All Things Shining: the good

After a chapter on “The Attractions and Dangers of Autonomy” (a phrase that made me want to throw the book across the room even more than “the dangers of nihilism”), the authors of All Things Shining get on to “Fanaticism, Polytheism, and Melville’s ‘Evil Art.'” Here the focus is on Moby-Dick, and the claim is that Melville has solved the problems that have led up to this point and found us a way to meaning that works for the post-Enlightenment age. Dreyfus and Kelly are, like me, great fans of Ishmael, so here I started to warm up to them.

After the oddities of some of the discussion of Homer, I was worried that the interpretations presented of various bits and pieces of Melville’s masterpiece would not sit well with me either, but that proved not to be the case. The authors do a fine job discussing Ahab’s obsession, Ishmael’s attitude toward Queequeg’s religion, Queequeg’s place among Christians after leaving his home island, the whiteness of the whale, and especially—here they were truly helpful to me—Pip. And earlier they have a good discussion of Bulkington and his appearance in the chapter “The Lee Shore.”

One passage discussed in the book is the one from Ishmael’s entrance into the Spouter Inn, where there is a painting representing something quite indeterminate in the entryway. Ishmael has his own ideas about what it might be, and discusses it with some other fellows, and comes to a tentative “final theory of my own.”

Ishmael’s satisfaction with his interpretation of the picture at the Spouter Inn reflects Melville’s content with his wicked book. “[N]o hopefulness is in it,” Melville says, “no despair. Content—that is it.” The account is a good one, in both cases, an interpretation that makes much sense of things as they stand. But there is no hope that it is more than this, no longing for some further, final, ultimate truth; and there is no despair, either, at the thought that such a deep and final truth might not be found. The medieval picture of a secure and final and certain foundation—of God as the deep and final source of all that is—has been left behind. As Ishmael says, “I have perceived that in all cases man must eventually lower, or at least shift, his conceit of attainable felicity.”

This last is part of a line from the great chapter 94, “A Squeeze of the Hand.” Ishmael describes squeezing spermaceti back to its liquid state along with his fellow whalers, a very pleasant task, and explains that:

For now, since by many prolonged, repeated experiences, I have perceived that in all cases man must eventually lower, or at least shift, his conceit of attainable felicity; not placing it anywhere in the intellect or the fancy; but in the wife, the heart, the bed, the table, the saddle, the fire-side; the country; now that I have perceived all this, I am ready to squeeze case eternally.

I think it quite right that Dreyfus and Kelly should have selected this as one of the more basic statements to live by, since it’s one of the more basic statements I live by. But while they’ve made the right decision here, I still think it just shows up how wrong much of the rest of the book is.

As they note, “[w]hat Ahab hates most thoroughly is the idea that the universe might be inscrutable to the last; that ultimately there might be ‘naught beyond.'” But this is the problem with so much of the premise of All Things Shining. Though the authors come to the conclusion that we must change our ideas of “attainable felicity,” instead of just coming out and saying so, they premise a whole book on a search for meaning that isn’t there. If there is nothing behind these pasteboard masks, naught beyond, and “the surface events themselves—contradictory and mysterious and multiple as they may be—are nevertheless all the meaning there is,” why haven’t we simply maintained that from the first chapter, instead of spending 150 or so pages complaining about nihilism? This may not be Nietzsche, but as far as I am concerned, it is nihilism, at least some subtype thereof. They should have been shouting from the rooftops from the very beginning that the problem isn’t nihilism, but despair and anti-nihilism. David Foster Wallace’s problem wasn’t being a nihilist, it was being like Ahab and failing to accept nihilism, which just ain’t that big of a deal. The fact that Melville wins out on the answer to this question means that all along, the answer was, “you’re asking the wrong question.”

I do have a few quibbles with the focus of the chapter. There is great weight placed on ideas of “communal” felicity, as though Ishmael only finds meaning when squeezing spermaceti in a circle. Community is unquestionably important for Melville, but so is aloneness, and there is certainly no barrier to felicities attained by oneself. This focus on community, along with anti-individualist issues in earlier chapters, leads to some problems with the authors’ final push toward meaningful types of happiness for our current day and age. At the very end, they do recognize the problems in the kind of mob happiness they’ve been talking up, and go on to develop examples for individuals operating alone, which is good. But again, there seems to be no reason to go through this development; they could have started out on a better track instead and never had to note that the same sentiment that makes you jump up and shout for a home run also made people jump up and shout for Hitler (yes, they Godwin themselves, thankfully).

But after Melville, and some thoughtful passages on developing interests and competencies that are meaningful and happy for you personally, I was left feeling upbeat, which is really why I gave this the thumbs-up at the end of it all. At least in the end they are giving you the right idea.

All Things Shining: first, the bad

My opinion of All Things Shining, Hubert Dreyfus and Sean Dorrance Kelly’s book on “reading the Western classics to find meaning in a secular age,” changed dramatically two chapters from the end. I spent the bulk of the book disagreeing with it at nearly every turn, felt much better about the end, and thus decided that I liked it after all. But the problems of the first part remain, so first let me get all negative with that, and then tomorrow I’ll tell you why it wasn’t all bad. I think in reality the problems probably outweigh the good bits, and my overall positive feeling might be generally unwarranted, but so be it.

The premise of the book is that, whether or not you are a religious believer, Western society has left behind a culture where people can truly derive meaning for their lives from religious belief, and that we are all in danger of “nihilism.” My first trouble with the book came from the constant refrain of “the dangers of nihilism,” “the problems of nihilism,” “the threat of nihilism,” and so on. As, ahem, a nihilist, I couldn’t see what the danger was; nihilism doesn’t entail despair, but for Dreyfus and Kelly, it seemed to. The big voice of nihilism in the book is Nietzsche, and I can certainly understand that many people wouldn’t very happy attempting to live with him as their guiding philosophical light. The threat of nihilism is also very tied up with what the authors call the “contemporary burden of choice.” How can we humans decide what to do with our lives, from the largest to the smallest decision, without a fundamental guide to the meaning of it all?

The authors start by examining a couple of contemporary solutions, in a chapter that sort of amazingly compares David Foster Wallace to Elizabeth Gilbert (of Eat, Pray, Love fame). According to the book, Wallace believes that we must all create our own meaning, basically from whole cloth. We endow our lives with meaning through sheer force of will, and it ain’t easy. One example: next time you see a horrible, “fat, dead-eyed, over-made-up lady” screaming at her kids in line in front of you, try to imagine who she is outside of that line:

Maybe she’s been up three straight nights holding the hand of a husband who is dying of bone cancer. Or maybe this very lady is the low-wage clerk at the motor vehicle department, who just yesterday helped your spouse resolve a horrific, infuriating, red-tape problem through some small act of bureaucratic kindness. Of course, none of this is likely, but it’s also not impossible. It just depends what you want to consider.

But this is hard, and probably outside the realm of possibility for most people. Gilbert, by contrast, recognizes that this kind of individualism is untenable. She speaks against the idea of the artist as the sole originating source of his own creation, saying, “I think that allowing somebody…to believe that he or she is…the source of all divine, creative, unknowable, eternal mystery is just a smidge too much responsibility to put on one fragile, human psyche. …And I think the pressure of that has been killing off our artists for the last 500 years.”

Instead, Gilbert believes in some kind of “inspiration,” citing favorably a woman poet who described poems as coming to her like a physical object on the wind, blown toward her and she must run to write them down. My problem with both of these paths: neither Wallace nor Gilbert seems concerned at all with any kind of truth. To create our own meaning under Wallace’s regime, we have to give this lady some absurd level of benefit of the doubt just so that, instead of being angry, we can feel some sympathy for her. No wonder it is hard to live this way, when you know as you are doing it that you’re making stuff up to make yourself feel better. And while artists may feel inspiration come from the outside, there is not actually a poem “coming at [them] from over the landscape.” And the most frustrating thing about this, in turn, is that Dreyfus and Kelly don’t even consider it—don’t even consider that if we want to find meaning, it might have to come from something real in order to work.

On to the ancient Greeks! Now the book begins to trace a path from Homer through the Western classics to find how ways of finding meaning have changed. And this is where things start to really go off the rails. The authors examine The Odyssey and, to a large extent in my opinion, botch it. Discussing “what we should hope to retrieve from the Greeks,” they note that “it must be consistent with our understanding of the physical makeup of the universe.” So what meaning can we gain when we ourselves are no longer polytheists? For example, they describe the part where Odysseus has returned home and, along with Telemachus, begins to fight off the suitors infesting his home. The suitors throw their spears at Odysseus, “but each shot missed its mark—Athena’s work.”

The idea here is that it must not have seemed merely arbitrary or fortunate to Odysseus that these enemy spears missed their mark. It must have seemed to him, rather, that there was some meaning or purpose in this fact, the he was being cared for in the event. Homer’s way of expressing this is to insist that the spears missed Odysseus because Athena was protecting him from the enemy attack.

…Obviously we cannot believe that some supernatural entity named Athena actually caused the spears to turn aside. Even if we replace Athena with the Judeo-Chrsitian God, our secular age typically rebels at the thought…. What relief, what amazement, what gratitude one must feel! And can it possibly have been bind chance? By any natural measure, it must seem to Odysseus, things should have gone the other way. One experiences this—or at least Homer’s character experienced it—not just as mere luck or good fortune, but as an event that tells him he is well cared for.

This is all wrong. Of course a supernatural entity named Athena actually caused the spears to turn aside. This is a poem! Athena is no less real than Odysseus, both within the world of the poem and within our real contemporary world. I don’t believe Athena really exists, for real, but I don’t believe Odysseus does either, or the suitors, or their spears. Athena and the other Olympians play a very real role in the events of The Odyssey; they are not just metaphors or symbols or something. The question isn’t of what Odysseus felt being presented by Homer as reality, but of what Athena’s actions themselves mean and why she is helping Odysseus. This isn’t ultimately very much of a problem for the book’s overall goal or thesis, but it’s the kind of weirdness that drove me crazy as I continued to read.

There is a more real problem with the authors’ ideas about the ancient Greeks, both of Homer’s time and the Athenian Golden Age, as well as with their ideas about early Christians and everyone up through Kant. It’s a claim I’ve heard before, but which I don’t believe and which I don’t think is actually supported: that up until the Enlightenment, people didn’t really think of themselves as individuals. According to the book, in Homer’s time people considered “moods” “public and shareable,” not interior. You’ve heard it all before, I’m sure—back when people didn’t know how to read silently, and thought of themselves as firmly a part of a God- or gods-given social order (à la medieval Europe), etc etc, they were like some sort of automatons who barely knew how to think or feel on their own. But think how easy it was to find meaning when you had no mind of your own and just knew your place as a serf or a divine-right king!

So how do we know people didn’t think of themselves as individuals? One example, from Homer: when Odysseus arrives back home, he’s in disguise and doesn’t reveal himself to his wife, Penelope:

[H]e pretends to be an old friend of Odysseus’s, and tells her of their last counter. Hearing the stories of her husband, Penelope bursts into tears. It is hard for Odysseus to see his dear wife in such a state, but he cannot show her how much he is moved for fear of giving away his identity. Homer marvels at his ability to conceal his sadness in this situation. He speaks with awe of that “master of invention” who has the trick of weeping inwardly while his eyes remain as dry as bone:

Imagine how his heart ached for his lady,
His wife in tears; and yet he never blinked;
His eyes might have been made of horn or iron
For all that she could see. He had this trick—
Wept, if he willed to, inwardly.

The idea of an inner experience was so peculiar to the Greeks….

Now, Odysseus is certainly supposed to be more cunning than average, a better liar, and all that. But really—would not a contemporary narrator also marvel at the ability of a man to keep his identity secret from a long-lost wife he’s finally been able to return to, after twenty years, when he still loves her and intends to reunite for real in a few days? Not because inner feelings are inconceivable, but because the strength of these feelings would be overwhelming for anyone. See this excellent hit piece in the New York Review of Books for better reasons than I can give about why this idea is junk.

I have lots more issues with specific points, but most of them relate to these basic ideas: problems with the “problem of nihilism,” problems with some readings of the literature, and problems with the concept that the idea of an interior life had to be invented before people realized private consciousness existed. The biggest problem, though, is the first one, and that’s the one that’s patched up the best in the chapter that turned things around for me. That chapter hinges on Moby-Dick, and they begin to get things right on some level, at least for me.