Malebranche on the Scope of the Passions

A legal contest takes place between two men to decide who owns a piece of land; they ought to produce only their titles and say only what is related to their case or what might improve it. Yet they never fail to slander one another, contradict each other's statements, contest trivial points, and complicate their case with an infinity of pointless details that obscure the main issue. In short, the influence of each of the passions is as great as the mental scope of those moved by them--i.e., if we think that something is in any way related to the object of our passions, the passions move us with regard to that object.

Malebranche, Search after Truth 5.7 (LO 372)

Leo and Attila

Today is the feast of St. Leo the Great; the 'Great' was well-earned. One of Leo's famous feats:

Now Attila, having once more collected his forces which had been scattered in Gaul [at the battle of Chalons], took his way through Pannonia into Italy. . . To the emperor and the senate and Roman people none of all the proposed plans to oppose the enemy seemed so practicable as to send legates to the most savage king and beg for peace. Our most blessed Pope Leo -trusting in the help of God, who never fails the righteous in their trials - undertook the task, accompanied by Avienus, a man of consular rank, and the prefect Trygetius. And the outcome was what his faith had foreseen; for when the king had received the embassy, he was so impressed by the presence of the high priest that he ordered his army to give up warfare and, after he had promised peace, he departed beyond the Danube.

Raphael has a famous painting depicting the meeting between Leo and Attila. At this point in his campaign Attila's resources were probably already stretched quite thinly, so Attila was likely open to persuasion already; but that's often the trick of diplomacy, and the point at which it requires the greatest courage. After all, Valentinian III, the Western Emperor at the time, seems to have decided to hole himself up in Ravenna during the crisis; someone had to stand up to bat. Leo tried to repeat the success when the Vandals came a few years later, under Genseric; they were not dissuaded -- but he still seems to have drawn out of them a promise not to burn the city. And when they left after ten days of pillaging, he helped Rome rebuild and recover.

Even more importantly, but not related to invading Barbarian Hordes, Leo is notable for the Tome of Leo, one of the greatest expressions of Chalcedonian Christology ever written.

Aquinas on the Light of Tabor

It was fitting that the disciples should be afraid and fall down on hearing the voice of the Father, to show that the glory which was then being revealed surpasses in excellence the sense and faculty of all mortal beings; according to Exodus 33:20: "Man shall not see Me and live." This is what Jerome says on Matthew 17:6: "Such is human frailty that it cannot bear to gaze on such great glory." But men are healed of this frailty by Christ when He brings them into glory. And this is signified by what He says to them: "Arise, and fear not."

Aquinas ST 3.45.4 ad 4. Note that Exodus 33:20 cannot support what precedes it unless seeing the glory is looking on the divinity. Cf. 3.45.2 ("the clarity of Christ's body in His transfiguration was derived from His Godhead, as Damascene says, and from the glory of His soul" and "in Christ's transfiguration clarity overflowed from His Godhead and from His soul into His body"), 1.12.5 ("The disposition to the form of fire can be natural only to the subject of that form. Hence the light of glory cannot be natural to a creature unless the creature has a divine nature; which is impossible. But by this light the rational creature is made deiform"), and 2-1.5.6 ad 2 ("the light of glory, whereby God is seen, is in God perfectly and naturally; whereas in any creature, it is imperfectly and by similitude or participation").

On Hermits

One sometimes hears people talking as if hermits gave up all place in society; such people clearly have not studied the history of hermits, which provides endless counterexamples to this false notion. You might as well say that you temporarily give up your whole place in society by walking by yourself for an hour in quiet reflection. The hermit is not an exile from all society; how many are the words that have been brought back from the solitude of hermits! How many striking thoughts we owe to hermits, of which we would have never known if they had wholly severed themselves from society, if they had no role in society! When we look at it closely, we see that the very idea is incoherent. Being a hermit is a role in society. As for individuals, so for society a little thoughtful withdrawal into solitude can be good. Throughout the world hermits have been society's quiet introspection. They are the part of society that has left off action in order to reflect. Reflective introspection can drive you crazy. But sometimes our best thoughts are born of it.

Dashed Off

As usual, transferring some of my dashed-off notes to the blog, and the usual caveats apply: mere ideas, grains of salt, and all that. It's been a while since I've done this, so there will probably be another soon.

Genius only fully expresses itself by not relying on itself as such.

prevenient & consequent consolations

Sensation has as its object the singular properly and directly but also after a fashion the universal itself. For if many singular instances are sensed and they do not differ in some feature, this feature as recognized by the mind is the universal.

Hume's custom as empeiria (experientia)

Superstition arises not from a lack of reasoning but from a misdirection of it.

The world continues to exist only because God rests in it.

Distinctions sometimes convince as well as arguments do; for distinctions, like arguments, may resolve problems. But one may say that they do so not as directly effecting but as removing impediments. Much the same can be said of redescriptions.

Every effect is evidence of its cause; but it is only seen as evidence for its cause through someone's recognition of how that effect would relate to its cause. Someone who did not understand that this effect requires that kind of cause could have evidence of the cause without seeing any evidence for it.

the experience of reading a good book
in itself: complacentia, desiderium, gaudium
in its effects: liquefactio, fruitio, languor, fervor

fideism as a philosophical autothysis mechanism

It is curious how people talk about naturalistic explanations when they really mean natural explanations. There is realy no such thing as a naturalistic explanation, since any explanation put forward by a naturalist coudl be accepted consistently by someone (even if not by everyone) who does not accept naturalism. Naturalism when it comes to explanation is a negative doctrine: it tells us that no explanations are legitimate explanations that are not natural explanations. This is different from saying that anyone who accepts a natural explanation is conceding naturalism in some way, which is both obviously false and involves a logical confusion. Naturalism explains nothing; it merely makes a claim about what kind of explanation is to be accounted a good kind of explanation. (Likewise you find people who think flying in an airplane is a 'naturalistic' method of travel, a complete concession to naturalism. There are always gullible people who can be fooled by a similarity of words.)

The pure transcendentals are terms that are present in the knowledge of all things: being, one, etc. This is why metaphysics is the source of all principles on which all the sciences are based.

We should avoid the mistake of thinking of the three acts of the intellect -- apprehension, judgment, and inference -- as always separate and distinct; in fact they are often intermingled, for we are not always considering things that are self-evident, like simple quiddities and first principles, and even when we are we are not always considering them as such. But it is only in such pure cases that sharp distinction, rather than mutual support or impediment, can be found.

scientia : vegetative soul :: intelligentia : sensitive soul :: sapientia : rational soul

The intellectual virtue of science judges conclusions in a field in light of the principles of the field; the intellectual virtue of wisdom judges principles and conclusions of a field alike.

Wisdom pertains to the principles of the whole of human cognition; thus we say it deals with the first and highest causes, for it considers what is most prior and most intelligible in its own nature. Likewise it itself serves as the completion of all human cognition, for it is impossible for one's knowledge ot be complete except by grounding it in what is most intelligible and illuminating. Since all ofhuman cognition only finds a good order in light of it, it is rightly said that the wise set all things in order.

The true history of a civilization is the history of its saints and sages.

The best philosophical positions are "divine, examined in themselves, but also irrefragable, according to arguments" (Cons. Phil. iv pr i).

The human intellect is in need of completion by the world.

We investigate the natures of things on the basis of their acts.

We spend most of our lives residing in the senses, either the external senses or, when we are more withdrawn, the imagination and memory. But we are called to reside in a better palace, in the spiritual senses, so to speak, which is to say, we are called to dwell in understanding intermingled with love.

When I sue a word, like 'dog', I mean to signify not my sensations of a dog, nor the means by which I signify. I do not tag the word 'dog' to things I receive, but actively mean something, and in this case I mean a dog; I then express this vocally. THe forming of this meaning is conception, the meaning formed is the concept or internal word, which I express in external words. THere are two kinds: those that are simple understandings, which are expressed as definitions and descriptions, and those that are syntheses or analyses, which are expressd in sentences or, indeed, in many other ways. This internal word is not what is known, which is the thing itself; nor is it that by which it is known, which is what we receive from the world through the senses; but it is that in which we know, for the conception of the word is the knowing of the thing, the intellect's expression of the thing in itself, the forming of the world int he mind, the mind's assimilation of the universe to itself.

All understanding is a sort of deep reading.

We say that something, like a claim, is true not because of an intrinsic propertyor form but because it exists relative to an intellct capable of judging, just as food is healthy not in itself but relative to the health of an animal. But insofar as we can recognize that something in the thing is a cause or reason for judging it true, we can also call this cause or reason the truth. If we fail to recognize that this is a shift in sense, we make it easy for ourselves to stubmle.

To have a coherent theory of rationality you must have a teleology of reason.

What is true is true of something.

Our theories, being artifacts and constructions of the mind, are measured against the mind; but our minds are measured against the natures of things, and so too our theories by way of our minds.

"Human nature is like honeycomb because we hold the treasure of reason in our bodies, just as honey is contained in the comb." Palamas

Suppose causes regress infinitely. Then God (by way of Spinoza). Suppose they don't. Then God (by way of Aristotle).

Tense logic is really a logic of direction.

Legal abilities are a certain kind of permission.

Sensation is already the beginning of a process of abstraction.

Sensation is not mere apprehension; there is a sort of judgment of sense by which, not intellectually but in the sensing itself, we judge whether something is or ir not. and these judgments, whereby, for instance, we do not merely apprehend brightness, registering it as brightness, but recognize it to be over there, make up a considerable part of our mental life. Much confusion could be avoided by remembering that sense judges as well as apprehends.

We may distinguish between first analytics and second analytics. First analytics considers inference as such. Second analytics considers inference according to its various kinds: demonstrative, probable, rhetorical, poetic, sophistical, which are inferences with ends in view and therefore partake soemthing of their ends.

Reasoning per impossibile involves abstracting by simple consideration in matters of necessity.

Sensation is a corporeal act of cognition: it is not prior to cognition, but itself a cognitive act, a kind of knowing which has as its object the shaping of matter (so to speak) by light, or sound, or chemical reaction, or what have you.

Knowledge is a sort of multiformity; form is limited by matter; therefore knowledge depends on the degree to which one is relatively free of material limitation.

Behind malevolence one often finds things to be pitied.

the four paths of charity
(1) universal hospitality
(2) liturgy throughout life
(3) expansive reciprocity
(4) friendship with God and man

agape as divine jen (ren)
shu as part of jen
chung as part of jen

Aporia force us into higher levels of abstraction.

Suppose that "every mover is moved" (M) is true. It is so either per accidens or per se.
Suppose per accidens. Then M is not necessary. Therefore ◊~M. But ◊~M→~M (X). Therefore ~M.
Why? Suppose (◊~M & ~M). To be moved is to be moved by another in such a way that what is potential becomes actual. If something can be a mover because its potential for moving becaomse actual, it si moved. ThereforeIf ◊ indicates that there is anything with the potential for making ~M true, then ◊~M&M is a contradiction. Since ~M is true by supp., ~◊~M, which is alos against supp. Therefore If M is true per accidens, either X or ◊ does not indicate &c. But per accidens rules out the latter, because it requires ◊~M and being mover and being moved are incidentally joined; but if there is nothing w/ the potential for making ~M true, being mover and being moved are not joined incidentally but per se. Therefore if M is true per acidens, also ~M. This is confirmed by the fact that if being mover and being moved are incidentally joined, given that the latter can be sometimes found w/o the former, it is imporbable that the former is never found w/o the latter.
Suppose it is true per se. Then either each moer is moved by the same kind of motiaon as that by which it moves or it is not.
Suppose that it is. Then the same thing would be actual and not actual in the same respect. This is impossible.
The genera and species of motion are finite. But the regress cannot be infinite, and ~M is true. For either there is recurrence or there is not. Suppose there is not: then the regress is finite, and ~M is true. But suppose there is: Since a serieis of moved movers in a chain, where being moved and being mover are joined in their nature, are themsleves a unified moved mover, then whatever moves according to a species of motion would have to be moved according to the same species albeit mediately rather than immediately. Therefore ~M.
Further, if there were an infinite regress of per se moved movers, the whole of the chain would be a unified mover (since per se); but this infinite mover would be a self-moved mover, actual and not actual with respect to the same thing, which is impossible.

What mathematicians usually discover are uses.

A good lector will love the words themselves as rich with meaning.

One can make sense of much of Spinoza by reading 'thing intelligible purely through and in itself' wherever he says 'substance'. Then: such an intelligible is prior in intelligibility to what receives intelligibility from it (Part I, Prop I), it cannot be produced by another (vi), existence pertains to its nature (vii), it is necessarily infinite (viii), it necessarily exists (xi), it is indivisible (xiii), it is God alone (xiv), ntohing can exist or be conceived w/o it and whatever exists is in it (xv), and so forth. But he fluctuates between the level of intelligibility and other levels, if looked at in this way, & does not properly distinguish 'being caused by' from 'known through'. Thus extension becomes a mode of God, and things flow from God by necessity of his nature.

dimensions of inquiry
-related to decision, to assent, to apprehension, &c.
- in effect a moral psychology of inquiry

There is need for fortitude in our playfulness; for it is easy for playfulness to dissipate when it is most needed.

reference-grounded definitions vs arbitrarily constructed definitions

moral counsels and moral taste

How one uses an expression presupposes what it is for.

Temperance and fortitude can be treated as satellites or adjuncts of justice because applying reason to passions (whether to restrain or endure) presupposes applying reason to will. Likewise, all virtues can be treated as adjuncts of prudence because they all presuppose right reason.
This contributes toward seeing how the Chinese virtues relate to the Greek.

Much of the damage caused by pride comes from its mimicry of the self-reflectiveness of prudence.

slightly on the wicked side of reason

The only thing that would make it so "you can't get an ought from an is" is ought's being a primitive.

With the Jews God creates a vocabulary.

The Eucharist as
(1) a work of Christ's prophetic authority to proclaim
(2) a work of Christ's royal authority and power
(3) a work of Christ's priestly mediation

a schematic of theology

Giving to others their due is justice because it follows from good where there is something due. But hter eis a kind of giving that goes beyond all due, depending on it not in the least; and this has more of the nature of good because it does not require this other notion of something due.

beasts made from useful jumblings

to show & teach w/o books or signs

There is no reason to despise epicycles that do what they are supposed to do.

the Cloud of Unknowing: the road to heaven is measured not in yards but in desires

Much religion is born of allegory, and one sees this in operation even among religions usually thought of as rather primitive.

'a simple knowing and feeling of your own being'

I) Suppose the world has always existed. (1) Not by nature (2) Only cause capable of such effect is God.
II) Suppose it began to be (1) Not by infinite regress. (2)Only cause capable of stopping regress is God.

I'll Leave Elysium to Converse with You

Damon and Pythias
or, Friendship in Perfection
by John Norris

Pyth. 'Tis true (my Damon) we as yet have been
Patterns of constant love, I know;
We've stuck so close no third could come between
But will it (Damon) will it still be so?

Da. Keep your love true, I dare engage that mine
Shall like my soul immortal prove.
In friendship's orb how brightly shall we shine
Where all shall envy, none divide our love!

Pyth. Death will; when once (as 'tis by fate design'd)
T'Elysium you shall be remov'd,
Such sweet companions there no doubt you'll find,
That you'll forget that Pythias e'er you lov'd.

Da. No, banish all such fears; I then will be
Your friend and guardian Angel too.
And tho with more refin'd society
I'll leave Elysium to converse with you.

Pyth. But grant that after fate you still are kind,
You cannot long continue so;
When I, like you, become all thought and mind,
By what mark shall we each other know?

Da. With care on your last hour I will attend,
And lest like souls should me deceive,
I closely will embrace my new-born friend,
And never after my dear Pythias leave.

That line, "I'll leave Elysium to converse with you," is just flawlessly right in so many ways; I wish there were a stronger lead up into it. But the admirable thing about the poem, as about many of Norris's poems, is the poetic diction -- simple and straightforward, bordering on colloquial, yet often quite striking. It is very easy to read Norris aloud, despite the fact that he wrote in the late seventeenth and early eighteenth century -- this conversation between Damon and Pythias sounds very natural to the ear even after all this time. And that fits the poem well, I think: no stilted formalities for the paragons of friendship.

There is a philosophical connection, incidentally. Damon and Pythias (sometimes also called Phintias) were followers of Pythagoras, and their friendship is regularly held up as an example of true friendship among philosophers. So Cicero, De Officiis Book III:

But I am speaking here of ordinary friendships; for among men who are ideally wise and perfect such situations cannot arise. They say that Damon and Phintias, of the Pythagorean school, enjoyed such ideally perfect friendship, that when the tyrant Dionysius had appointed a day for the executing of one of them, and the one who had been condemned to death requested a few days' respite for the purpose of putting his loved ones in the care of friends, the other became surety for his appearance, with the understanding that his friend did not return, he himself should be put to death. And when the friend returned on the day appointed, the tyrant in admiration for their faithfulness begged that they would enrol him as a third partner in their friendship.

The notion of friendship, in its purest form, as an expression of a genuinely philosophical life is not one that one finds much anymore; it requires the notion of a friendship of excellence or virtue, and we in general tend to think of friends as friends of pleasure alone. Indeed, it requires a notion of the philosophical life as a life so lived that it is devoted to virtue; and we tend not to think in terms of philosophical lives at all. Quite sad, really: we nourish our minds and characters on such thin gruel that we are bound to become intellectually and morally anemic.

Hume on Testimony to Miracles

Andrew Brenner has an interesting post on Hume's account of testimony to miracles. Among other things, he notes an apparent tension in the following passage (at SBN 90):

But in order to increase the probability against the testimony of witnesses, let us suppose, that the fact, which they affirm, instead of being only marvelous, is really miraculous; and suppose also, that the testimony considered apart and in itself, amounts to an entire proof; in that case, there is proof against proof, of which the strongest must prevail, but still with a diminution of its force, in proportion to that of its antagonist.

A miracle is a violation of a law of nature; and as a firm and unalterable experience has established these laws, the proof against a miracle, from the very nature of the fact, is as entire as any argument from experience can possibly be imagined.

Andrew suggests that Hume is trying to have it two ways: he's trying to treat his argument as a priori in some places and a posteriori in others. Of the above passage, he says:

In the first part of the quote he seems to concede that, in principle anyway, testimony to the occurrence of a miracle could amount to a proof (note that, for Hume, the term “proof” simply denotes “such arguments from experience as leave no room for doubt or opposition” — Hume would never say that the epistemic probability of the occurrence of some matter of fact, as opposed to some logical or mathematical demonstration, was strictly 1), but that this proof would encounter an opposite proof, also deriving from our experience, of the hitherto observed course of nature (dead men don’t rise, etc.). But then Hume moves on to say that this opposite proof, derived from the “firm and unalterable experience” of the conformity of the world to some law of nature, is “as entire as any argument from experience can possibly be imagined.” The proponent of some miraculous event will have to maintain then that the evidence for the occurrence of some miraculous event surpasses the opposite proof from our past observations of the course of nature – which, I reiterate, is supposed to be “as entire as any argument from experience can possibly be imagined.” But how, if this kind of evidence can be marshaled for a purportedly miraculous event, can this event retain the appellation “miracle”? By definition the evidence against the occurrence of any miraculous event is as strong as can be imagined.

We don't have to speculate about what Hume would say to this, because the point was raised by Campbell and Hume replied, albeit briefly. Hume's reply (via Hugh Blair), which makes a bit more clear his account of proof:

The proof against a miracle, as it is founded on invariable experience, is of that species or kind of proof, which is full and certain when taken alone, because it implies no doubt, as is the case with all probabilities; but there are degrees of this species, and when a weaker proof is opposed to a stronger it is overcome.

That is, it's important to keep in mind (as Andrew does) that the notion of proof is that mentioned earlier in the Enquiry, in Section VI, in which it is a form of causal reasoning based on completely invariable experience. So in Humean terms it is entirely possible to have a full and entire proof of something and be wrong: its being full and entire has to do with the invariableness of the succession on which it is based. That there is a full proof (from testimony) of miracles is supposed for the sake of argument; all Hume does in Part I is to argue that this would have to overcome the full proof experience provides for the exceptionlessness of the laws of nature, in which case the psychologically more forceful proof would win. Thus I think Fogelin is right that there is no argument at all against miracles in Part I: the scenario envisaged is one in which you have a full and entire proof that miracles don't happen (the invariable course of nature) and an opposing proof, also full and entire, that testimony to a particular miracle can be trusted (by hypothesis). That this is the case is pretty much stated explicitly in the first paragraph of Part II:

In the foregoing reasoning we have supposed, that the testimony upon which a miracle is founded, may possibly amount to an entire proof, and tha the falsehood of that testimony would be a real prodigy: But it is easy to show, that we have been a great deal too liberal in our concession, and that there never was a miraculous event established on so full an evidence.

But if this is the case, there really is no contradiction or confusion in Hume: Part II is devoted to giving a posteriori reasons that, individually considered, explain why testimony for miracles never has reached the point of proof, much less of a proof capable of overtopping the proof of the laws of nature and, collectively speaking, give a reason to think that it could never do so in some cases -- the features of human nature (e.g., our excessive love of surprise and novelty, our passions and interests, our gullibility) conspire together to make it extraordinarily unlikely that any testimony could ever reach the point required, when they are likely to be operative. Note that this is not a proof a priori; despite the strong conclusion, it is based entirely on a posteriori reasoning. That is, the conclusion is not that there is no possible way testimony for miracles could ever reach the level of proof, but that our experience of how human nature operates in matters of religion is such that we are entirely reasonable in concluding that no human testimony can have such force as to prove a miracle for the purposes of religion (Hume explicitly makes this qualification). Thus Hume goes on to consider a case where you could have a miracle -- eight days of darkness -- that would avoid the causes for suspicion and doubt that arise in the case of religion.

So I don't think Hume is, in fact, confused on the matter; in fact, I think his argument is very precise (more precise, I think, than most readers of it have wanted to read it). The structure of the Section is quite clearly and explicitly laid out by Hume.

Part I: Supposing that testimony for miracles can amount to a full proof, how strong would the proof have to be in order to establish that the miracle had actually happened. (Answer: Very, very strong.)

Part II: But the testimony for miracles has never reached such a level, and in matters of religion we have strong reason to think it cannot. (This conclusion was made easier to reach by the reasoning Part I, which establishes a very high standard.)

Lewis Powell has an interesting response to Andrew's post at "Horseless Telegraph." But I think Andrew's interpretation is actually closer than Lewis's, for reasons that should be clear. I think, however, that it's a mistake to read the strong conclusion ("we may establish it as a maxim, that no human testimony can have such force as to prove a miracle, and make it a just foundation for any such system of religion") as a priori, since this conclusion is clearly based on the discussion of a posteriori reasons for thinking that testimony in religious matters can't be trusted. Thus Hume is a posteriori throughout (this is true even with the argument in Part I, which is also supposed to be based on our experience of human nature).

UPDATE: I should say, with regard to Lewis's interpretation, that I think his reconstruction of the skeleton of the argument of Part I goes wrong at (1): Hume never says that the proof for the laws of nature is a maximally strong proof, only that it is direct and full. And this makes sense; because while all laws of nature have direct and full proof from experience (this is why we classify them as laws of nature), they can't all be equally strong, because they are not monolithic, but deal with very different sorts of events. Rather, Hume's point is that there is nothing lacking to the experience to make it a proof. Since the testimonial proof is also supposed -- purely for the sake of argument -- to be full and entire, Hume's final paragraph in Part I makes no sense if it is not open to one of the proofs being superior to the other -- as he in fact says is possible, in response to Campbell, to Hugh Blair.

Delightful and Rejoicing

The sweetest and most inoffensive path of life leads through the avenues of science and learning; and whoever can either remove any obstructions in this way, or open up any new prospect, ought so far to be esteemed a benefactor to mankind. And though these researches may appear painful and fatiguing, it is with some minds as with some bodies, which, being endowed with vigorous and florid health, require severe exercise, and reap a pleasure from what, to the generality of mankind, may seem burdensome and laborious. Obscurity, indeed, is painful to the mind as well as to the eye; but to bring light from obscurity, by whatever labour, must needs be delightful and rejoicing.

David Hume, Enquiry Concerning Human Understanding, Section I, par. 10 (Beauchamp 91).

Learned Stone

An attitude similar to that of High Scholasticism must be presupposed in the builders of the High Gothic cathedrals. For these architects the great structures of the past had an auctoritas quite similar to that which the Fathers had for the schoolmen. Of two apparently contradictory motifs, both of them sanctioned by authority, one could not simply be rejected in favor of the other. They had to be worked through to the limit and they had to be reconciled in the end; much as a saying of St. Augustine had ultimately to be reconciled with one of St. Ambrose. And this, I believe, accounts to some extent for the apparently erratic yet stubbornly consistent evolution fo Early and High Gothic architecture; it, too, proceeded according to the scheme: videtur quod -- sed contra -- respondeo dicendum.

Erwin Panofsky, Gothic Architecture and Scholasticism, Meridian (New York: 1957) pp. 69-70. This book, of course, is one of the two most famous of the Wimmer Lectures. Boniface Wimmer was the founder of the Benedictine Order in America and of Saint Vincent Archabbey in Latrobe, PA; the Lectures were founded in honor of him, and are often quite interesting. The other famous book that grew out of the Wimmer Lectures is Jacques Maritain's Man's Approach to God.

The Lotus (Part III)

This is the third and final part of a story draft. Part I, Part II

In a camp not far from the cursed second stream on the right I huddled over Rozanov's journal, trying to make sense of it. Rozanov's writing was terse and cryptic, and the book had been water-damaged to the point of being largely illegible in places. Nonetheless, some of it could still be made out. Easiest to make out were the drawings, each clearly done by someone with an eye simultaneously artistic and scientific. There was a sketch of one of the astonishingly vast spider-webs, stretching from tree to tree, from soil to canopy, that spun by astonishingly spiders near the rivers and streams. In another, a large black crocodile kept a wary eye on the explorations of her young. Others traced plants, insects, and snakes. Then, largest of all, taking up a full spread of the book, there was a beautiful flower, somewhat like an orchid. After that the journal itself, as a description of Rozanov's travels, stopped. There were many more pages, however, and every single one of them was covered with drawings of that same flower, obsessively done over and over again, two or three to a page. I could find nothing else, except a single word that was written here and there in a tremulous, excited hand: bessmertie. Immortality.

As I drifted to sleep, I turned over the events of the day in my head, and they blurred together in my dreams. I dreamed that I was back in the city, back in the room of the gray men, but instead of talking to them, I was talking to Rozanov. On the table lay the corpse of Rozanov's guide, covered with the strange flowers depicted in Rozanov's journal. I talked without interruption for what seemed forever, and then Rozanov opened his mouth and said one word: "Immortality."

Quin and I set out early in the morning, heartened by the sure signs that we were on the right trail, but made wary by the memory of the skeleton. At one point we were forced by a turn in the river to move west; shortly into this Quin stopped suddenly.

"What is it?" I asked.

"Trim, that is a path," he said pointing.

I looked to where he was pointing, and, sure enough, it was a path. Trails can quickly become overgrown in the jungle, and someone with eyes less sharp than Quin's could easily have missed it, but a straight trail had been cut through the underbrush recently enough that it had not been completely covered over. On closer inspection it was clear that someone had been through with a machete.

After ten minutes of following the trail we suddenly came into a large clearing.

If you have never been in the jungle, I cannot convey to you how startling this is. In a realm in which every plant, every animal, every insect is in a constant competition for survival, open spaces do not remain. These forests have been known to swallow entire cities; if a village neglects cutting and clearing, it can vanish completely in a matter of weeks. But here we were, in a large clearing, apparently consisting of nothing but rocky, sandy soil, sparse grass, and, in the center, a solitary flowering bush.

Quin hung back a bit, uncertain what to make of this, but I moved forward, rifle ready. A little way in I stumbled slightly on something sticking out of the earth. At first I thought it was a rock, but closer inspection showed it to be a bone, probably belonging to a great cat of some kind. A little further into the clearing it became clear that the bone was not the only one; they littered the ground everywhere: femurs and skulls half-covered with sand, tiny, indescript bones like pebbles, clearly from hundreds of different animals. They increased as I came closer to the plant in the middle, whose flowers were now recognizably the same as that in Rozanov's journal. They filled the air with an intense, drowsy sweetness, a sweetness partly like honeysuckle and jasmine and partly like rotting fruit. The bush had gray leaves that moved in the breeze like flickering fingers.

A sudden movement from the other side of the bush forced me back suddenly. A figure staggered up, as if from sleep, dirty and ape-like. It wore clothes, however. They hung as tattered rags from an emaciated frame.

"Rozanov!" I said softly. It was more of an exclamation than a greeting.

The figure came slowly, but with a nervous jitteriness, around the bush, without saying anything. It was a far cry from the suave, athletic person I remembered from the Embassy dinner in London years ago; but it was clearly Rozanov.

"Rozanov," I said again, "I have come to bring you back so that you may account for your absence. If you do not comply, I have been authorized to kill you. Let us sit and talk this out."

The figure showed no signs of comprehension. I could see its eyes now. They glimmered with anger and fear like a savage beast's, but they watered and the pupils were large.

"Rozanov!" I said again. "Do you understand me?"

What happened next took only a few moments, but it remains in my memory as if it had occurred with painstaking slowness. The thing-that-once-was-Rozanov stopped suddenly, gathered itself, and rushed at me. I shot it in the chest. Twice. It kept coming. As it knocked my rifle down and away I managed a third shot, to the stomach, which did not even slow it down. The gun flew far out of my reach, I was thrown back, and the beast was on top of me, grabbing at my throat.

I struggled, but to no avail. Emaciated the thing may have been, but it had a strength like I had never felt. I am sure it could have crushed my throat immediately, but before it squeezed, it bent down toward my face, its breath stinking of the rotten sweetness of the flowers. "Bessmertie," it hissed. I prepared my soul to die.

A shot rang out, and a puzzled look came over the thing's face. There was another shot and it fell over heavily. Panting, I pushed it off me and sat up, Quin was some distance away, rifle still up. The thing beside me lay dead with two shots in its head. Rozanov was no more.

Quin came over and helped me to my feet. "We should leave, Trim," he said. "This is a bad place." Still panting, I agreed.

I will not return to Europe. There is nowhere there I could go to elude the gray men in their immaculate suits, and I will not bring them back the information they wished me to bring back. I have suspicions about what it is they wanted with the flower that had so come to obsess Rozanov, filling him with sick dreams. That they wished to know if it existed and where it was - that much is clear. But no one can be allowed to know of it.

They will send others to find it. With Rozanov dead and myself out of their reach, there are few people who are likely to find it. But what if by some trick of the devil they do? I have arranged for a Portuguese trader to give this manuscript to a journalist I know in Lisbon, who will find a way to publish it as fiction under a pseudonym. No one can find the place based on the details I have allowed here; some of them are false or deliberately misleading. Few will even take the story as fact; but I hope that they will still learn the lesson of it.

As for me, I am going with Quin on his journey home. He has been mercy itself to me on many a quest, this one not the least; I owe it to him to try to return the favor. Rozanov and the lotus I have chosen to forget as best I may. When I put aside this manuscript, I will speak of it no more. It will not be so easy to get it out of my dreams.

The Lotus (Part II)

This is Part II of a short story draft. Part I was already posted; the last part will be posted later.

I had been searching for Quin for three days. On the morning of the fourth day I was awakened by a rustle near the fire. When I jumped up, I found myself pointing my rifle at Quin, who continued to make coffee with my messkit as calmly and unconcernedly as if we had made camp together.

"Good morning, Trim," he said. When we had first met, we knew too little of each other's language to do anything but mangle the pronunciation of each other's name, so we settled on the closest approximation to first syllables that we could: Quin and Trim. The approximations remained long after Quin was able to pronounce my name correctly. I, alas, still cannot pronounce Quin's name properly. The third syllable is one of those sounds that are only pronounced easily by those who have been pronouncing it all their lives.

"I have been looking for you forever," I said, lowering the gun.

"Forever is a long time, Trim," he replied reproachfully. "You were only looking a few days. It's a short time to find anyone in these parts." He set the coffee over the fire and turned to me. "What are you trying to find today?"

I took a picture of Rozanov out of my pocket and gave it to him. "If you are able, I would like to hire your services again. I can pay twice what I paid last time."

"You almost missed me, Trim. I intended to set out tomorrow for home.”

I was surprised. Quin rarely talked of his home. I knew him better than probably any man alive, but I knew nothing of it except that it was away west and populated with a different people than these who lived near the jungle. He had left when young due to some family dispute and had never returned.

He seemed lost in thought a moment, then said, "Let's find your man, Trim. I think I know where to look. I have heard things."

After coffee, we set out and journeyed to the northwest for several days, until we came to a village. Several villages came out to meet us; Quin approached them and started joking with them. The jokes, of course, were largely at my expense; in many of the villages in this area there is no better way to get the sympathy of the natives than to joke about the follies of Europeans. We had done this before, I posing as the stupid foreigner, a role that is disconcertingly easy to play, and Quin telling several tale tales of bungling European ways, each taller than the last.

And it worked, as usual. Quin began to hear stories as well as tell them, since the villagers had met a few crazy Europeans themselves. At one point, Quin showed them Rozanov's photograph; they recognized him at once, but refused to say where he had gone. Every time Quin asked they would become silent, and look as if they did not know quite how to proceed.

We were fed a meal of catfish by the villagers which, given that hospitality is very important in this region of the world, was probably better than the meals they eat themselves, and then set out again. Before we left, however, one of the elders of the village took Quin aside and whispered something to him. After the village was out of sight I asked him what it was.

"Ah," he said. "He told me that we would do better to give up looking for this man because he was cursed."

"Oh," I replied, disappointed.

A ghost of a smile played over Quin's face. After a moment or two of silence he contined: "And that we should avoid following the second stream on the right because then we, too, could become cursed in the same way."

"Well, Quin," I said after a moment, "are you ready to brave the curses of the second stream on the right?"

"Some day, Trim, you and I will have to find something that requires going where we will be blessed," he replied.

Over the next two weeks we slowly made our way deeper and deeper into the jungle. The slow pace was necessary given the difficulty of tracking. A jungle is a flurry of activity in every way, from the swift-growing greenery to the perpetual toil of insects to the movements of animals. Quin, however, is the best I have ever seen at tracking, and despite the deliberate pace we made excellent progress.

On the afternoon of the twelfth day I was preparing to catch some small crocodile for dinner when I heard Quin signaling. I met up with him beside a human skeleton in very bad shape.

"Rozanov?" Quin asked.

I shook my head. "Judging from the leg, it is too short. His guide, perhaps?" I knelt to look closer. "The skull is crushed, the chest is crushed. Whatever did this was brutal."

Quin began looking around for more, and within a quarter of an hour had found the remains of an old camp site. Although it was clear no one had been there for several weeks, there was still a pack, half-buried in the underbrush. Inside was a book. It was badly water-damaged, but on opening its front cover, I could easily make out, in a bold and beautiful Cyrillic hand, a name. That name was Fyodor Rozanov.

The Lotus (Part I)

This is a slightly revised first part of a short story draft that was posted in an earlier form in 2005. The other two parts will follow.

I had known of Fyodor Rozanov for most of my adult life, but before the event in this story I had met him only once. It was at an Embassy dinner in London. He was standing in the midst of a small crowd of attentive listeners, the edges of the crowd curling like mist around him, as he animatedly told some story; but on seeing me, he stopped in the middle of a sentence and bowed slightly.

"You are not as tall as pictures make you seem," he said. "I have wanted to meet you for a very long time."

"And I you," I replied.

He returned to his story and I was soon called away to meet someone else. We might never have talked again, had I not later slipped away from the party to catch a bit of night air in the garden.

I saw him standing near a fountain. In a party attending mostly by small, scrawny diplomats his tall, athletic frame was unmistakable. As I approached, he threw away a cigarette and said without looking at me, "I thought I might be fortunate enough to meet you out here." Then, after a moment: "You and I are not like them at all."

"By which you mean...."

He turned toward me with an impatient gesture. "You and I are men of the moment. They are paralyzed by their own self-consciousness. But you and I form the world with our hands."

"I doubt the difference is so very great," I replied. "People are, I imagine, much the same everywhere. And self-consciousness has more than a few uses."

He made a noise that I think was a word of contempt in a dialect I do not know. "No," he said. "You are wrong. The difference is that those who build the world deserve immortality."

"And that would mean that the rest deserve death?"

He did not answer, but instead lit another cigarette and regarded me a moment. "You know, I almost met you once in Brussels. I was told you were my competition. I am glad we did not actually meet. I might have had to kill you, and you have done so many great things since."

I shrugged. "You are presuming a bit in thinking that you could kill me."

A puff of smoke and an appraising look. "True. For men like us, presumption is the only sin. It is death itself."

We talked for a long time afterwards, comparing lives. We knew more about each other than either of us had realized, since our lives often paralleled without our knowledge. For instance, we had once been in the same village near the Congo River within a week of each other, looking for the same thing; Rozanov had found it first. Rozanov usually found things first; he was usually hired first, and so always had a narrow lead. In our trade, when people want something found that they are willing to make public, they call it an "inestimable service." Both Rozanov and I had performed many inestimable services. When people want something found that they are not willing to make public, they do not call it anything at all. Rozanov had performed many more of these than I, having cultivated more of a reputation for discreet ruthlessness. All in all, I think we each were surprised at what we learned from the other. Rozanov found I was much more bookish and phlegmatic than he expected; I learned that he was surprisingly moody and morbid. It was inevitable that we would each gain something of a feeling of superiority from the encounter; but Rozanov was right about the danger of presumption, and I thrust the feeling aside, as I am sure he also did.

Up to that night our lives had been entangled largely without our knowledge. After that night it was clear they continued to be entangled. Sometimes I was a step ahead, more often he was a step ahead, but every major event in my life was interlinked in some way with every major event in his. However, we had never met again. Sometimes we deliberately made sure of it.

And now I was tangled with him again as I sat in a long, gray room (the rooms are always long and gray) facing a row of gray men in tailored suits (the men are always gray and the suits are always tailored) with Rozanov, unseen and absent, around me like the air I breathed.

"What do you want me to find?" I had asked.

"Fyodor Rozanov," they had said.

I had to get them to repeat the answer.

After a moment in thought, I asked, "What did you hire Rozanov to find?"

There was a flickering of fingers. "Mr. Tremontaine," one of the gray men said, "we do not at present feel that this information is such that you would require it for the task for which you would be hired. The task is not to find what Mr. Rozanov was seeking, but to find Mr. Rozanov."

"What do you want me to do when you find him?"

More flickering fingers, this time with a few exchanged glances. Another gray man, or perhaps it was the same one, said, clearing his throat, "We require the information Mr. Rozanov was sent to gather, if it can be obtained by any means. By any means." He paused and went on (or was it another?). "Mr. Rozanov has failed to meet his contractual obligations. We are sure" - he, or perhaps it was someone else, cleared his throat - "we are sure that something terrible has happened to him, and thus need you to find him. The information is of very great importance."

"What did you send Rozanov to find?"

Fingers flickered. "Mr. Tremontaine," one of the men said, "as we have already said, it does not appear to us necessary--"

"The question is simple," I replied impatiently. "You sent Rozanov for something, and you are certain he has taken whatever it is for his own purposes. What is it?"

No one said anything for a moment. Then one of the men replied, "Suffice it to say, Mr. Tremontaine, that we sent Mr. Rozanov out to verify a rumor. We do not, however, require you to verify the rumor, but to find Mr. Rozanov and, if possible, to bring him to us in order to clear up this unfortunate misunderstanding; or, if that is not possible" - he paused a moment, or else stopped while someone else went on - "if that is not possible, to bring us any information he may have gathered before his demise. We hope that will not be necessary, but the information, if it is at all possible to retrieve, must be retrieved by any means. By any means whatsoever. We think you understand. The payment we offered you is twice what we agreed to pay Mr. Rozanov."

"How do you expect me to find him if I don't know what he was looking for?"

"We know the place he was last seen, and know the general area of the world where he would have been looking to find...to verify the rumor."

One of the men held out a map, on which were several red marks. I took it and examined it a moment, then sat back. I knew the area, and it would give me a chance to see Quin again. I handed the map back.
"It may be difficult to fetch Rozanov," I said. "He would be difficult to find if he does not wish to be found."

"We are sure that the means can be provided to make this a feasible venture for you. We consider this a reasonable investment."

"Double the offer on the table."

Fingers flickered, glances were exchanged, and there was a nod.

I left the building, which overlooked a gleaming white city, and considered my course of action. They say you can tell what a man truly loves about civilization by how he says goodbye to it. If this is true, then the common consensus of mankind seems to be that the best parts of civilization are beer and loose women. I have never been one for either, and never one for goodbyes. I went down to the harbor to catch the first ship out. As I boarded the ship, there was one thought on my mind. Whatever it was that they had sent Rozanov to find, it was disturbing how much they wanted it.

Two Poem Drafts and a Re-draft

There are a number of posts in the pipeline, but I keep not having time to finish them. In the meantime, here are some more poem drafts. The first is based (somewhat loosely) on a poem by Seneca himself.

Seneca Ponders Death

The dead within the tomb is laid,
the final rites are brought to close,
the eyes no more behold the day,
shut in endless night's repose.
Is there hint of more to life,
or is it but a passing tale?
What worth is it to leave the light
when on the threshold life will fail,
if yet unfailing strife we keep
and no surcease from life receive,
no warming poultice born of sleep,
and nothing left when flesh we leave?
When body to a corpse has turned
and spirit flees its living role,
is soul by life then also spurned
and, like a breath, dissolves the soul?
What morning sunlight, morrow's morn,
will shatter sky in reddening dawn,
what sunset scatter drops forlorn
on all that Ocean holds in bond?
It all will, like the sons of Time,
be snatched and eaten straight away.
Swiftly course the stars sublime,
swiftly moon will flee the day,
swiftly spring to winter tends,
as all things hurry to their place;
but swifter far than to these ends
do human hearts to nothing race.
When we are laid in fatal tomb,
perhaps no shade will be our doom.

Like smoke that curls from smoldering coal,
like cloud before the forceful wind,
our animal life will upward roll
and pass, and fade, and come to end.
With nothing left, no more than death,
the final goal, so swiftly found,
let craving flee with fleeing breath,
resign to fate with reason sound,
and, if you fear the heart's last beat,
then bury fear within the grave.
Time and night do not retreat.
Death will not in mercy save.
In our minds we cities build
of torment, shade, and ceaseless hells;
but these are rumors fear has filled,
pictures from a nightmare fell.
Who of our spirit's fate is sure?
Ask those who never lived nor were.

A New Animal

Look into the heavens,
see the stars --
there is truth, there justice, there beauty,
there a constellation of sublimities,
each more splendid in its kind
than a city of burning lamps,
each a sun in a sky so vast
it has no end.

Look to the heavens!
On this dusty, muddy earth,
a new animal bursts forth.
Others look to the ground,
heads bent down, shoulders bent,
others look to the horizon,
catching sight of predator or prey,
each eye catching what is fit for mind.
But one, one alone, stands up,
looks up,
sees a flawless expanse,
hunts not prey but stars.

Why are you bent over,
children of men?
Why are you bowed down?
Do you not know, not feel, your calling?
You are the animal who stands
to see the stars.

A Texas Hymn

The birds woke me at the sunrise hour
when the grass was dewy and all was pale
beneath the light of a high white star
that sang the message that all was well.
And I in the breeze (it trickled down
the blades of grass then quickly wound
around my legs to tickle my feet) --
I knew the light, and it was sweet.

The thirsty drink from a flowing spring
and come to life, made quick by source;
as I, when I hear the morning sing
in bird, in wind in winding course,
know, as sure as rolling sun does rise,
that a Spirit lives, God's very breath,
who lightens the sky and human eyes
and raises souls like mine from death.

Central Texas Muslims on Fort Hood Shootings

The recent shooting at Fort Hood has stirred up some anti-Muslim feeling, so I think it's worth remembering that there are quite a few Muslims in this area who are combat veterans or active duty soldiers, and that even those who weren't were praying, when the first word of the shooting got out, that the shooter wasn't Muslim, for fear of potential backlash. The following press release was sent out yesterday:

CENTRAL TEXAS MUSLIMS CONDEMN FORT HOOD SHOOTINGS

The Muslim community of Central Texas – among them many US Armed Forces veterans – condemns in the strongest terms the shootings today at neighboring Fort Hood, where 12 soldiers awaiting deployment were murdered by a lone gunman, reported to be Maj. Malik Nadal Hasan.

Under no circumstances – religious, political, or social – can such an act be justified or tolerated.

Central Texas Muslims stand with their neighbors and join scores of other local and national Muslim organizations in offering prayers for the victims, condolences to their families, and assistance where needed.

The Central Texas Muslim community includes many veterans and active-duty personnel in the US Armed Forces, and countless other Muslims have served in the US military with distinction and honor.

We call on all Central Texans to come together at this time and emphasize our common values, respect for the law, and duty to our country.

For additional information, please contact any of the following Central Texas Muslim community members:

* Shahed Amanullah, Austin, TX – editor@altmuslim.com
* Ian Benouis, (West Point graduate, combat veteran), Austin, TX – ian@freeandjust.org
* Siham Naseef, Austin, TX – sihamnaseef@gmail.com

It will be necessary over the next few days to keep an eye out for any of the reactionary bigotry that typically follows in the wake of the terrible actions of a single disturbed individual.

Linkable Thinkables

* Mrs. Darwin has a picture of a statue in Hungary memorializing the most successful author in the world: Anonymous. She also has a picture of a stone in a Cologne plaza which some corner-cutting memorialist carved with the words "This Could Be a Place of Historical Importance." Part history, part mystery!

* Hans Kung attacks the recent (much needed) papal reform of how the Catholic Church handles Anglican converts as an example of the Pope's opposition to reform. And yet again he manages to connect the issue to his favorite theological topic, the Spiritual Labors of Hans Kung. Say what you will about Benedict XVI, but Ratzinger and Kung have always had this difference: Ratzinger at least turns every theological discussion into a discussion of Christ, while Kung somehow manages to turn every theological discussion into a discussion of how Hans Kung is an insufficiently appreciated voice crying out in the wilderness. It happens regularly enough that you could turn it into a drinking game.

* The 300th Christian Carnival is up at "Brain Cramps for God".

* Earliest Uses of Various Mathematical Symbols (ht)

* John Heard has a post on why he is still Catholic.

* A U.S. plan from the 1930s for invading Canada (and a Canadian plan from 1921 for defending against the U.S.). The Canadian plan is a good one: hamper American invasion by forcing them to go back and protect cities on American territory until someone steps in to help.

* The new edition of The Reasoner is up; the article by Danny Frederick on following the argument where it leads was interesting.

* "The Lion and the Cardinal" has an interesting post on the Danse Macabre.

* An interesting criticism of Rothbard on the subject of natural and positive law, by Carlo Lottieri.

Considering All the Possibilities

There's a cute logic puzzle up at "Cosmic Variance" making a point about dysrationalia:

Jack is looking at Anne, but Anne is looking at George. Jack is married, but George is not. Is a married person looking at an unmarried person?

A) Yes.

B) No.

C) Cannot be determined.

Apparently over 80% of respondents pick C, when the answer is supposed to be A; and this is supposed to be an example of dysrationalia -- intelligent people picking the wrong answer through a failure to think through the possibilities.

Unfortunately, as some of the commenters note, there are problems here, because (C) is not demonstrably irrational. The basic problem is this. We have a nontransitive relation, R, and three individuals, j, a, and g. The following relations obtain:

jRa
aRg

in addition, j is classified as married and g is classified as unmarried. The question is, given these facts, is there a person who is married who stands in relation R to a person who is unmarried?

And the answer, in a strict logical sense, is (C) -- it can't be determined. In order to restrict the answer to (A) you have to make the following assumptions:

(1) j, a, and g are all persons (if any of them is a horse, for instance, (A) is incorrect, because the question asks about married and unmarried persons)

(2) j, a, and g all must be either married or unmarried (if it's a category mistake to apply these labels to one of them, (A) is incorrect -- for instance, there are circumstances in which we would say that someone, like a baby, is not the sort of thing that can be either married or unmarried)

In many cases these would be entirely reasonable assumptions to make. But whether they are, in fact, reasonable assumptions depends entirely on which universe of discourse we are considering. Sometimes (A) will be the most rational answer. Sometimes it will not. The problem is not precise enough to rule out possibilities in which it is not, because it failed to specify any universe of discourse.

Consider the following analogy:

A borders on B, and B borders on C. A has a democratic government. C has an undemocratic government. Therefore there is country with a democratic government that borders on a country with an undemocratic one. For B must have either a democratic government or an undemocratic government. If it has a democratic government, then it borders on C, which has an undemocratic government. If it has an undemocratic government, then A, which has a democratic government, borders on it.

Beautifully reasoned. But B has no government at all; it is an ocean or an unclaimed wasteland, not a country. (If you want a philosophical example of the same underlying idea, you can look to Kant, because his resolution of the antinomies, e.g., about whether the world had a beginning, makes use of this very same feature.)

Thus the only way you could think (C) definitely wrong is if you are not considering all possibilities -- that is, if you are making assumptions that restrict the possibilities in play. But this really has nothing to do with rationality one way or another: there will be times when it will be rational to consider the possibility that Anne is not a person and times when it will be rational not to do so. There will be times when it will be rational to get hung up on the question of whether there is a tertium quid between 'married' and 'unmarried', and times when you should obviously be dichotomizing. It will depend entirely on the domain of discourse (and is an example of why domain of discourse is important for logical analysis).