]</span></a> If maximal pain is reached, and the victim is not broken, then what is the torturer to do? Even the best method to break the victim in a short amount of time comes with a cost, in that torture will lose any possibility of efficacy if it is not effective from the get go.</span></h1><h1><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small; font-weight: normal; line-height: 32px;"></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small; font-weight: normal; line-height: 32px;">Furthermore, if these men are terrorist operatives in the United States, they should be prepared for the possibility of capture. We stipulated that these men were keeping silent, and trained in interrogation tactics as a way to force our authorities into torture as an option. Knowing that, it is ludicrous to believe that they were somehow not prepared for torture as well. Either the men have not been trained to undergo any interrogative techniques, or they have been trained to undergo all kinds of them. In the case of Al-Qaeda, the latter is far more likely. Thus even with a day we probably would not have enough time for the torture to work, since our victims would already be prepared for such measures and could resist them.</span></h1><h1><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small; font-weight: normal; line-height: 32px;"></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small; font-weight: normal; line-height: 32px;">Again, if the victims of our intended torture are prepared – and we should expect that they are – it is very hard to see how effective torture would be. Even if we are using techniques such as electroshock that strive for maximal pain immediately, if they are trained to handle great pain it will doubtful that these techniques will work at all. A more likely way to break our victims would be something like threatening to torture or in fact torturing their loved ones – this is how <span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman';">Khalid Sheikh Mohammed was finally broken, for example</span>. But this gets us into dangerous territory, both empirically and practically. Unless these men have friends and relatives living in New York, a day is not a lot of time to find their families and set up an effective scenario where we would be able to – or at least make it appear that we could – torture them. It is not impossible, only very unlikely to work within the confines of a day.<a href="http://www.blogger.com/post-create.g?blogID=2562218441651339112#_ftn13" name="_ftnref13" style="mso-footnote-id: ftn13;" title=""><span class="MsoFootnoteReference">[13]</span></a> Also, this would mean that we would have to accept torturing – or even murdering – innocent people. That sets a dangerous practical precedent, even if the authorities never publicly disclose their actions. Many people who agree to the TTB might be happy to torture the terrorist, but how would they feel about his innocent sister in Jordan? If we want the best torture techniques available to us to defuse the bomb, torturing innocents is right up there.</span></h1><h1><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small; font-weight: normal; line-height: 32px;"></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small; font-weight: normal; line-height: 32px;">This of course connects to the question of <i>who</i><span style="font-style: normal;"> is being tortured, and I have little else to say about the subject, expect to reiterate that if one assents that torturing the terrorist is morally required because it </span><i>might</i><span style="font-style: normal;"> be effective in stopping the bomb, it is hard to see how torturing his family is not required as well, since there is evidence that it too </span><i>might </i><span style="font-style: normal;">be effective. If in response the TTB proponent says, “Well, we don’t torture innocents on principle,” it seems reasonable to say “Well, we shouldn’t torture </span><i>anyone</i><span style="font-style: normal;"> on principle.” If we limit our torturing practices based on principle, why not eliminate them altogether on principle as well?</span></span></h1><h1><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small; font-weight: normal; line-height: 32px;"><span style="font-style: normal;"></span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small; font-weight: normal; line-height: 32px;">Lastly, as I noted before, having a professional torturer to do the work for us in this TTB will be the only possible way that the torture <i>might</i><span style="font-style: normal;"> work, but that leaves us open to the practical problems of having the professional torturer around. First of all, to have professional torturers means we would have to </span><i>train</i><span style="font-style: normal;"> people to become professionals in torture. As Brecher puts it, “To admit the profession of the torturer to the range of legally recognized professions would require that we recognize torture training in the same way that we recognize, for example, legal, medical and teacher education and training….”<a href="http://www.blogger.com/post-create.g?blogID=2562218441651339112#_ftn14" name="_ftnref14" style="mso-footnote-id: ftn14;" title=""><span class="MsoFootnoteReference">[14]</span></a> To have this man at our disposal in the TTB case means we must create a system where that man could learn his trade. Brecher specifically speaks of legalizing the torturer’s profession, but we need not go that far: perhaps we have a secret torture program that is officially illegal, but in place nonetheless. Yet having a secret system to teach torture does not seem much better than having an open, legal system to do it. To assent to the TTB means to assent to having a cadre of trained torturers at our disposal, whom we pay and train.</span></span></h1><h1><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small; font-weight: normal; line-height: 32px;"><span style="font-style: normal;"></span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small; font-weight: normal; line-height: 32px;">Brecher points out a further issue concerning the problem of “who does the torturing?” “The necessary role of medical personnel (in torture) is well documented,” thus if torture became a practical possibility, it would make “medical cooperation, advice, and training in interrogational torture on a par with the provision of medical services in prisons.”<a href="http://www.blogger.com/post-create.g?blogID=2562218441651339112#_ftn15" name="_ftnref15" style="mso-footnote-id: ftn15;" title=""><span class="MsoFootnoteReference">[15]</span></a> Not only would we have professional torturers, but professional torture doctors. Brecher and others<a href="http://www.blogger.com/post-create.g?blogID=2562218441651339112#_ftn16" name="_ftnref16" style="mso-footnote-id: ftn16;" title=""><span class="MsoFootnoteReference">[16]</span></a> tease out the many implications of having torture as an institution, but for the sake of space I will not discuss them further. Suffice it to say, the professionalization of torture – the creation of a entire system of practices where torture is taught and refined – means that we are not limiting ourselves to torturing only in the case of the TTB. If we have these professionals, what would stop the authorities from using them in less dire situations, or situations where torture would be more effective?<a href="http://www.blogger.com/post-create.g?blogID=2562218441651339112#_ftn17" name="_ftnref17" style="mso-footnote-id: ftn17;" title=""><span class="MsoFootnoteReference">[17]</span></a> Furthermore, it is hard to see how these torturers could become skilled without practice. It is conceivable that they only train in role-playing exercises – perhaps each torturer in his training must be tortured so that his classmates can have practice, etc. – but even then it seems that we are obliging them to torture innocent people as a part of learning their trade. Either they need to torture possibly guilty people outside of the TTB to learn how to torture, or they torture their innocent companions. This is already problematic without the other repercussions that Brecher and others suggest.</span></h1><h1><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small; font-weight: normal; line-height: 32px;"></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small; font-weight: normal; line-height: 32px;">Even with this “mostly airtight” TTB, there is still no guarantee that torture would be effective – indeed, no guarantee that torture <i>might</i><span style="font-style: normal;"> be effective; there also appear to be dangerous practical repercussions that appear from stipulations we must make to have the hypothetical get off the ground in the first place. If it is unclear that torture is even a viable option in the TTB, there seems plenty of reason to answer “no” to the proponent of torture. If it will not work, then why subject the victim, and ourselves, to this degradation? Furthermore, we might be unwilling to create the kind of system needed for torture to even be a viable option in the TTB – having professional torturers and the like. The TTB usually pulls at our intuitions – the feeling that we must do something, anything, to stop the bomb from exploding – but I do not think that having a professional system of torture has much intuitive pull for anyone. Assenting to the TTB is assenting to everything the professional torturer must do to become effective when the TTB case emerges<a href="http://www.blogger.com/post-create.g?blogID=2562218441651339112#_ftn18" name="_ftnref18" style="mso-footnote-id: ftn18;" title=""><span class="MsoFootnoteReference">[18]</span></a> - that probably means a whole lot more torture.</span></span></h1><h1><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small; font-weight: normal; line-height: 32px;"><span style="font-style: normal;"></span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small; font-weight: normal; line-height: 32px;">But, a proponent of the TTB could still be adamant that torture is a moral requirement in this case because it <i>might work</i><span style="font-style: normal;">. No matter how improbable the chance, the proponent might say, there is a chance, and it is one we must take in order to save lives. A proponent of torture in the face of a ticking bomb might very well accept the fact that we would have to have professional torturers, and all that they entail. The proponent might say it is an unfortunate necessity, a lesser evil in the face of this possibility – even though this possibility is beyond remote. Richard Posner seems to be of this opinion, suggesting that we let the government do terrible things in secret for the greater good. When considering my TTB and the problems with it, I believe Posner would still say we should keep torture on the table, and everything that comes along with it, because there is a chance for success. The question now is, what do we say to such a person? How do we respond to the person who accepts the large empirical evidence against torture and the practical implications that professional torture has, yet still thinks that in the case of the TTB torture is morally required because it has a chance of working? I want to take the next section to see how we can grant the proponent of torture my TTB while still keeping our hands clean.</span></span></h1><div class="MsoBlockText"><u>The Failure of the Hypothetical</u><br />
<u></u><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 32px;">Even if a person accepts the fact that in this highly specified TTB scenario, he or she would be morally required to condone torture, it is not clear that this gets the proponents of torture anywhere. As noted in the introduction, Charles Krauthammer believes that if we grant him the TTB, it changes the discussion, so “that the argument is not <i>whether </i><span style="font-style: normal;">torture is permissible, but </span><i>when…</i><span style="font-style: normal;">”<a href="http://www.blogger.com/post-create.g?blogID=2562218441651339112#_ftn19" name="_ftnref19" style="mso-footnote-id: ftn19;" title=""><span class="MsoFootnoteReference">[19]</span></a> I do not believe that we need to agree with Krauthammer on this point. Agreeing on a nigh-fantastical hypothetical has no bearing in the real world – it has no bearing on our practical discussions concerning whether we should torture or not.</span></span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 32px;"><span style="font-style: normal;"></span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 32px;">The proponent of the TTB wants to first place us in a hypothetical where we might agree to torture, and then expand the conditions of the hypothetical, arguing that if we agreed to the TTB we have little ground for denying other, similar cases. So once we’ve agreed in the case of a ticking bomb, the proponent of torture then shifts the discussion to <i>when</i><span style="font-style: normal;">, as Krauthammer says, arguing that there are similar cases to the TTB, and by the same logic we should agree to those as well. This is brilliant sophistry, but sophistry nonetheless.</span></span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 32px;"><span style="font-style: normal;"></span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 32px;">The only reason the TTB I posed above made any sense was due to its highly specified constraints: there needed to be an exact window where methods other than torture would not be as effective; there needed to be a number of incredibly improbable occurrences – we knew that we had those responsible for the attack, we knew exactly when the bomb would go off, etc. And even with those specificities, we still had to allow for a professional system of torture, and had to grant that there was seemingly good reason to torture innocents if we agreed that torture was required. The moment any of those specificities are expanded, the hypothetical collapses, and thus the claim that torture is morally required also collapses. Contracting the time frame leaves torture to be ineffective. Expanding the time frame means there are other, better techniques at our disposal. Changing the bomb from something catastrophic like a Hydrogen bomb means that things like evacuation become possible. Even moving out of New York city means that there is a far greater chance to search for the bomb and evacuate the city. The TTB only works – and it hardly works, at that – with these specificities. Taking them away means torture is no longer viable.</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 32px;"></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 32px;">So we can respond to Krauthammer by saying, “No, the discussion is still about <i>whether</i><span style="font-style: normal;">. If there is only one possible occasion<a href="http://www.blogger.com/post-create.g?blogID=2562218441651339112#_ftn20" name="_ftnref20" style="mso-footnote-id: ftn20;" title=""><span class="MsoFootnoteReference">[20]</span></a> where torture might work and so would be morally required, then there is no reason to do it in any other case.” Krauthammer believes that if we give him an inch, he can take an ell, but we need not let him do so. I personally do not believe that we should even believe that torture is morally required in my TTB, but even if it is, the hypothetical has no practical application, because the moment you try to apply the TTB, you have to change its structure, and by doing that you turn it into a case where torture is ineffective in comparison to other methods, and thus can be dropped. This means that we can hold a position that is not absolutist, per se, but for all practical purposes has the same import. If there is only one possibility where torture would make any sense, there seems no reason to prepare for </span><i>that</i><span style="font-style: normal;"> particular possibility over the innumerable others, most of which are more likely.</span></span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 32px;"><span style="font-style: normal;"></span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 32px;">The truth is that men like Krauthammer have won a battle in a fantasy world, and they want this victory to have a direct bearing on real life. But consider any other deeply improbable hypothetical – Martians land and in order for them to not make war on us you would have to let them subject you to some sexual degradation. You might be convinced that you were morally required to do it, but that has no bearing on real life. It might seem that my analogy is far fetched – the proponent of torture might say “we <i>know</i><span style="font-style: normal;"> that there are terrorists, we don’t know that there are Martians willing to kill us.” That is very true, but try to guess chances of four men planting a hydrogen bomb under New York City, our authorities finding all of them, knowing we have a day, knowing for sure that they are the ones who did it, and that torture would work on them. That seems just as improbable, or not much less improbable than alien life wanting to exchange sexual degradation for peace.</span></span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 32px;"><span style="font-style: normal;"></span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 32px;">I have been a bit facetious above, but in the hopes of showing that we need not let a ridiculous hypothetical hold sway over our practical considerations of torture. Let the Charles Krauthammers of the world have their TTB, just because he has managed to show that we are not absolutists does not mean that we should believe that torture is justifiable in the real world. Furthermore, if we spend our time and interests trying to create a world where people do not feel that they should blow each other up, the more we reduce the chance of any ticking bomb. Torture is not a practical solution, and the ticking bomb should not trick us into thinking that it is.</span></div><div class="MsoBlockText" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; margin-left: -58.3pt; margin-right: -13.7pt; margin-top: 0in;"><o:p></o:p></div><div style="mso-element: footnote-list;"><br />
<hr align="left" size="1" width="33%" /><div id="ftn1" style="mso-element: footnote;"><div class="MsoFootnoteText"><a href="http://www.blogger.com/post-create.g?blogID=2562218441651339112#_ftnref1" name="_ftn1" style="mso-footnote-id: ftn1;" title=""><span class="MsoFootnoteReference"><span style="font-size: 10pt;">[1]</span></span></a><span style="font-size: 10pt;"> For the sake of space, I will generally refer to the scenario as the TTB.<o:p></o:p></span></div></div><div id="ftn2" style="mso-element: footnote;"><div class="MsoFootnoteText"><a href="http://www.blogger.com/post-create.g?blogID=2562218441651339112#_ftnref2" name="_ftn2" style="mso-footnote-id: ftn2;" title=""><span class="MsoFootnoteReference"><span style="font-size: 10pt;">[2]</span></span></a><span style="font-size: 10pt;"> Krauthammer, <i>The Truth About Torture</i></span><span style="font-size: 10pt;">, 309 from <i>Torture: A Collection</i></span><span style="font-size: 10pt;">, Ed. Levinson.<o:p></o:p></span></div></div><div id="ftn3" style="mso-element: footnote;"><div class="MsoFootnoteText"><a href="http://www.blogger.com/post-create.g?blogID=2562218441651339112#_ftnref3" name="_ftn3" style="mso-footnote-id: ftn3;" title=""><span class="MsoFootnoteReference"><span style="font-size: 10pt;">[3]</span></span></a><span style="font-size: 10pt;"> Rijali, <i>Torture and Democracy</i></span><span style="font-size: 10pt;">, 474.<o:p></o:p></span></div></div><div id="ftn4" style="mso-element: footnote;"><div class="MsoFootnoteText"><a href="http://www.blogger.com/post-create.g?blogID=2562218441651339112#_ftnref4" name="_ftn4" style="mso-footnote-id: ftn4;" title=""><span class="MsoFootnoteReference">[4]</span></a> <span style="font-size: 10pt;">Fritz, <i>On the Permissibility of Torture</i></span><span style="font-size: 10pt;">, International Journal of Applied Philosophy, 17, p.129</span></div></div><div id="ftn5" style="mso-element: footnote;"><div class="MsoFootnoteText"><a href="http://www.blogger.com/post-create.g?blogID=2562218441651339112#_ftnref5" name="_ftn5" style="mso-footnote-id: ftn5;" title=""><span class="MsoFootnoteReference"><span style="font-size: 10pt;">[5]</span></span></a><span style="font-size: 10pt;"> Rijali, 474.<o:p></o:p></span></div></div><div id="ftn6" style="mso-element: footnote;"><div class="MsoFootnoteText"><a href="http://www.blogger.com/post-create.g?blogID=2562218441651339112#_ftnref6" name="_ftn6" style="mso-footnote-id: ftn6;" title=""><span class="MsoFootnoteReference"><span style="font-size: 10pt;">[6]</span></span></a><span style="font-size: 10pt;"> Jacobo Timmerman, himself a victim of torture, ends his TTB hypothetical with exactly this question. (From <i>The Torture Debate in America</i></span><span style="font-size: 10pt;">, edited by Karen J. Greenberg, 18)<o:p></o:p></span></div></div><div id="ftn7" style="mso-element: footnote;"><div class="MsoFootnoteText"><a href="http://www.blogger.com/post-create.g?blogID=2562218441651339112#_ftnref7" name="_ftn7" style="mso-footnote-id: ftn7;" title=""><span class="MsoFootnoteReference"><span style="font-size: 10pt;">[7]</span></span></a><span style="font-size: 10pt;"> Brecher, 24.<o:p></o:p></span></div></div><div id="ftn8" style="mso-element: footnote;"><div class="MsoFootnoteText"><a href="http://www.blogger.com/post-create.g?blogID=2562218441651339112#_ftnref8" name="_ftn8" style="mso-footnote-id: ftn8;" title=""><span class="MsoFootnoteReference"><span style="font-size: 10pt;">[8]</span></span></a><span style="font-size: 10pt;"> As I note below, if these men are trained in interrogation techniques they will also be trained to resist torture, leaving us with another problem with the efficacy of torture.</span></div></div><div id="ftn9" style="mso-element: footnote;"><div class="MsoFootnoteText"><a href="http://www.blogger.com/post-create.g?blogID=2562218441651339112#_ftnref9" name="_ftn9" style="mso-footnote-id: ftn9;" title=""><span class="MsoFootnoteReference"><span style="font-size: 10pt;">[9]</span></span></a><span style="font-size: 10pt;"> Rjali, 476.<o:p></o:p></span></div></div><div id="ftn10" style="mso-element: footnote;"><div class="MsoFootnoteText"><a href="http://www.blogger.com/post-create.g?blogID=2562218441651339112#_ftnref10" name="_ftn10" style="mso-footnote-id: ftn10;" title=""><span class="MsoFootnoteReference"><span style="font-size: 10pt;">[10]</span></span></a><span style="font-size: 10pt;"> Rijali, 475</span></div></div><div id="ftn11" style="mso-element: footnote;"><div class="MsoFootnoteText"><a href="http://www.blogger.com/post-create.g?blogID=2562218441651339112#_ftnref11" name="_ftn11" style="mso-footnote-id: ftn11;" title=""><span class="MsoFootnoteReference"><span style="font-size: 10pt;">[11]</span></span></a><span style="font-size: 10pt;"> As quoted in Rijali, 476<o:p></o:p></span></div></div><div id="ftn12" style="mso-element: footnote;"><div class="MsoFootnoteText"><a href="http://www.blogger.com/post-create.g?blogID=2562218441651339112#_ftnref12" name="_ftn12" style="mso-footnote-id: ftn12;" title=""><span class="MsoFootnoteReference"><span style="font-size: 10pt;">[12]</span></span></a><span style="font-size: 10pt;"> Henri Alleg, for example, says so in his personal account of torture.<o:p></o:p></span></div></div><div id="ftn13" style="mso-element: footnote;"><div class="MsoFootnoteText"><a href="http://www.blogger.com/post-create.g?blogID=2562218441651339112#_ftnref13" name="_ftn13" style="mso-footnote-id: ftn13;" title=""><span class="MsoFootnoteReference"><span style="font-size: 10pt;">[13]</span></span></a><span style="font-size: 10pt;"> Imagine that one of the terrorists has family in Egypt. We would have to get into contact with our men on the ground there (or the Egyptian government), find the family members (which could take a lot of time if they are in hiding), set up an interrogation, and then provide proof to the terrorist that his family is in danger. This would be quite the process, and if he nonetheless stands firm, it would be a lot of work for nothing.<o:p></o:p></span></div></div><div id="ftn14" style="mso-element: footnote;"><div class="MsoFootnoteText"><a href="http://www.blogger.com/post-create.g?blogID=2562218441651339112#_ftnref14" name="_ftn14" style="mso-footnote-id: ftn14;" title=""><span class="MsoFootnoteReference"><span style="font-size: 10pt;">[14]</span></span></a><span style="font-size: 10pt;"> Brecher, 70.<o:p></o:p></span></div></div><div id="ftn15" style="mso-element: footnote;"><div class="MsoFootnoteText"><a href="http://www.blogger.com/post-create.g?blogID=2562218441651339112#_ftnref15" name="_ftn15" style="mso-footnote-id: ftn15;" title=""><span class="MsoFootnoteReference"><span style="font-size: 10pt;">[15]</span></span></a><span style="font-size: 10pt;"> Brecher 70-71.<o:p></o:p></span></div></div><div id="ftn16" style="mso-element: footnote;"><div class="MsoFootnoteText"><a href="http://www.blogger.com/post-create.g?blogID=2562218441651339112#_ftnref16" name="_ftn16" style="mso-footnote-id: ftn16;" title=""><span class="MsoFootnoteReference"><span style="font-size: 10pt;">[16]</span></span></a><span style="font-size: 10pt;"> David Luban being another notable example.<o:p></o:p></span></div></div><div id="ftn17" style="mso-element: footnote;"><div class="MsoFootnoteText"><a href="http://www.blogger.com/post-create.g?blogID=2562218441651339112#_ftnref17" name="_ftn17" style="mso-footnote-id: ftn17;" title=""><span class="MsoFootnoteReference"><span style="font-size: 10pt;">[17]</span></span></a><span style="font-size: 10pt;"> If the torturer had weeks and not a day to break his victim, for example.<o:p></o:p></span></div></div><div id="ftn18" style="mso-element: footnote;"><div class="MsoFootnoteText"><a href="http://www.blogger.com/post-create.g?blogID=2562218441651339112#_ftnref18" name="_ftn18" style="mso-footnote-id: ftn18;" title=""><span class="MsoFootnoteReference"><span style="font-size: 10pt;">[18]</span></span></a><span style="font-size: 10pt;"> If it ever will, considering that it is <i>highly</i></span><span style="font-size: 10pt;"> improbable.<o:p></o:p></span></div></div><div id="ftn19" style="mso-element: footnote;"><div class="MsoFootnoteText"><a href="http://www.blogger.com/post-create.g?blogID=2562218441651339112#_ftnref19" name="_ftn19" style="mso-footnote-id: ftn19;" title=""><span class="MsoFootnoteReference"><span style="font-size: 10pt;">[19]</span></span></a><span style="font-size: 10pt;"> Krauthammer, <i>The Truth About Torture</i></span><span style="font-size: 10pt;">, 309 from <i>Torture: A Collection</i></span><span style="font-size: 10pt;">, Ed. Levinson.<o:p></o:p></span></div></div><div id="ftn20" style="mso-element: footnote;"><div class="MsoFootnoteText"><a href="http://www.blogger.com/post-create.g?blogID=2562218441651339112#_ftnref20" name="_ftn20" style="mso-footnote-id: ftn20;" title=""><span class="MsoFootnoteReference"><span style="font-size: 10pt;">[20]</span></span></a><span style="font-size: 10pt;"> And again, this possibility is so small as to be non-existent.<o:p></o:p></span></div></div></div>Noah Cruickshankhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13548649447847765824noreply@blogger.com0