Philip Hilton writes,
Recently, I have been impressed by the power of memory to shape life. We are all admonished in school to work on general aptitude, reasoning skills; sure, memorize where needed, but the general focus is on reasoning. While I don't disagree: learning is not about rote memorization; at the same time, memory work is more important than commonly acknowledged. I am referring specifically to memorizing verbal passages here.
Often, when memorizing something as a child, I would ask, "What's the point?" Why do I need to know this? That's a hard question. Obviously each memorized passage should have a justification, but, "it sounds noble" is scarcely a reason that one could give to a board of school directors, or to any of one's friends, for that matter. Yet this is precisely the reason a passage should be memorized. It is these passages that will remain with one throughout life. Maybe they will be ignored. But one should not underestimate the consistent force of a remembered phrase to shape how one thinks.
I rationalize memorization like I rationalize tennis serves: not every serve goes in, not every serve is an ace. Similarly, some passages are forgotten, others are ignored. That is no reason not to memorize them. If one does not serve, one cannot serve an ace. If one does not memorize, one cannot remember...
January 30, 2010
January 15, 2010
Modern Musical Taste
Philip Hilton writes,
I have occasionally, in my time here on earth, seen my favorite songs assaulted by the following method: “The lyrics are meaningless. The whole thing is meaningless.” Usually, my response to this is simply: “But it sounds cool.” I have never been particularly satisfied with my answer. If the thing really is absolutely meaningless, then why am I listening to it?
An instance of a song which might easily fuel this controversy is Daft Punk's "Harder, Better, Faster, Stronger" as remixed (see above). Hearing it only once, one would be hard put to deduce a single, intended message. Still, it undoubtedly induces several feelings. The rhythm, strong and hard, suggests what each individual "power" word says ("Power, faster, harder, stronger etc.), and bends to a high-pitched whine, or undulates in tone, when saying a phrase like "work is never over."
Pre-analysis, one merely 'feels' it. If one tries immediately to rationalize a clear train of thought based on the lyrics, one is non-plussed. That is because there is no rational train of thought involved. Rather, each word is in itself a statement, a command, which does not admit of a simple link to the next word. It conveys only a transient feeling. Overall, however, each statement builds up a uniform, but fluctuating, mood. That mood could briefly be described as empowering, the equivalent of what an athlete feels when in the 'zone'.
Verbally, I do not think that this can be called coherent or logical. The clever rationale behind the song does not give the song itself any rational train of thought. Yet the song undoubtedly imparts something, not nothing. To those even moderately attuned, this song is a call to arms.
There is one more thing that deserves mention. The song does not impart just any feeling. At the same time, the ‘range of meaning’ that the feeling of empowerment could have is very broad. Upon listening to this song, it might equally be felt by a young Nazi or a young American. It might equally be felt by a young husband or a serial rapist. In each of these cases, the feeling, while remaining the same, would fuel (and be fueled by) a different ideology.
Is that objectionable?
Not to me. All I say is, "Feel Wisely".
If art is the imparting of emotion, either ‘primal’ or ‘intellectual’, then this qualifies as art to me.
I have occasionally, in my time here on earth, seen my favorite songs assaulted by the following method: “The lyrics are meaningless. The whole thing is meaningless.” Usually, my response to this is simply: “But it sounds cool.” I have never been particularly satisfied with my answer. If the thing really is absolutely meaningless, then why am I listening to it?
An instance of a song which might easily fuel this controversy is Daft Punk's "Harder, Better, Faster, Stronger" as remixed (see above). Hearing it only once, one would be hard put to deduce a single, intended message. Still, it undoubtedly induces several feelings. The rhythm, strong and hard, suggests what each individual "power" word says ("Power, faster, harder, stronger etc.), and bends to a high-pitched whine, or undulates in tone, when saying a phrase like "work is never over."
Pre-analysis, one merely 'feels' it. If one tries immediately to rationalize a clear train of thought based on the lyrics, one is non-plussed. That is because there is no rational train of thought involved. Rather, each word is in itself a statement, a command, which does not admit of a simple link to the next word. It conveys only a transient feeling. Overall, however, each statement builds up a uniform, but fluctuating, mood. That mood could briefly be described as empowering, the equivalent of what an athlete feels when in the 'zone'.
Verbally, I do not think that this can be called coherent or logical. The clever rationale behind the song does not give the song itself any rational train of thought. Yet the song undoubtedly imparts something, not nothing. To those even moderately attuned, this song is a call to arms.
There is one more thing that deserves mention. The song does not impart just any feeling. At the same time, the ‘range of meaning’ that the feeling of empowerment could have is very broad. Upon listening to this song, it might equally be felt by a young Nazi or a young American. It might equally be felt by a young husband or a serial rapist. In each of these cases, the feeling, while remaining the same, would fuel (and be fueled by) a different ideology.
Is that objectionable?
Not to me. All I say is, "Feel Wisely".
If art is the imparting of emotion, either ‘primal’ or ‘intellectual’, then this qualifies as art to me.
October 22, 2009
Is the Army Winning Hearts and Minds?
by Philip Hilton,
So I was thinking the other day how strange it is that for the past nine years (all of my sentient life!) America has occupied Afghanistan.
Now, on the first level...why are we there in the first place? I can barely remember. Something about there being a terrorist group there. Realistically, though, you have to think about it. One terrorist group is trained in Afghanistan. They shoot a high profile building, and people die. Yes, it’s shocking. But in retrospect, it doesn’t seem like something that requires the complete invasion of Afghanistan. If they were British terrorists, we wouldn’t invade Britain. Even if they were British Secret Service agents, we wouldn’t invade Britain.
The only reason we invaded Afghanistan was because Afghanistan was pathetically weak and helpless -- or so we thought. Another opportunity for America to extend its influence and scare everyone in the region.
However, our invasion has now lasted 9 years, and has not achieved anything in particular. Sure, we showed once again that America is about 200 times stronger than any NATO country. Honestly, though, that’s about it. The Taliban -- ‘The Enemy’ -- are still there, defending their native homeland from American imperialism. Have we scared them? Not really. They know America can’t win this war, just like the gangs in LA know that the LAPD is never going to drive them out. The Taliban is fighting on home soil, and have practically infinite leverage over the local population. They merge easily with the local population. They have very high morale. The Americans are in well defined uniforms, and sit inside their camps, or attack based on ‘espionage findings’. This pattern is all too familiar from the American Revolutionary War, the Boer War, Vietnam. The result is practically inevitably defeat of the invading army.
General McChrystal says that more troops will help. To me, I doubt it. The problem is that this is simply a war of attrition, and America cannot ‘win’ in the traditional sense. Correctly, the military realize that the game is one of ‘hearts and minds’. The problem is that this kind of game is exactly one which the military have never won, and can never win anyway. The military is, by definition, geared to play the game of ‘guns and fear’, a game which can never work in a situation like Afghanistan. So I guess what I’m trying to say is that there’s a practical limit to how effective they can be. They can play their ‘guns and fear’ card all they like, but the trump suit right now is ‘hearts and minds’, and they don’t have any.
America has been in Iraq for 7 years, and in Afghanistan for 8. Now, the situation in Iraq has gotten a great deal of attention. And it seems like it’s gotten a lot better. The situation in Afghanistan has not gotten much attention, but judging from the recent news, it’s just the same militants (30,000 of them!) playing border games with Pakistan, and attacking remote American encampments. The situation is roughly what it was 8 years ago. In fact, McChrystal appears to think that the situation is so unstable that the war could be lost within 12 months. And for me that is the sign that a radical strategy change is needed, or else that it’s about time to bring the troops back.
If we 8 years of occupation with well over 60,000 troops has achieved so little that the war could be lost that easily, surely it’s time to rethink. We have absolutely nothing to gain in material terms by staying. But we have a heck of a lot that we could lose. Either the military needs to try to change their game to play to their real strengths, or else they need to just give it up. If they don’t do either, then they’re just going to be humiliated.
July 20, 2009
Review of Wicked (spoilers)
by Philip Hilton,
Yesterday I had the privilege of seeing a production of Wicked, put on in Australia. I need hardly say that it was excellent. Lucy Durack amply lived the role of Glinda, and Amanda Harrison (or, in my production, Jemma Rix) played Elphaba well.
The play has two acts, and for most of the first act, Glinda definitely owned the stage. Quite apart from the fact that she was downright beautiful, and dressed to show it, she used her body very expressively. She had some extremely funny lines, and she made them absolutely hilarious. I need hardly say that she also sang well; that's almost a given in a professional performance.
Elphaba, played by Jemma Rix/Amanda Harrison, looked rather wooden in the first act, maybe simply due her character: Elphaba is supposed to be plain and bold, but not particularly expressive. The problem is that, as a result, her first couple songs rather lack interest. She does not use her body expressively enough, and she is not pretty or funny enough to attract attention of that kind. She may sing well enough, but her voice does not exist in a vacuum.
In the second act, Elphaba falls in love, and becomes more desperate, which serves to transform her into an object of tragic attention. This does not alter her actual character, but it does alter her expressions, sufficiently to give life to her songs.
Still, Glinda retained the bulk share of attention. Her spoken lines remained funny, she remained pretty, and her sung lines are just as good as Elphaba’s.
It would be wrong to say that the play is about the spoken, as opposed to the sung lines, but particularly in the first act, the spoken lines obviously the center of the play, and the sung lines are more peripheral.
Probably the greatest failing of the play was in the line of special effects. I myself do not believe that a play has to stun the viewer with special effects. After all, we are not watching a magician. Still, what a play promises to deliver, it must deliver, and it usually turns me off if it does not deliver it.
Take, for example, the case of the Winged Monkeys. Elphaba transforms a regular monkey into a winged monkey. Immediately, the monkey flaps his wings and climbs a ladder. Ten other monkeys begin climbing a ladder at the back of the stage. This was a mild shock to me. I should have thought that it went without saying that one cannot create winged monkeys, and then make them climb ladders. This looks like an underinvestment in stage effects. Winged monkeys ought not to climb ladders. They ought to fly.
If the producers could not credibly make them fly, they ought not to have introduced them. If they could have made them fly, my question is, why didn't they?
The same kind of thing happens several times during the play: something happens, and a special effect is obviously needed, but not given. The problem is that by the end of the play it is difficult to confide in the special effects. When a situation arises which seems to require a special effect, the question in one’s mind is, How will they NOT provide this special effect, rather than being ready to marvel at the solution.
However, the screenwriting is excellent, and serves to almost cover this defect.
In several cases the screenwriters managed to turn an obvious lack of special effects into an extremely successful moment. When Glinda is planning to make Elphaba her new project, she gets out her wand to turn Elphaba’s plain dress into a ball dress. “Ball dress!” she cries, as she waves her wand. Inside, we all tremble, aware that the special effects are quite insufficient to do this, and wondering how they will avoid showing this. Suddenly, it is turned to good effect: Glinda tries and fails, asking, “Is this even on??” as she stomps offstage.
In sum, I would say that it was definitely a good play, probably around 4 out of 5. Lucy Durack absolutely shone as Glinda: I would see anything she was playing in. The character of Elphaba was somewhat inhibiting, but Jemma Rix/Amanda Harrison played her quite well. The lyrics and script were excellent. However, some special effects would have added a lot to the production.
Yesterday I had the privilege of seeing a production of Wicked, put on in Australia. I need hardly say that it was excellent. Lucy Durack amply lived the role of Glinda, and Amanda Harrison (or, in my production, Jemma Rix) played Elphaba well.
The play has two acts, and for most of the first act, Glinda definitely owned the stage. Quite apart from the fact that she was downright beautiful, and dressed to show it, she used her body very expressively. She had some extremely funny lines, and she made them absolutely hilarious. I need hardly say that she also sang well; that's almost a given in a professional performance.
Elphaba, played by Jemma Rix/Amanda Harrison, looked rather wooden in the first act, maybe simply due her character: Elphaba is supposed to be plain and bold, but not particularly expressive. The problem is that, as a result, her first couple songs rather lack interest. She does not use her body expressively enough, and she is not pretty or funny enough to attract attention of that kind. She may sing well enough, but her voice does not exist in a vacuum.
In the second act, Elphaba falls in love, and becomes more desperate, which serves to transform her into an object of tragic attention. This does not alter her actual character, but it does alter her expressions, sufficiently to give life to her songs.
Still, Glinda retained the bulk share of attention. Her spoken lines remained funny, she remained pretty, and her sung lines are just as good as Elphaba’s.
It would be wrong to say that the play is about the spoken, as opposed to the sung lines, but particularly in the first act, the spoken lines obviously the center of the play, and the sung lines are more peripheral.
Probably the greatest failing of the play was in the line of special effects. I myself do not believe that a play has to stun the viewer with special effects. After all, we are not watching a magician. Still, what a play promises to deliver, it must deliver, and it usually turns me off if it does not deliver it.
Take, for example, the case of the Winged Monkeys. Elphaba transforms a regular monkey into a winged monkey. Immediately, the monkey flaps his wings and climbs a ladder. Ten other monkeys begin climbing a ladder at the back of the stage. This was a mild shock to me. I should have thought that it went without saying that one cannot create winged monkeys, and then make them climb ladders. This looks like an underinvestment in stage effects. Winged monkeys ought not to climb ladders. They ought to fly.
If the producers could not credibly make them fly, they ought not to have introduced them. If they could have made them fly, my question is, why didn't they?
The same kind of thing happens several times during the play: something happens, and a special effect is obviously needed, but not given. The problem is that by the end of the play it is difficult to confide in the special effects. When a situation arises which seems to require a special effect, the question in one’s mind is, How will they NOT provide this special effect, rather than being ready to marvel at the solution.
However, the screenwriting is excellent, and serves to almost cover this defect.
In several cases the screenwriters managed to turn an obvious lack of special effects into an extremely successful moment. When Glinda is planning to make Elphaba her new project, she gets out her wand to turn Elphaba’s plain dress into a ball dress. “Ball dress!” she cries, as she waves her wand. Inside, we all tremble, aware that the special effects are quite insufficient to do this, and wondering how they will avoid showing this. Suddenly, it is turned to good effect: Glinda tries and fails, asking, “Is this even on??” as she stomps offstage.
In sum, I would say that it was definitely a good play, probably around 4 out of 5. Lucy Durack absolutely shone as Glinda: I would see anything she was playing in. The character of Elphaba was somewhat inhibiting, but Jemma Rix/Amanda Harrison played her quite well. The lyrics and script were excellent. However, some special effects would have added a lot to the production.
April 10, 2009
Monasticism
by Philip Hilton
“Resistendum est occupationibus, nec explicandae, sed submovendae sunt.” -- Seneca, talking about philosophers.
Reading the letter which Abelard sent to his friend, for the friend’s consolation, one cannot help but notice a long (practically endless to the non-native Latinist) detour he makes into the ideal of the Philosopher’s life. It might, indeed, practically constitute a pamphlet of its own. Nevertheless, the idea is essentially this: that “Excudent alii spirantia mollius aera,” but “tu memento”: “Resistendum est occupationibus”. A philosopher, like a monk, or an Nazarene is not to be a man of the world. He is to emphatically resist all connections with the hubub of everyday life, and to seek solitude. He is not so much to be known for avant-garde learning so much as for his eminently excellent life.
To almost any non-monk, non-philosopher or non-Nazarene, the question will doubtless arise: What’s the Point? Does solitude bring more happiness? Does it bring more productivity? In short, are you doing anything for yourself or your fellow men?
The assumption underlying these questions is that if you aren’t in the world, actively working with others and around others, you aren’t helping them. It is also usually assumed that while solitude is nice every now and again, it’s certainly not something that should be a pattern of life.
However, these assumptions are both flawed. Solitude is unwelcome to many people because they do not know, or do not like themselves. They cannot endure their own mind, and they cannot endure to commune with God. It is always difficult to illustrate this concept with a real example, because, of course, the majority of people who feel this, will never admit it. It’s just too close to home. But I’m sure that anyone who’s ever felt this way can sympathize with Claudius in Hamlet. Claudius, burdened by his sin, is spiritually blocked from God. Because he knows in his own mind that he is guilty, and refuses to admit it, he is neither at peace with himself, nor at peace with God. To him, solitude is unbearable. It weighs like a mill-stone upon his neck, because when he is alone and unoccupied he can only think on his inevitable fate.
On the other hand, to Christ, solitude was welcome. On one occasion he left the crowds of the sick to pray for hours on a mountain. His disciples, who thought that his main business was that of healing and preaching, were eminently surprised by this, and even rebuked him for it. Far from them was the idea of solitude. But for Christ, solitude was welcome. For him, it was a blessing, a chance to commune with himself and God, to lay his petitions before his Father. He did not feel guilty for ignoring his work of preaching and healing: he needed his solitude.
“Quid multa?” as they say in Cicero? What need we say of the 40 days of temptation in the desert? What of Christ’s sleeping in the boat while the tempest raged? What of the various other incidents that I can’t remember? The point is: solitude is not bad, and at least at times, up to 40 days, Christ deemed occupations to be resistendum.
Solitude nourishes our souls sometimes. It helps us commune with God, and learn more about him. While I can’t completely agree to permament solitude, I could certainly agree to a pattern of life that involved frequent solitude, and indeed, that is the pattern of most monastic communities. Not complete, but frequent solitude.
The other assumption is that we only help our fellow men when we are out in the world, doing “good stuff.” Still, I’d like to point something out. The idea of being a Christian, and determinedly doing good works when you feel sad and depressed and left out, or of testifying for Christ in such an atmosphere, is slightly incongruous. You say to your friend that your life has been changed; well and good, but why are you so sad? If your spiritual life is going downhill as you say it, perhaps you’d better take some time to work on it before you start talking about how great it is. In short, don’t testify about your changed life if you feel like it’s basically unchanged at the moment. Have a 40 day time-out in your room. ;-P
“Resistendum est occupationibus, nec explicandae, sed submovendae sunt.” -- Seneca, talking about philosophers.
Reading the letter which Abelard sent to his friend, for the friend’s consolation, one cannot help but notice a long (practically endless to the non-native Latinist) detour he makes into the ideal of the Philosopher’s life. It might, indeed, practically constitute a pamphlet of its own. Nevertheless, the idea is essentially this: that “Excudent alii spirantia mollius aera,” but “tu memento”: “Resistendum est occupationibus”. A philosopher, like a monk, or an Nazarene is not to be a man of the world. He is to emphatically resist all connections with the hubub of everyday life, and to seek solitude. He is not so much to be known for avant-garde learning so much as for his eminently excellent life.
To almost any non-monk, non-philosopher or non-Nazarene, the question will doubtless arise: What’s the Point? Does solitude bring more happiness? Does it bring more productivity? In short, are you doing anything for yourself or your fellow men?
The assumption underlying these questions is that if you aren’t in the world, actively working with others and around others, you aren’t helping them. It is also usually assumed that while solitude is nice every now and again, it’s certainly not something that should be a pattern of life.
However, these assumptions are both flawed. Solitude is unwelcome to many people because they do not know, or do not like themselves. They cannot endure their own mind, and they cannot endure to commune with God. It is always difficult to illustrate this concept with a real example, because, of course, the majority of people who feel this, will never admit it. It’s just too close to home. But I’m sure that anyone who’s ever felt this way can sympathize with Claudius in Hamlet. Claudius, burdened by his sin, is spiritually blocked from God. Because he knows in his own mind that he is guilty, and refuses to admit it, he is neither at peace with himself, nor at peace with God. To him, solitude is unbearable. It weighs like a mill-stone upon his neck, because when he is alone and unoccupied he can only think on his inevitable fate.
On the other hand, to Christ, solitude was welcome. On one occasion he left the crowds of the sick to pray for hours on a mountain. His disciples, who thought that his main business was that of healing and preaching, were eminently surprised by this, and even rebuked him for it. Far from them was the idea of solitude. But for Christ, solitude was welcome. For him, it was a blessing, a chance to commune with himself and God, to lay his petitions before his Father. He did not feel guilty for ignoring his work of preaching and healing: he needed his solitude.
“Quid multa?” as they say in Cicero? What need we say of the 40 days of temptation in the desert? What of Christ’s sleeping in the boat while the tempest raged? What of the various other incidents that I can’t remember? The point is: solitude is not bad, and at least at times, up to 40 days, Christ deemed occupations to be resistendum.
Solitude nourishes our souls sometimes. It helps us commune with God, and learn more about him. While I can’t completely agree to permament solitude, I could certainly agree to a pattern of life that involved frequent solitude, and indeed, that is the pattern of most monastic communities. Not complete, but frequent solitude.
The other assumption is that we only help our fellow men when we are out in the world, doing “good stuff.” Still, I’d like to point something out. The idea of being a Christian, and determinedly doing good works when you feel sad and depressed and left out, or of testifying for Christ in such an atmosphere, is slightly incongruous. You say to your friend that your life has been changed; well and good, but why are you so sad? If your spiritual life is going downhill as you say it, perhaps you’d better take some time to work on it before you start talking about how great it is. In short, don’t testify about your changed life if you feel like it’s basically unchanged at the moment. Have a 40 day time-out in your room. ;-P
March 26, 2009
Random Poems
Sages say this is wrong,
And of course they are right,
But midnight chatting on sidewalks
Is an uncommon delight.
My friend laughed at my scruples,
And I stood to let them go,
Except for a wise and unknown stranger,
Who told me to say “no”.
A wise men once crossed my path,
And tipped me some good advice:
No matter how desperate you may be,
Never take for a friend one who talks of vice.
And of course they are right,
But midnight chatting on sidewalks
Is an uncommon delight.
My friend laughed at my scruples,
And I stood to let them go,
Except for a wise and unknown stranger,
Who told me to say “no”.
A wise men once crossed my path,
And tipped me some good advice:
No matter how desperate you may be,
Never take for a friend one who talks of vice.
December 11, 2008
East and West in The Dark Knight
by Philip Hilton
Much has been said by Mr. Ahern about the negative capability of the Joker. In this essay I would like to outline another important facet of his character: his denial of plan. On his own account, the Joker declares that he does not follow plans. To some extent, this is belied by his actions; and a better example is Harvey Dent, who simply flips coins to determine whether a person lives or dies. The Joker and Harvey Dent are essentially hand and glove to a certain viewpoint.
The careless disregard of will and plan is what I would like to discuss in this essay. The Joker is the epitome of the East: the man who really *has* no plan, and therefore, no goal, does not believe in them, laughs at those who do. Harvey Dent, too, is the epitome of the East: he leaves it completely up to chance who lives and who dies, realizing that his plans are useless. Batman is the epitome of the West: he believes in plans, objectives, right and wrong. He believes in Will. This fundamental conflict is not fully developed in the movie. Nevertheless, insofar as it is developed, it serves as the key theme.
Western writers love to believe that will matters, that there is a plan. A classic example of this is Star Wars. Darth Sidius plans out his return to power, calculating all circumstances. The Rebels calculate their return to power. There are naturally glitches in the plan, which is what makes the plot. Still, overall, it is planned. Watching these films gives us the illusion that we too can plan our life; or else they free us momentarily from our random life. Batman is the essence of this. He and all his "ilk" plan carefully and guilefully, using disguises and weapons to defeat their enemy.
In Chekhov and Tolstoy we find the antithesis of this. Tolstoyan characters do not choose, they do not pretend to have a plan. They simply follow the apparently random course life chooses for them, reacting to the situation. No character pretends to understand his situation. No character pretends that he can control it. It is all outside their control; their decisions, whenever they make them, are pathetic. Tolstoy summarizes it in his perception of battle-schemes. He notes their irrelevancy; the extent to which the troops on the ground do their own thing, regardless of the general battle plan. It invites the question: what is the point of planning at all? And I don't think Tolstoy meant us to discover a point. This is the Eastern viewpoint.
I would argue that both viewpoints are necessary to life. The Eastern viewpoint expresses something which is too often forgotten by idealists who try to leave the traditional ways. The Western viewpoint, although useless on a large-scale level, is important in the small scale -- and this was recognized by the Russians. Not only is it relevant objectively, but subjectively we need it. It is the Life Lie of Ibsen without which man cannot live.
Idealists often pretend that a certain idea will succeed based on known facts. The problem is that "facts" on a large level are simply interpretations. A simple instance of this is the decision by George Bush to invade Iraq. Based on CIA "facts", he made the invasion, which, ultimately, turned out to be useless (in terms of the purpose he designed for it). What he relied on as certain was revealed to be baseless. In psychology and morality it is the same. What we regard as a basic "fact", discovered by us alone, is often nothing more than a figment of imagination. This why the traditional way is often far better than the new way. What seems good turns out to be fatally flawed in a way we could not foresee.
The Western viewpoint has provided a lot of good things for humanity, particularly in science, which relies on "facts" as much as possible. However, in general life, particularly where ideals or psychology is concerned, one cannot be too traditional. These areas -- where animate and not inanimate creatures are concerned -- can generally not be planned. It is simply too theoretical.
But the idea that we can -- and do succeed in planning our life, or whatever, is essential to our existence. In the Wild Duck, Dr. Relling that we need to escape from reality. We need a Life Lie. We need to believe that reality is something other than it is. And that ultimately means the belief that planning works. That is why most of Western novels and drama focus on a battle of wills. In real life, plans as complex as Darth Sidius' plan to take over the Jedi Republic are useless -- there are simply too many variables. But the idea that it could work gives us hope that we can perhaps do the same thing in our lives.
Ultimately, the Russian viewpoint is probably truer to life. Our minds need to plan; we are happiest if we believe in planning, and on a small scale, we can plan. But when we talk about ideals, we need to remember that we are talking about something very big. And we need to be careful, because as soon as we leave levels of planning in which we know almost all the factors, we risk missing important bits of information. So on a small scale we should plan; but we should have no illusion that our "big" plans are anything more than the operation of random chance.
The reason that The Dark Knight is so much more intellectually interesting than any previous play is that it brings into focus these differences, more fundamental than any mere difference of objectives. In the Dark Knight, we have a kind of classic East Meets West Situation. There is Batman, with his Plan and Objective. But against him is not simply another Villain, with His Other Plan and Objective. Instead, we have a villain with No Plan and No Objective. One who leaves it up to chance whether something happens or not.
Much has been said by Mr. Ahern about the negative capability of the Joker. In this essay I would like to outline another important facet of his character: his denial of plan. On his own account, the Joker declares that he does not follow plans. To some extent, this is belied by his actions; and a better example is Harvey Dent, who simply flips coins to determine whether a person lives or dies. The Joker and Harvey Dent are essentially hand and glove to a certain viewpoint.
The careless disregard of will and plan is what I would like to discuss in this essay. The Joker is the epitome of the East: the man who really *has* no plan, and therefore, no goal, does not believe in them, laughs at those who do. Harvey Dent, too, is the epitome of the East: he leaves it completely up to chance who lives and who dies, realizing that his plans are useless. Batman is the epitome of the West: he believes in plans, objectives, right and wrong. He believes in Will. This fundamental conflict is not fully developed in the movie. Nevertheless, insofar as it is developed, it serves as the key theme.
Western writers love to believe that will matters, that there is a plan. A classic example of this is Star Wars. Darth Sidius plans out his return to power, calculating all circumstances. The Rebels calculate their return to power. There are naturally glitches in the plan, which is what makes the plot. Still, overall, it is planned. Watching these films gives us the illusion that we too can plan our life; or else they free us momentarily from our random life. Batman is the essence of this. He and all his "ilk" plan carefully and guilefully, using disguises and weapons to defeat their enemy.
In Chekhov and Tolstoy we find the antithesis of this. Tolstoyan characters do not choose, they do not pretend to have a plan. They simply follow the apparently random course life chooses for them, reacting to the situation. No character pretends to understand his situation. No character pretends that he can control it. It is all outside their control; their decisions, whenever they make them, are pathetic. Tolstoy summarizes it in his perception of battle-schemes. He notes their irrelevancy; the extent to which the troops on the ground do their own thing, regardless of the general battle plan. It invites the question: what is the point of planning at all? And I don't think Tolstoy meant us to discover a point. This is the Eastern viewpoint.
I would argue that both viewpoints are necessary to life. The Eastern viewpoint expresses something which is too often forgotten by idealists who try to leave the traditional ways. The Western viewpoint, although useless on a large-scale level, is important in the small scale -- and this was recognized by the Russians. Not only is it relevant objectively, but subjectively we need it. It is the Life Lie of Ibsen without which man cannot live.
Idealists often pretend that a certain idea will succeed based on known facts. The problem is that "facts" on a large level are simply interpretations. A simple instance of this is the decision by George Bush to invade Iraq. Based on CIA "facts", he made the invasion, which, ultimately, turned out to be useless (in terms of the purpose he designed for it). What he relied on as certain was revealed to be baseless. In psychology and morality it is the same. What we regard as a basic "fact", discovered by us alone, is often nothing more than a figment of imagination. This why the traditional way is often far better than the new way. What seems good turns out to be fatally flawed in a way we could not foresee.
The Western viewpoint has provided a lot of good things for humanity, particularly in science, which relies on "facts" as much as possible. However, in general life, particularly where ideals or psychology is concerned, one cannot be too traditional. These areas -- where animate and not inanimate creatures are concerned -- can generally not be planned. It is simply too theoretical.
But the idea that we can -- and do succeed in planning our life, or whatever, is essential to our existence. In the Wild Duck, Dr. Relling that we need to escape from reality. We need a Life Lie. We need to believe that reality is something other than it is. And that ultimately means the belief that planning works. That is why most of Western novels and drama focus on a battle of wills. In real life, plans as complex as Darth Sidius' plan to take over the Jedi Republic are useless -- there are simply too many variables. But the idea that it could work gives us hope that we can perhaps do the same thing in our lives.
Ultimately, the Russian viewpoint is probably truer to life. Our minds need to plan; we are happiest if we believe in planning, and on a small scale, we can plan. But when we talk about ideals, we need to remember that we are talking about something very big. And we need to be careful, because as soon as we leave levels of planning in which we know almost all the factors, we risk missing important bits of information. So on a small scale we should plan; but we should have no illusion that our "big" plans are anything more than the operation of random chance.
The reason that The Dark Knight is so much more intellectually interesting than any previous play is that it brings into focus these differences, more fundamental than any mere difference of objectives. In the Dark Knight, we have a kind of classic East Meets West Situation. There is Batman, with his Plan and Objective. But against him is not simply another Villain, with His Other Plan and Objective. Instead, we have a villain with No Plan and No Objective. One who leaves it up to chance whether something happens or not.
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