Glitzy Metaphysics and a Generational Gap

This morning, I had a brief conversation with my mom about Aristotle. I listed three things I didn't like about Aristotle. She told me that I obviously did not understand Aristotle. "People who understand Aristotle know he's the smartest person who ever lived," she said. "If you don't like him, you don't understand him. Some day you'll grow up and like Aristotle," she concluded. I almost burst out at this condescension (based solely on her opinion!), but instead checked myself and said she was right; it's Mother's Day, and I don't get to be subversive on Mother's Day.

I take this all with a grain of salt. Of course I don't "understand" Aristotle; I haven't read and retained enough to make any such claim. I despair that I may never understand the man. But I do understand Plato, and I liked The Republic (read a few years ago), the Symposium, and the other things we read quite a bit. So she asked me to explain one thing I liked about the Symposium and here's what I said:

More than Diotema's teaching and Socrates' almost-systematized view on Love, I adore learning what I can of humanity in the first five speeches. I've always agreed that when a person speaks or writes, the easiest thing to see is traits of their character. I found it especially interesting that Plato writes in Phaedrus, Pausanias, Eryximachus, Aristophanes and Agathon defining Love as they are experiencing it, selecting their own profession as understanding it best; and then he gives his (Diotema's) account in exactly the same way. I'm certain he saw that he was selecting his own profession as understanding it best. I interpret this as a reference to the intense, entirely personal nature of Love. I've often seen successful relationships and thought, "How the hell did that relationship last? They don't love each other!" But I don't know that; I can't see their love, because it is only between them. Love is universal, but not universally the same. Anyway, I love how discussing love reveals more about the person discussing than love itself. And that's why I think the Symposium is so fascinating and brilliant.

After this explanation, she said, "Yeah, you just like glitzy metaphysics." I laughed. That's exactly right.

And this provides me with the perfect opportunity to practice a little psychological philosophy like Plato does in the Symposium. I've always sensed a critical difference between my mom and myself; but I'm in a different place in life, and right now I value people more than I value ideas. It seems she's gotten over other people and wants to get her morals right. I feel like I have time to let my morals shift wherever my conscience tells them to go, but maybe I will settle down like she did. Maybe I will feel the need to systematize my actions. Granted, we are two different people, but we're too genetically similar for me to say she's just repressed and I'm just not.

Anyway, I'm glad she gave me an opportunity to sound a little grown up. And until I do grow up, I'll just find comfort in my glitzy metaphysics.

What I learned from PHI 3310!

Holy hell, what I learned could hardly be fully explained with words. But I'm going to try. (DISCLAIMER: I'm not sucking up. Something tells me Dr. Bowery would ignore any brown-nosing, so I'll skip that crap and go right to real human expression.)

This is the only philosophy class I've ever or will ever take (sadly). I knew when I signed up that it would be a difficult class, but it was not challenging in the way I expected it to be. I mean, come on guys, admit it - this is not the most academically challenging class we're going to take here at Baylor. No, the only pain I felt was the severance of my umbilical cord - the one that provided me nourishment from the repulsively-nihilistic-Black-Eyed-Peas-college-party-world I so rarely notice I'm stuck in. Whether it was reflecting on my own in the journal, or discussing in class, I always felt like I was gravitating closer and closer to wisdom, a feeling which "I Gotta Feeling" does not normally facilitate. I'd leave class in such a contemplative mood, certainly something like the one Aristotle suggests. So did this class actually bring me closer to happiness? Yes, it did. Here's why.

As much as I loved talking, I loved listening more. So much of what you all said stayed with me and stays with me still. I liked the way Jennifer always commented, "This reminds me of something I just read/saw/heard," constantly reminding me that philosophy matters outside the classroom. I liked overhearing (not that it was difficult to overhear) Alan and Ray face off toward the end of the semester. I liked trying my best to decipher what the hell Shayan or Sterling had just asked. I liked that we're from all different backgrounds, from all over the place, and that we were actually teaching each other about much more than just philosophy. And I liked so much more.

I believed philosophers were terrible people. Watching Dr. Bowery answer my questions changed my mind. Even before I ask them, I sometimes think my questions are ridiculously, record-breakingly idiotic - but no one in the class laughed when I asked if Plato thought animals couldn't think about "the good." I will miss that respectful silence.

On the blog/pizza day, Sterling explained so much to me, in what he said and in what he didn't say, when we discussed the difficulties of switching from military life to an intellectual life. I learned more from that ten minutes than from any other ten minutes this entire semester - not just about war, not just about soldiers, not even just about Sterling, but about people, about life, about myself. It was a moment of condensed understanding I won't soon forget.

As I think I mentioned in another blog, this semester was supposed to be the one that told me why in the hell I should stay at Baylor. I was fully convinced it was not for me, and I was not coming back. I think if any class influenced my decision to stay, it was this one. I loved the different perspectives, the kindness, the subtleties, and not-so-subtleties (Ray, anyone?), the constant mutual struggle for an understanding in such a confusing world - these are all candied-up ways of saying I was and still am unable to describe how impressed and influenced I have been by you people. You made me believe in Baylor again, believe it or not. Dr. Bowery, Nathan, classmates: thank you for an awesome, memorable semester.

Humanist alert.

Today, as I was walking on campus, I reached the conclusion that I am a humanist. There are some people in my life I consider prophets, some Oracles (little Matrix reference for you), and some are fairly non-insightful (but I love them anyway). Some people know what I need and when I need it, some people just know that I need something from looking at the obviously sick look on my face. But by and large, I am consistently astounded by the perceptive abilities of humans.

Here's an example of this in motion, on a larger scale: I received an email from a friend on the day I decided to apply to another college, certain that my time at Baylor was done. He said this, verbatim: "I don't know why, but I think you need to talk to someone at Baylor today - maybe Dr. Greene [my mentor here]. I don't know who. I just think today is a big day for you, I think today you are going to find out why you're at Baylor. Please take this seriously!"

So, without wasting a minute, I logged out and walked over to Dr. Greene's office, and he was not surprisingly confused about my arrival. But the conversation (as it usually does with him) turned very deep, and ended with him saying the following, verbatim: "I think you're the reason I'm here." And that was the moment I knew the email was exactly what I needed to hear at exactly the right time. I'll be coming back to Baylor next term.

Protagoras says, "A human being is the measure of all things - of things that are, that they are, and of things that are not, that they are not." I just read that and said, "Damn straight, they are." My friends, my mentors, my family - they are the measures by which I measure everything in my life. I'm excited that I am able to live a life in which I can follow the advice of my friends at whim. But their advice is more than just insightful - it is warm, kind, selfless, and loving. Humans are frickin' great.

I'm Taking a Prep Course and Getting a C

In my online journal, I commented offhandedly that Parmenides' saying, "And it is all common to me / From where I am to begin; for to there shall I come back again," sounded much like the Christian "dust-to-dust" theme. Dr. Bowery responded that Parmenides' philosophy was, indeed, "Philosophy as a preparation for dying."

A friend and mentor, who's also a professor in the geology department here at Baylor, told me this Tuesday that he no longer cared about this world. He continued, "If God told me I had cancer and would die later today, I would say, 'Ok - but why not now?'" Our relationship is developed enough that I can say things I'd normally consider disrespectful, so I told him, "But how can you say this world has no value to you?" and prompted him to admit that he placed value on many people (his wife, his kids, his grandkids) in the world. I said that if I 'knew' there was a heaven, I would want to leave earth, but I would definitely have reservations. There is so much to this world.

Where should the balance be? Should I be preparing for death itself, or for what comes after death, or for what comes before death? When one (like myself) doesn't know what comes next - and when I don't know what this prep course is preparing me for - how can I really take anything to heart? For now, I think it's best if I don't prepare for death (sorry, Parmenides). By using my philosophical search to prepare me for life instead, I think I'm preparing for death indirectly. I believe in fate, and I think if I follow my fate, which I believe I do without choosing to do so, I will be prepared for death when I come to it. It's a go-with-the-flow thing.

Courage in War - Another Reason Why I Don't Get Aristotle

War's been on my mind a lot this week - I'm sure my annoying compilation of questions in class was a tip-off. This week alone, I've been reading a war book (The Things They Carried), listening to war songs (everything recorded by Billy Joel, you know it's true), watching war movies (Friendly Fire), listening to anti-war activists, reading up on our two current wars. Willing myself away from the topic of war failed to make the subject go away, so I just tried to embrace it. This is also impossible.

I like to think I can tackle any deep, philosophical or spiritual subject; but apparently the one thing I can't really handle is war. This is probably because 1) I could never fight, I'm too much of a coward - and somehow I just know my lovely liberal values would become complete moot on a battlefield ("I got soul but I'm not a soldier"); and 2) war doesn't make sense to me, not intellectually, but emotionally - as in, how the hell could you actually live with killing someone? Even if there was a reason? Even if you thought it was 'right'?

A friend shared Carl Sagan's "Pale Blue Dot" speech with me, and it just enveloped me in intense sadness. There's a line in which he says, "Think of the rivers of blood spilled by all those generals and emperors so that, in glory and triumph, they could become the momentary masters of a fraction of a dot." All the glory and triumph and terrible art of war is one big cosmic joke to whoever's watching us. And that whoever is not Aristotle, so I went to read what Aristotle has to say about courage, because when I think of war, courage is the virtue that comes to mind.

He says danger is at its "greatest and finest" in war - I don't know what that means. Discussing the balance between too much and too little of the virtue of courage, he says that the overly courageous person is either a madman or faking it (134). It's odd that he picks the former category for the Celts. The Celts seem to have owned much of Europe when Aristotle was alive, so they were pretty damn good at fighting, probably not just an entirely insane race of people. I also wouldn't call the Mongols or Romans madmen, I would just call them good, maybe even courageous, fighters.

But then he says that courage is mostly confidence and partially fear - not equally midway between overconfidence and complete fear (137). Then he says, "the person who is undisturbed in face of fearsome things...is courageous." After he weeds out several different kinds of non-courage, he's basically nullified the honor of every soldier who ever lived. Why would one need to be undisturbed by fearsome things to be courageous? Isn't that lack of fear just a putting-off of fear? Do not soldiers who win Silver Stars still end up with PTSD? I was surprised to find this fairly honest government site about the mental effects of serving in Afghanistan and Iraq, and I can only conclude that these soldiers are simply normal people being subjected to conditions not meant for normal people.

Maybe it's just because Aristotle bores me that I feel obliged to discredit everything he says, but here, he's really just not getting through to me. I don't know enough to issue this opinion, but I just don't see how a courageous person can do anything but stifle their fear for the moment - maybe forget fear, or be too busy to be afraid - but I don't know any Vietnam, Gulf War, or current soldier who doesn't talk about what was really terrifying about their experience with war. So few people will ever see or understand what Aristotle sees as 'true' courage in war, but I think we can all understand that war is fearsome. And to me, one who remains undisturbed by killing and death seems to be more ill than courageous.

Intellect vs. Morality at Baylor

In class on Thursday, our small group spent a great deal of time discussing whether Baylor emphasizes instruction on intellect or character more (definitely a digression, but still philosophically relevant!). I said with great conviction that I felt I had grown more intellectually than morally at Baylor. After long consideration, I've decided I was wrong. I could learn to be an intellectual at virtually any school; Baylor has pushed me much farther toward moral virtue than I've ever been by any school.

This afternoon, my literature instructor asked each student in class to write a paragraph response to our reading thus far on The Things They Carried by Tim O'Brien, a partially-nonfiction story about Vietnam soldiers. She read each student's response aloud, including mine: I wrote that I felt humbled, that I had known some who had gone to and died in Iraq, but that they had chosen to enlist. No one these days agonizes over a draft notice. How over-privileged I am, I said, to live in a time when what kids want to do is dictated partly by their needs and partly by their wishes, but rarely by another's needs or wishes. And how fortunate we are that our generation is being shot down, but not destroyed, by Iraq and Afghanistan. I couldn't possibly live as I do while 3% of the world died around me, as certainly did in World War II. There's nothing like a war story to make you feel like shit, I finished. She was noticeably moved and paused for a moment. I'm glad she didn't glance up in my direction, or she would have seen me trying and failing to control my tears. But her ironic response made me laugh: "Does anyone have any war stories they'd like to share?"

I wouldn't say Baylor professors are out to make us feel like shit; but of the twenty instructors I've had at Baylor, I can say that at least half of them were concerned with and spoke about moral issues in class. (And compared to my last college, that's a 100% increase.) This English instructor saw the moral value in my comment on humility, and let the class discuss the subject of war to help instill humility in us. She cleverly manipulated the situation so that we could learn the moral virtue of humility from an intellectual work of literature, and she didn't even have to say anything! Sometimes I don't understand how instructors can be so brilliant. I'm not sucking up, I just really can't believe it.

I'm not Christian; but I truly appreciate instructors who attempt to find the moral value in the intellectual material - here's where that disparity between moral and intellectual virtue comes in. One astronomy instructor made a good portion of the class cry when he addressed our smallness compared to the vastness of the universe. A history professor, who had until this moment shown no signs of having a personality, teared up telling us he hoped what we were learning taught us gratefulness. An anthropology instructor, on the other hand, told us why she could not talk about moral issues in class. Even when morality is not addressed in a class, many instructors feel the need to explain why it is not.

I feel that Baylor pulls intellectual and moral virtue together and delivers it as one package. Morality is balanced by intellection: If you want to be a Christian, you should still know about other religions. If you want to be a Marxist, you still have to study capitalism. If you want to be a conservative, you still have to hear the liberal speak his mind. Baylor hands us an education rich in morality and intellectual virtue. Even if it's not my morals Baylor tries to instill inside me, I appreciate the implication that there really should be some morals inside each of us.

"A circle, understand?" No. No, I don't.

I'm giving a presentation tomorrow for a literature class, and our topic is the Sandra Cisneros book, The House on Mango Street. The coming-of-age novel is a treasure box of subtlety, written by an adult from a child's perspective. One thing we are emphasizing (and overemphasizing) in our presentation is personal reflection on the book, and I figured this would be a good opportunity to blog!

I read and re-read this book about four times before today (it's about 100 short pages long), and each time, I stopped on this line:

"When you leave you must remember to come back for the others. A circle, understand? You will always be Esperanza [that's the protagonist's name]. You will always be Mango Street. You can't erase what you know. You can't forget who you are."

It's not literary genius, but it's powerful enough to stop my reading groove four times in a row. I'm trying to apply it to myself. I come from a small Washington town to a "big Texas city" - I know, it's just Waco, but give me a break, I knew everyone in my graduating class. And I'll be honest, even if I don't want to, I'll always be Naselle (the town in which I grew up). I can't forget who I am.

But this quote also reminded me of one of Heraclitus' fragments: "Beginning and end are common in the circumference of the circle." On first reading, I thought it was about as insightful as one of those Yogi Berra quotes like, "When you come to a fork in the road, take it." But now I read it as expressing that everything's beginning is also its end; that these marks are just ways of expressing life, which is really just a cycle we don't recognize as a cycle.

Doesn't it seem cathartic to think of life as just a circle? That there is no such thing as a tangent; that all things travel on the same path, and always ends up where they start? That path you wanted to take that didn't work - oh, well, that's just another step on your circle. The circle of life, and all that. (Stay tuned for upcoming philosophy blog entry on The Lion King.)

Well, that's why I can't help thinking it's all just a nice little mental invention of man, an attempt to retain sanity. I think I believe too firmly in the truth of mistakes, that there's just times when we have to fail. Perhaps life is a circle; but if it is, then there's a hundred other circles intertwined in mine, and that's why I sometimes wander far off from my path. I've often gotten stuck on another circle; and I've often felt that fearful feeling of failure, like when you exit the freeway and realize you took the wrong exit. "God damn it, I'm going to spend the next ten minutes on entrance ramps, what a waste." Except in life, it's more like ten years.

Oh, well. The one who wanders is not lost.