307. Hume's Pile of Applesauce

You know, some philosophers are so damn wrong you've just got to quit being an academic and say, "This is a pile of applesauce."  And that's what I'm going to say about one of Alison Gopnik's favorite philosophers (The Atlantic, 10-15), and one of mine (once): David Hume.

The problem is The Self.  Hume says there is no such coherent thing.  There's just a bunch of perceptions and responses.  Gopnik  found that Buddha said pretty much the same thing and loved him for it, and loved connecting the two.  Postmodern French philosophers loved him for it, insofar as they can love any Anglophone philosopher.

OK, where's the applesauce?

J. D. Salinger points us to it.  Awed by the budding beauty and character of a British girl in the course of  his tearoom conversation with her (in "For Esmé, with Love and Squalor"), Salinger hears her put a standard slur on American soldiers.  "I hope that's not worthy of you," he says.  What would her slur not be worthy of?  My fourth-grade teacher hears me speaking the most awful trash on the playground, just so I can make it with some trashy kids, and says, "Roland, that's not you."  My mother, after I've verbally abused the girl downstairs, says, "That's not the Roland I know."  I blush with shame.

What I want Hume, Buddha, and all those postmodernists to tell me is this: What blushes?  What's your name for it?  Something raises expectations, something is trusted, something takes responsibility, something is embarrassed.  Even before my mother and my teachers spoke to me it was there, in me, an idea of what I was.  If it weren't why did I respond so?  Why did I blush?

Plato gave capitals to my idea of what I was. The Idea of Roland. That was abstract philosophy but it was close enough to my experience, to the words people around me used, to the words I used, in the world and inside myself, to check out.  Plato was twenty times closer to this thing my teachers saw in me and Salinger saw in the girl than Hume or Buddha or Paul de Man was.  The ordinary Medieval/Renaissance Christian, with his word "soul," was  thirty times closer.  Dante was forty times closer.  Donne sixty.  Milton a hundred.

Nobody whose time is short (not just me, friends) wants to waste any of it digging into a pile of applesauce.  We all could use a detector.  Here's one I'll pass on: any time you pick up "the destruction of the coherent Self," or any similar locution, keep going.  Life's too short.

255. The Sex Business

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In The Economist's leader this week on the sex business only two kinds of people are mentioned as being opposed to prostitution: puritans, "who think that women selling sex are sinners," and do-gooders, "who think they are victims."  I would add a third category: teachers, who think that prostitutes are children.  In the sense that they are under-educated.

You understand that I regard anybody who doesn't know the literature his civilization has produced, as under-educated.  A student who has taken only science and engineering courses is under-educated.

What those students are missing by not taking those humanities courses, and what literature courses will best give them, is what prostitutes most need: a dramatized view of life as a whole.

Drama.  How do you get drama that gives you a sense of the whole of life?  By looking at death.  The end.  While you're right in the middle of life.

Oh, did the poets I taught ever do that!  First in the middle, the joy.  "There it is, oh golden, golden, there it is, seize it, seize it," and then "Gone, gone, gone forever, as it will all go."  Carpe diem, then ubi sunt, in the terms given us by the Roman poets.

But poets in any period do that, arousing you to the intensity of physical love and then sticking you with finality of physical death.  If you don't seize the love, the joy, when you're able to, you'll lose your chance.  At the end you'll die deprived, and in between time, if Milton is right, you'll suffer the little deaths of a deprived (he would say "depraved") mechanism, an inability to seize, seize all that's there, together.  Because you (I'm including the client now) wasted your abilities on a part, in a childish seizure, "loveless, joyless, unindeared." 

So, children, know the whole, glimpse the human future, and you'll be less likely to lie with the "cold-hearted witch,/ And after, drained dry,/ Come to the chamber where/ Lies one long sought with despair."   Yeats knows that, for most of us, there will be a period when we can't help looking back.

That looking back.  Is there a way to make it less regretful?  Yes, if you have produced children, a family, grandchildren, the "large posterity" that Spenser saw possessing the earth, all the product of the "wedded love" that Milton saw driving "adulterous lust" to range "among the bestial herds."  Physical love viewed in the fullest context.

Awareness of that context, however dim, must be what makes Christmas the saddest day of the whorehouse year.  Family, family, reminders everywhere.  Polly Adler's book, A House is Not a Home, told us about it.

There were more victims then, the forced, to whom none of this applies.  Now, with prostitutes able to charge $250 an hour (recently $350) there are fewer.

It's the people with the choice who need the drama.  Some, of course, have the imagination to provide it on their own.  But they won't get it from the True Romance magazines that, Adler says, litter the whores' private quarters.

However you get the drama, though, you can easily lose it, lose your sense that something important in human life is at stake. How, reader responsive to literature and art, do you lose that?  By becoming a scientist (you think), a clinician, a Kinsey, or an aloof Economist writer too cool to see prostitutes as anything but "workers."

69. Watching Students Riot While Teaching Christian Authors

That was a painful sight, bad students throwing bricks and good students smiling on them as they screwed up their revolution. Few of us could explain it — or much else connected with the riots.

Old-time Christians could explain it, of course.  They had a scheme into which the rioting students fit perfectly. Human beings rioted because since Adam's fall they were born to do evil. If they weren't reborn in Christ, they'd keep doing it.

The name "Yahoo" brought in the whole Christian scheme. It was the name Jonathan Swift, an Anglican priest, used in Gulliver's Travels for the unregenerate man. Those university people who couldn't bring in the Christian scheme (out of scientific scruple, say) or didn't know it (out of curricular neglect of the humanities, say) were left in doubt.

I wasn't in doubt long because I was teaching a lot of Christian authors at the time. One of them, John Milton, gave me not only the scheme but the warning to political humanity that went with it. It's so apt and so well put that I'm going to quote it here in full. The archangel Michael is speaking to Adam, who has just recoiled from a vision of Nimrod, the first tyrant.

Justly thou abhorr'st

That Son, who on the quiet state of men

Such trouble brought, affecting to subdue

Rational Liberty; yet know withal,

Since thy original lapse, true Liberty

Is lost, which always with right Reason dwells

Twinn'd, and from her has no dividual being:

Reason in man obscured, or not obeyed,

Immediately inordinate desires

And upstart Passions catch the Government

From reason and to servitude reduce

Man till then free. Therefore since he permits

Within himself unworthy Powers to reign

Over free Reason, God in judgment just

Subjects him from without to violent Lords,

Who oft as undeservedly enthral

His outward freedom. Tyranny must be,

Though to the tyrant thereby no excuse.

Paradise Lost, XII, 79-96

Teaching Milton to a class with revolutionaries of the sixties in it was thrilling. Milton's revolutionary credentials were impeccable, and so easily dramatized. He had come hurrying back from Italy as soon as he heard of his friends getting engaged in Parliament's stand against the king, he had joined the movement, he had risen, he had become propaganda minister in Cromwell's revolutionary government, he had defended the killing of the king before a Europe full of threatening monarchies. And all the while he was writing those essays on divorce and freedom of the press whose progressive ideas would resound for centuries. You couldn't ask for a better revolutionary.

And here he was coming out for the old internal hierarchy, where reason's place over the passions was firmly fixed. It was Plato, it was Dante, it was Shakespeare, it was medieval, renaissance, and, yes, even enlightenment. It was pretty much the whole Western intellectual establishment, up to the romantic period.

There were a lot of other authors, just in my undergraduate courses, ready to put sixties behavior in perspective for us. Herman Melville, in "The House-Top" (printed out, below) showed us why we were so slow at recognizing the Yahoo, or the Yahoo in ourselves: we were a romantic nation. T. E. Hulme, in an essay in our criticism anthology, made romanticism clear. It taught that "man was by nature good," and that "it was only bad laws and customs that had suppressed him." Its opposite, classicism, taught that man was "an extraordinarily fixed and limited animal," but that he could be "disciplined by order and tradition to something fairly decent." (You can read the whole essay, "Romanticism and Classicism," at http://www.poetryfoundation.org/learning/essay/238694)

Not everybody will say that that is moral clarity but I'm going to say it. I didn't know what I was seeing in my students and T.E. Hulme cleared away the fog. There were the students, there were my authors, and there was my country, all clearly placed. My seeing that may not count for much in the larger scheme but this is about personal morality — the person being me.

Like many moral clarifications this one was satisfying because I was in the picture, and standing in a very good light. Professors of the humanities, especially English professors, taught the tradition by which "something fairly decent" could be got out of this creature. I was particularly privileged because I, through Milton, taught the revolutionary tradition, the discipline and order in it.

Reading Hulme in preparation for a class, reading him anew with images of the OU riots crowding in, was the curtain-parting moment of insight. It deserved to be called an epiphany.

Well, if "epiphany" is the word, I'll use it for the moral of the story: don't trust epiphanies. They don't dispel the fog for long. T. E. Hulme, it turns out, was a fascist. Or, in 1908. a fascist precursor. He ran around with the crowd at Action Fancaise, whose founder was the anti-semite Charles Maurras.

But that wasn't the only thing obscuring the moral picture. Other clouds were coming over, as I'll show in the next post.

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The House-Top

Note: When the Union began drafting soldiers to fight the Civil War affected New Yorkers rioted for four days, attacking mainly blacks — the cause of the war — and hanging scores from lampposts in the city. Arson was directed mainly at black institutions. The mobs went on to general destruction and grew until they overpowered the police. The riots ended only when a regiment marched up from Washington (under the command of a colonel referred to below as "wise Draco") and in effect re-conquered the city.

No sleep. The sultriness pervades the air
And blinds the brain—a dense oppression, such
As tawny tigers feel in matted shades,
Vexing their blood and making apt for ravage.
Beneath the stars the roofy desert spreads
Vacant as Libya. All is hushed near by.
Yet fitfully from far breaks a mixed surf
Of muffled sound, the Atheist roar of riot.
Yonder, where parching Sirius set in drought,
Balefully glares red Arson—there—and there.
The town is taken by its rats—ship-rats
And rats of the wharves. All civil charms
And priestly spells which late held hearts in awe—
Fear-bound, subjected to a better sway
Than sway of self; these like a dream dissolve
And man rebounds whole aeons back in nature.
Hail to the low dull rumble, dull and dead,
And ponderous drag that jars the wall.
Wise Draco comes, deep in the midnight roll
Of black artillery; he comes, though late;
In code corroborating Calvin's creed
And cynic tyrannies of honest kings;
He comes, nor parlies; and the Town, redeemed,
Gives thanks devout; nor, being thankful, heeds
The grimy slur on the Republic's faith implied,
Which holds that man is naturally good,
And—more—is Nature's Roman, never to be scourged.