Saturday, July 30, 2005
Welcome, Ezra
Welcome to Ezra from "So I Said I Am Ezra," a new blog from the Troy University community. Ezra (a nom de cyber) appears to be focused mostly on posting poetry. I spoke with Ezra, who told me that the plan was to post poetry unattributed, so that readers would confront the poems on their own terms, rather than by the reputation of the poet. A pretty cool idea, though I'm probably going to see if I can't figure out a way for Ezra to set up links so that the reader can eventually track down any poet they really like, in case they want to read more of their materials.
Dr. Hawkins, Tear Down This Wall!
Well, OK, it might not be quite Reagan's "Mr. Gorbachev, tear down this wall" speech, but in Troy University news we've been in the process of tearing down our own Berlin Wall. When I was hired at Troy, it was the Troy State University system, with the various campuses more-or-less independent, having separate curricula and accreditation. This often created absurd situations. One very common one was that if a student took American Literature at one Troy State campus, the credits didn't transfer to the other campuses.
As of August 1st, the Troy State University system will be no more, replaced by Troy University. Each campus will simply be a separate location of the same university. The transition has sometimes been difficult, but I for one am glad for it. I think the change was overdue -- so kudos to the trustees and administrators who led the way on this one.
One small problem -- I had to learn to stop putting "State" in the middle of "Troy State University." It was difficult for me, but I succeeded so well in finally eradicating it that I find myself accidentally removing "State" from other phrases in which it should be. One example is my graduate school, Wayne State University, which I now call "Wayne University" unless I concentrate on saying it right.
[One more note -- I have a general guideline that I don't post most Troy University news to the blog. This is mostly because I'm afraid if I start praising certain decisions or events, if later I neglect to praise another decision it could be read as a criticism. In this case, however, I thought it a significant enough moment in the life of Troy University to break with my own rule. Now, back to our regular broadcast schedule.]
As of August 1st, the Troy State University system will be no more, replaced by Troy University. Each campus will simply be a separate location of the same university. The transition has sometimes been difficult, but I for one am glad for it. I think the change was overdue -- so kudos to the trustees and administrators who led the way on this one.
One small problem -- I had to learn to stop putting "State" in the middle of "Troy State University." It was difficult for me, but I succeeded so well in finally eradicating it that I find myself accidentally removing "State" from other phrases in which it should be. One example is my graduate school, Wayne State University, which I now call "Wayne University" unless I concentrate on saying it right.
[One more note -- I have a general guideline that I don't post most Troy University news to the blog. This is mostly because I'm afraid if I start praising certain decisions or events, if later I neglect to praise another decision it could be read as a criticism. In this case, however, I thought it a significant enough moment in the life of Troy University to break with my own rule. Now, back to our regular broadcast schedule.]
Friday, July 29, 2005
Two Hoorays!
Hooray! I've gotten a lot of work done already!
-and-
Hooray! I've been awarded the "Order of the Quill" at A Knight's Blog!
Now I've just got to get a handkerchief or other favor from Mrs. Nokes to carry into tournament.
-and-
Hooray! I've been awarded the "Order of the Quill" at A Knight's Blog!
Now I've just got to get a handkerchief or other favor from Mrs. Nokes to carry into tournament.
"Never let the facts...
... get in the way of a good theory" is one of my favorite catchphrases to pull out in academic settings, generally reserved for when someone is confronted with a fact in conflict with their theory and, rather than explain it away, they simply ignore it. The amount of irony with which I imbue the phrase depends largely on how much I like the person or the theory.
I've been reading Erich Fromm's The Art of Loving, and it is rather like the girl in the nursery rhyme: "When she was good, she was very, very good; when she was bad, she was awful." I found this bold application of my catchphrase:
"According to the great and decisive discoveries of Bachofen and Morgan in the middle of the nineteenth century, and in spite of the rejection their findings have found in most academic circles, there can be little doubt that there was a matriarchal phase of religion preceding the patriarchal one, at least in many cultures" (54, emphasis mine).
Heh heh ... I love it. First he acknowledges that what he is about to state has been nearly universally rejected, then he audaciously claims that there can be "little doubt," without even making overtures at presenting evidence in support of his claim. It might be poor scholarship, but he gets an A+ in chutzpah.
I've been reading Erich Fromm's The Art of Loving, and it is rather like the girl in the nursery rhyme: "When she was good, she was very, very good; when she was bad, she was awful." I found this bold application of my catchphrase:
"According to the great and decisive discoveries of Bachofen and Morgan in the middle of the nineteenth century, and in spite of the rejection their findings have found in most academic circles, there can be little doubt that there was a matriarchal phase of religion preceding the patriarchal one, at least in many cultures" (54, emphasis mine).
Heh heh ... I love it. First he acknowledges that what he is about to state has been nearly universally rejected, then he audaciously claims that there can be "little doubt," without even making overtures at presenting evidence in support of his claim. It might be poor scholarship, but he gets an A+ in chutzpah.
The Mental Perils of Blogging
If you notice the times of my posts, you'll realize that while I might blog at any time of the day, I tend to blog most heavily early in the morning and late at night. This is because I don't want blogger to interfere with some of the more intellectually rigorous parts of my day, so I only blog when my brain isn't being used for something else. Whenever I blog in the middle of the day, it tends to be a very good or very bad sign; either I have gotten a solid bit of work done and am taking a break, or I'm unable to get anything done and am trying to get my brain in gear through other activities (usually strategy computer games or blogging).
But the real peril of blogger so early in the morning and late at night is that sometimes blogging gets into my dreams. Last night, I dreamt I got onto Digital Medievalist and Lisa Spangenberg's post welcoming me, and found that in the comments section several dozen people had written to disagree with MacAllister Stone's description of my blog as "cool." Their descriptions (in my dream) were marked by profane negative appraisals of the blog.
The scary part is that, if the dream were true, it would mean that I have more readers than I actually have in real life! The meaning of the dream, Dr. Freud? Never eat a Reeses peanut butter cup just before bed, no matter how delicious it looks.
But the real peril of blogger so early in the morning and late at night is that sometimes blogging gets into my dreams. Last night, I dreamt I got onto Digital Medievalist and Lisa Spangenberg's post welcoming me, and found that in the comments section several dozen people had written to disagree with MacAllister Stone's description of my blog as "cool." Their descriptions (in my dream) were marked by profane negative appraisals of the blog.
The scary part is that, if the dream were true, it would mean that I have more readers than I actually have in real life! The meaning of the dream, Dr. Freud? Never eat a Reeses peanut butter cup just before bed, no matter how delicious it looks.
Thursday, July 28, 2005
Tradition and Reason
Policy Review has an interesting article by Lee Harris entitled "The Future of Tradition," the main question of which is,
"But is it possible to defend tradition with the help of reason? Can a particular tradition be justified by reason? And what if our traditional belief conflicts with reason — can we rationally justify keeping it? "
The article is interesting, but it is founded on a false premise: that tradition and reason are potentially competing modes of thought, and that reason itself may potentially be a superior mode of thinking than submission to tradition.
Harris misses this point (or perhaps pretends to): Reason itself as he is using it refers to the Western rational tradition. In other words, reason is itself a tradition, a particular disciplined mode of thinking that may or may not be superior to other modes of thinking. Why, in his examples, do cultural fights between reason and tradition end in disaster? Because if reason wins, it undermines its very traditional foundation, and if tradition wins, it destroys the very reason it birthed.
Allow me to explain it this way: What if I attack Western rationalism as a system of thought? How can you defend it? If you defend it through reasoned argumentation, you are creating a very small circle of logic, no larger than when someone asserts "The Bible is true because it says so." Instead, one must do what Harris feels compelled to do every time he brings up the Sophists -- justify reason according to intellectual tradition. In fact, Harris's article has the great virtue of acting as performance art in that it justifies tradition by appealing to reason on the surface, but beneath the surface is really justifying reason by appealing to tradition.
I'm not sure whether he avoids saying so directly because he is missing this point, or if he is only pretending to in order to avoid alienating his apparent intended audience of reason-partisans.
"But is it possible to defend tradition with the help of reason? Can a particular tradition be justified by reason? And what if our traditional belief conflicts with reason — can we rationally justify keeping it? "
The article is interesting, but it is founded on a false premise: that tradition and reason are potentially competing modes of thought, and that reason itself may potentially be a superior mode of thinking than submission to tradition.
Harris misses this point (or perhaps pretends to): Reason itself as he is using it refers to the Western rational tradition. In other words, reason is itself a tradition, a particular disciplined mode of thinking that may or may not be superior to other modes of thinking. Why, in his examples, do cultural fights between reason and tradition end in disaster? Because if reason wins, it undermines its very traditional foundation, and if tradition wins, it destroys the very reason it birthed.
Allow me to explain it this way: What if I attack Western rationalism as a system of thought? How can you defend it? If you defend it through reasoned argumentation, you are creating a very small circle of logic, no larger than when someone asserts "The Bible is true because it says so." Instead, one must do what Harris feels compelled to do every time he brings up the Sophists -- justify reason according to intellectual tradition. In fact, Harris's article has the great virtue of acting as performance art in that it justifies tradition by appealing to reason on the surface, but beneath the surface is really justifying reason by appealing to tradition.
I'm not sure whether he avoids saying so directly because he is missing this point, or if he is only pretending to in order to avoid alienating his apparent intended audience of reason-partisans.
...I thought like a child, I reasoned like a child...
Over at Poliblog, Steven Taylor has a post about the beliefs of children, responding to a post elsewhere.
Dr. Taylor writes:
"When I was little I believed that the world actually existed in black and white, and that it only became color a few years before my birth. My reasoning was pretty straight-forward: all the evidence I had (photographic and movies) were black and white, hence the world itself must’ve been black and white, right?"
I believed exactly the same thing. Furthermore, since the earliest color photos in my home had faded into sepia tones, I reasoned that color had come into the world gradually, first in black-and-white, then sepia tones, then the full color of my own lifetime.
Also, growing up in northern Indiana (Amish country), one day I asked my mother why the Amish didn't use cars and lights and whatnot. She responded, "Because they don't believe in electricity." To my young ears, though, I thought that what she meant was that they didn't believe in the existence of electricity, rather than simply believing in using it. I asked her, "What do they think when they see cars and electric lights and stuff?" She misunderstood what I was asking -- assuming that I was asking what they thought about those of us "English" who use them, rather than my actual question, which was about how they reasoned away the efficacy of these devices -- and responded after a moment's thought, "I just don't know."
I was probably ten or twelve years old before I realized my error. Up until then, I thought the Amish must be the stupidest people alive, unable to reason out the effectiveness of electricity by seeing the workings of a television or lightbulb.
Dr. Taylor writes:
"When I was little I believed that the world actually existed in black and white, and that it only became color a few years before my birth. My reasoning was pretty straight-forward: all the evidence I had (photographic and movies) were black and white, hence the world itself must’ve been black and white, right?"
I believed exactly the same thing. Furthermore, since the earliest color photos in my home had faded into sepia tones, I reasoned that color had come into the world gradually, first in black-and-white, then sepia tones, then the full color of my own lifetime.
Also, growing up in northern Indiana (Amish country), one day I asked my mother why the Amish didn't use cars and lights and whatnot. She responded, "Because they don't believe in electricity." To my young ears, though, I thought that what she meant was that they didn't believe in the existence of electricity, rather than simply believing in using it. I asked her, "What do they think when they see cars and electric lights and stuff?" She misunderstood what I was asking -- assuming that I was asking what they thought about those of us "English" who use them, rather than my actual question, which was about how they reasoned away the efficacy of these devices -- and responded after a moment's thought, "I just don't know."
I was probably ten or twelve years old before I realized my error. Up until then, I thought the Amish must be the stupidest people alive, unable to reason out the effectiveness of electricity by seeing the workings of a television or lightbulb.
Tuesday, July 26, 2005
Post-lapsarian Lunch
So I was having lunch with a colleague yesterday, and he asked me, "what do you think the nature of the Fall is?"
[Yes, this is really the kind of conversation we in English Departments have at lunch. The College of Business guys talk about sports and their lawns, and the College of Arts and Sciences guys wonder if the ubiquity of "Grade A" beef is the result of beef grade-inflation]
The context of the question had to do with relativism, and the apparent contradiction inherent in saying "There is no truth." It's a version of the Cretan Paradox. I find it is hard to find absolute relativists among serious thinkers; apparent relativists generally have a firm foundation upon which they presume truth is constructed. Study any relativist long enough, and you'll either discover that the "relativist" has a bedrock beneath which he will not sink, or that he's not really a serious thinker.
After a short discussion, I was interested to realize that both my colleague and I had independently determined that the Fall (that is, the Edenic Fall of Man) was the relativistic de-centering of God and re-centering of the Self. When the serpent says, "you will be like God, knowing good and evil," he is really offering Eve the promise of relativism. He is offering Eve the chance to be a goddess and establish her own definitions of good and evil. Every time a man sins, then, he is re-enacting the original Fall, by tacitly declaring his own superiority to God, and his own sovereignty over the rightness or wrongness of his actions. When a man declares, then, that there is no truth, he not only re-enacts the Fall, but embraces it.
[Yes, this is really the kind of conversation we in English Departments have at lunch. The College of Business guys talk about sports and their lawns, and the College of Arts and Sciences guys wonder if the ubiquity of "Grade A" beef is the result of beef grade-inflation]
The context of the question had to do with relativism, and the apparent contradiction inherent in saying "There is no truth." It's a version of the Cretan Paradox. I find it is hard to find absolute relativists among serious thinkers; apparent relativists generally have a firm foundation upon which they presume truth is constructed. Study any relativist long enough, and you'll either discover that the "relativist" has a bedrock beneath which he will not sink, or that he's not really a serious thinker.
After a short discussion, I was interested to realize that both my colleague and I had independently determined that the Fall (that is, the Edenic Fall of Man) was the relativistic de-centering of God and re-centering of the Self. When the serpent says, "you will be like God, knowing good and evil," he is really offering Eve the promise of relativism. He is offering Eve the chance to be a goddess and establish her own definitions of good and evil. Every time a man sins, then, he is re-enacting the original Fall, by tacitly declaring his own superiority to God, and his own sovereignty over the rightness or wrongness of his actions. When a man declares, then, that there is no truth, he not only re-enacts the Fall, but embraces it.
Monday, July 25, 2005
Er, that wasn't what I had in mind...
After my recent coinage of "philogram" to mean a friend you know only virtually through electronic means (such as blogs or chat rooms), I decided to see if the term had taken root.
Imagine my surprise to find that www.philogram.net exists ... but for some reason didn't come up on Google when I coined my term. And, what, pray tell, is philogram.net?
It is a Korean SETI (Search for Extra-Terrestrial Intelligence) site. I can read Korean (no, I'm not joking), but my reading is very slow, and much of this is too technical for me to read at any speed. I searched the site a bit to try to figure out why they called it "philogram," but I can't find any reference in the earlier posts. Unfortunately, I can't get my non-Korean version of Word to do a search for me on Korean words, so I've got to do it the old fashioned way, by eye.
In any case, their blog pre-dates my coinage by about 6 months, so they must have had *something* in mind. Occasionally, someone misspells "phylogram" to denote a phylogenetic tree, but their SETI site doesn't seem particularly biological.
Odd.
Imagine my surprise to find that www.philogram.net exists ... but for some reason didn't come up on Google when I coined my term. And, what, pray tell, is philogram.net?
It is a Korean SETI (Search for Extra-Terrestrial Intelligence) site. I can read Korean (no, I'm not joking), but my reading is very slow, and much of this is too technical for me to read at any speed. I searched the site a bit to try to figure out why they called it "philogram," but I can't find any reference in the earlier posts. Unfortunately, I can't get my non-Korean version of Word to do a search for me on Korean words, so I've got to do it the old fashioned way, by eye.
In any case, their blog pre-dates my coinage by about 6 months, so they must have had *something* in mind. Occasionally, someone misspells "phylogram" to denote a phylogenetic tree, but their SETI site doesn't seem particularly biological.
Odd.
Life imitates art
The countdown to the new fall semester has begun (less than a month), with the usual mad scramble: last-minute changes to the schedule, the publishers of our new composition texts haven't gotten us desk copies, etc. Now is the season when I have to make hard choices.
One of the big choices I generally have to make is about the "silent theme" of each of my courses. I like to have a theme on the surface for the students to focus on, e.g. my "love, sex, and marriage in medieval lit" theme for the medieval survey this semester. Being the evil man I am, though, I also like to have a hidden agenda, a subtext for each class. Some examples of this might be "research papers should put the writer in dialogue with scholarly/professional discussion on the topic" or "all translation and editing is a form of interpretation" or "the lessons of literature are relevant to my life."
This fall, I'm going for broke. I think I'm going to have the same "silent theme" for all of my literature classes: Life imitates art, not visa-versa.
I suspect this is going to be a tough one for students, particularly younger ones, because it is so counter-intuitive. On the surface, this seems to be nonsense. Doesn't life precede art? And as such, needn't art imitate life?
Of course, SOMEONE's life had to precede art ... we just don't have any record back that far. The earliest Man we can trace had art, from cave painting to music. Once we get further back, we've got animals. For all of recorded history, life has imitated art.
Let me offer an example. You are in love -- now, how do you behave? If you are a male, you do things like attempt feats of physical prowess, as well as demonstrating sensitivity through such things as writing love poetry or giving gifts of perfume, candies, or flowers. If you are a female, you place yourself in situations of "distress," such as having your books carried from class-to-class, or needing some repairs done around the house. While there is a biological component to each of these, how do we know how to express our biological desires in the culture? Through art, of course.
We try to live as art teaches. We express love in the ways of characters in stories. We speak in unfamiliar situations in ways that we've read characters speaking. We select the clothes we wear based upon an ideal determined by art (such as fashion photography). We take on the roles of characters we see in art, and judge others by those same characters.
In the 80's, the most popular father in America was ... Bill Cosby. No one can name one of his real children, but anyone alive at that time can name his fictional children. Students often tell me that their ideal teacher is Robin Williams from "Dead Poets' Society," far more often than they name a real teacher from their past. Our president wears cowboy boots, but I've never seen him rounding up cattle. My penchant for tweed jackets and bowties is an ironic comment on depictions of professors in art, not actual professors I have known. Women love to wear the same dress that Haley Berry wore in a particular film, but they hate it if a real live women is wearing the same dress as they. At the Cafe du Monde in New Orleans last week, people seemed to be more intent on striking poses than actually drinking coffee and eating beignets. And, most annoyingly to me, whenever in Europe all young Americans try to be characters from Hemingway.
I sometimes wonder if mimesis is really about how closely a work of art imitates life at all. Perhaps we consider something "realistic" if it presents an artistic representation we ourselves are able to imitate in our own lives. Maybe "true to life" doesn't mean that the work is similar to my own life -- maybe it means that I am able to mold my life to a role in the work.
Maybe understanding that life imitates art is too subtle an idea for most young people, but I'm going to give it a try anyway. I'll try to keep y'all posted on how its going as the semester progresses.
[updated 12:48PM to fix a stupid error]
One of the big choices I generally have to make is about the "silent theme" of each of my courses. I like to have a theme on the surface for the students to focus on, e.g. my "love, sex, and marriage in medieval lit" theme for the medieval survey this semester. Being the evil man I am, though, I also like to have a hidden agenda, a subtext for each class. Some examples of this might be "research papers should put the writer in dialogue with scholarly/professional discussion on the topic" or "all translation and editing is a form of interpretation" or "the lessons of literature are relevant to my life."
This fall, I'm going for broke. I think I'm going to have the same "silent theme" for all of my literature classes: Life imitates art, not visa-versa.
I suspect this is going to be a tough one for students, particularly younger ones, because it is so counter-intuitive. On the surface, this seems to be nonsense. Doesn't life precede art? And as such, needn't art imitate life?
Of course, SOMEONE's life had to precede art ... we just don't have any record back that far. The earliest Man we can trace had art, from cave painting to music. Once we get further back, we've got animals. For all of recorded history, life has imitated art.
Let me offer an example. You are in love -- now, how do you behave? If you are a male, you do things like attempt feats of physical prowess, as well as demonstrating sensitivity through such things as writing love poetry or giving gifts of perfume, candies, or flowers. If you are a female, you place yourself in situations of "distress," such as having your books carried from class-to-class, or needing some repairs done around the house. While there is a biological component to each of these, how do we know how to express our biological desires in the culture? Through art, of course.
We try to live as art teaches. We express love in the ways of characters in stories. We speak in unfamiliar situations in ways that we've read characters speaking. We select the clothes we wear based upon an ideal determined by art (such as fashion photography). We take on the roles of characters we see in art, and judge others by those same characters.
In the 80's, the most popular father in America was ... Bill Cosby. No one can name one of his real children, but anyone alive at that time can name his fictional children. Students often tell me that their ideal teacher is Robin Williams from "Dead Poets' Society," far more often than they name a real teacher from their past. Our president wears cowboy boots, but I've never seen him rounding up cattle. My penchant for tweed jackets and bowties is an ironic comment on depictions of professors in art, not actual professors I have known. Women love to wear the same dress that Haley Berry wore in a particular film, but they hate it if a real live women is wearing the same dress as they. At the Cafe du Monde in New Orleans last week, people seemed to be more intent on striking poses than actually drinking coffee and eating beignets. And, most annoyingly to me, whenever in Europe all young Americans try to be characters from Hemingway.
I sometimes wonder if mimesis is really about how closely a work of art imitates life at all. Perhaps we consider something "realistic" if it presents an artistic representation we ourselves are able to imitate in our own lives. Maybe "true to life" doesn't mean that the work is similar to my own life -- maybe it means that I am able to mold my life to a role in the work.
Maybe understanding that life imitates art is too subtle an idea for most young people, but I'm going to give it a try anyway. I'll try to keep y'all posted on how its going as the semester progresses.
[updated 12:48PM to fix a stupid error]
Saturday, July 23, 2005
Libertarian cajuns, dangerous boars
Folks who know me know I'm neither a libertarian nor a Libertarian. Heck, I'm not even a libertine. Nevertheless, the latent libertarian that dwells in all Americans stirred during my trip to New Orleans.
We went on a swamp tour, which was led by a fellow who had no formal education, having quit school at the age of nine. After that time, he spent all his time in the swamps with his grandfather, who taught him all about hunting, fishing, trapping, and swamp survival. He's one of these guys who'd do you no good at a cocktail party, but you'd want backing you up if a gator ever came after you. Besides all that, he was affable without being obnoxiously "folksy" for the tourists.
What awakened my inner libertarian was the frequency of the phrase, "...the State won't let us..." On nearly every topic we discussed, at least once he had to say, "when I was a kid we used to do it this way, but now the State won't let us," or "the State makes us do it this way instead," or "the State passed such-and-such a law that ruined the market for..." After the tour, I thought about that. Here's a guy with no education, no real ambitions beyond the next duck hunt, living in a swamp, and even here he finds his daily doings micromanaged by government agencies. I suppose government intrusion (or protection, if you prefer) becomes more noticable when we are not completely engulfed by it, as we are in the more inhabited areas of the world.
On a completely different (but still swamp-related) topic, I was interested in his stories of wild boar in the swamp. He claimed to know someone who bagged a boar weighing about 400 lbs. Unlike gators, which he gets to chase him so they can harvest the eggs, he said he immediately flees up a tree if chased by a boar. It seems that the boar is the most frightening creature in the swamp, even moreso than the alligator. All this lines up nicely with the Anglo-Saxon fear/respect of the wild boar. Wolves and such were considered the scavengers of war; it was the image of the boar with which warriors adorned themselves, as with this Anglo-Saxon boar atop a helmet.
Next time I read Charlotte's Web or watch Babe, I'll do so with more trepidation. In fact, properly re-cast, Babe: Pig in the City could pass as a horror film.
We went on a swamp tour, which was led by a fellow who had no formal education, having quit school at the age of nine. After that time, he spent all his time in the swamps with his grandfather, who taught him all about hunting, fishing, trapping, and swamp survival. He's one of these guys who'd do you no good at a cocktail party, but you'd want backing you up if a gator ever came after you. Besides all that, he was affable without being obnoxiously "folksy" for the tourists.
What awakened my inner libertarian was the frequency of the phrase, "...the State won't let us..." On nearly every topic we discussed, at least once he had to say, "when I was a kid we used to do it this way, but now the State won't let us," or "the State makes us do it this way instead," or "the State passed such-and-such a law that ruined the market for..." After the tour, I thought about that. Here's a guy with no education, no real ambitions beyond the next duck hunt, living in a swamp, and even here he finds his daily doings micromanaged by government agencies. I suppose government intrusion (or protection, if you prefer) becomes more noticable when we are not completely engulfed by it, as we are in the more inhabited areas of the world.
On a completely different (but still swamp-related) topic, I was interested in his stories of wild boar in the swamp. He claimed to know someone who bagged a boar weighing about 400 lbs. Unlike gators, which he gets to chase him so they can harvest the eggs, he said he immediately flees up a tree if chased by a boar. It seems that the boar is the most frightening creature in the swamp, even moreso than the alligator. All this lines up nicely with the Anglo-Saxon fear/respect of the wild boar. Wolves and such were considered the scavengers of war; it was the image of the boar with which warriors adorned themselves, as with this Anglo-Saxon boar atop a helmet.
Next time I read Charlotte's Web or watch Babe, I'll do so with more trepidation. In fact, properly re-cast, Babe: Pig in the City could pass as a horror film.
To know me is to ignore me...
I'm back from New Orleans, and I realized that no one I know (with the exception of my boss, Bill) actually reads this blog, since none of my family or friends seems to know that I was missing.
"Gee, I wondered why you weren't returning my phone messages..." is a common utterance this afternoon.
"Gee, I wondered why you weren't returning my phone messages..." is a common utterance this afternoon.
Wednesday, July 20, 2005
Virtual Post
When I got home from the office at 11PM last night, the wife announced that we were going to New Orleans for a few days, so I'll not likely be blogging for a bit. By the way, if any thieves are reading this and hoping to rob the place, you have two obstacles: we've got nothing worth robbing (unless you know a fence who specializes in kimchi and used books), and our housesitters. Oh, yes, and the dogs might not bite you, but you are in danger of being peed on.
So, since I won't be posting in the meantime, I leave for you a virtual posting. You may simply insert the relevant passages:
The blogosphere is aflame about the topic of [insert topic here]. While my law-and-politics professor brethren (and sistren) have argued [insert summary here, with relevant links], what they fail to realize is [insert light needling here, with a wink and a nudge].
I had not planned to post on this topic, but one of the main threads of argument seems to be around [insert topic relating to textual scholarship or medieval literature]. Others have argued [insert summary and link here] is true, but I think in many ways it is both true and false. On the surface, it is true, but at the heart of it it is false, because [insert argument about textual scholarship or medieval lit here]. As one important personage wrote, [insert literary quote here]. I think that about sums it up.
[Close either with droll comment, or comment on nature of public intellectualism]
I ask my readers to feel free to create new posts according to this rubric and place them in the comments section of this thread, so that other visitors can get my virtual opinion on things.
So, since I won't be posting in the meantime, I leave for you a virtual posting. You may simply insert the relevant passages:
The blogosphere is aflame about the topic of [insert topic here]. While my law-and-politics professor brethren (and sistren) have argued [insert summary here, with relevant links], what they fail to realize is [insert light needling here, with a wink and a nudge].
I had not planned to post on this topic, but one of the main threads of argument seems to be around [insert topic relating to textual scholarship or medieval literature]. Others have argued [insert summary and link here] is true, but I think in many ways it is both true and false. On the surface, it is true, but at the heart of it it is false, because [insert argument about textual scholarship or medieval lit here]. As one important personage wrote, [insert literary quote here]. I think that about sums it up.
[Close either with droll comment, or comment on nature of public intellectualism]
I ask my readers to feel free to create new posts according to this rubric and place them in the comments section of this thread, so that other visitors can get my virtual opinion on things.
Tuesday, July 19, 2005
Whew! Off the Fish hook!
Thankfully, I don't have to bother explaining to all my law-and-politics professor brethren (and sistren, Profesora) exactly how Fish is being misleading, because Jeff Goldstein over at Protein Wisdom took care of it. Jim Lindgren over at Volokh, on the other hand, seems to have been completely taken in -- which is not surprising, since Fish is being a bit too precious in his English department rhetorical trickiness.
In case you don't get all the "Inside English" references (like New Criticism, etc.), just know this: Stanley Fish is most famous for writing a book called, Is there a Text in this Class?, to which his answer (grossly simplified) is "No." So, when he writes writes of the Constitution that "the Constitution can't mean what the text alone says because there is no text alone" and "Intention comes first; language, and with it the possibility of meaning, second. And this means that there can be no "textualist" method, because there is no object - no text without writerly intention - to which would-be textualists could be faithful," what he is getting at is that as a text the Constitution doesn't really exist. Though on the surface it appears he is offering a rather conservative approach, it is actually a Trojan Horse to get readers to say, "Gosh, there really is no Constitution, only intention. And since we only know of the framers' intentions through other (non-existent) texts, we are really the ones who determine their intention." So, the distinction between what we want the Constitution to mean and what it actually means is moot -- we simply say that the framers wanted to to mean what we want it to mean, because all of our "reasons and evidence publicly offered" are textual as well.
All this is a rather old and tiresome slipperiness to which folks in English departments are accustomed; Fish is counting on NYTimes readers and my law-and-politics siblings not to get it.
In case you don't get all the "Inside English" references (like New Criticism, etc.), just know this: Stanley Fish is most famous for writing a book called, Is there a Text in this Class?, to which his answer (grossly simplified) is "No." So, when he writes writes of the Constitution that "the Constitution can't mean what the text alone says because there is no text alone" and "Intention comes first; language, and with it the possibility of meaning, second. And this means that there can be no "textualist" method, because there is no object - no text without writerly intention - to which would-be textualists could be faithful," what he is getting at is that as a text the Constitution doesn't really exist. Though on the surface it appears he is offering a rather conservative approach, it is actually a Trojan Horse to get readers to say, "Gosh, there really is no Constitution, only intention. And since we only know of the framers' intentions through other (non-existent) texts, we are really the ones who determine their intention." So, the distinction between what we want the Constitution to mean and what it actually means is moot -- we simply say that the framers wanted to to mean what we want it to mean, because all of our "reasons and evidence publicly offered" are textual as well.
All this is a rather old and tiresome slipperiness to which folks in English departments are accustomed; Fish is counting on NYTimes readers and my law-and-politics siblings not to get it.
It's too early for Fish
See, I got up this morning, and I've got a lot of work to do ... and next thing I know Stanley Fish has written another piece for the NYTimes, entitled "Intentional Neglect." Althouse has her read of it here.
I suppose it's my job as an English prof. in the TTLB Academy community to give a reasoned response to Fish's article ... but I can't. I'm too busy at the moment -- I've got to work on an article, a chapter, watch a training video (don't ask), and work on my ugly academic webpage. Wasting time on another Fish article seems akin to wasting time explaining why "Weekend at Bernie's II" was not a great film.
So, here's the short version, though I reserve the right to write up an expanded version if for some reason Fish lights up the blogosphere:
Fish's schtick is very tiresome. He's a sad case, like the former sports demi-god who keeps playing years after his prime. The fans keep applauding out of respect, but it becomes harder and harder to remember the days when he could slam-dunk. Worse, people look back on his old work and realize that he was never such a great player, but was a great self-promoter with a good agent.
I never thought much of Fish, but at one time there were others who did. He needs to stop sullying their memories. I could do a line-by-line critique of his article, which would normally be a sign of academic respect, but in this case I think it would be more disrespectful to do so.
So, polite applause for Fish, please, then let's ignore his article.
I suppose it's my job as an English prof. in the TTLB Academy community to give a reasoned response to Fish's article ... but I can't. I'm too busy at the moment -- I've got to work on an article, a chapter, watch a training video (don't ask), and work on my ugly academic webpage. Wasting time on another Fish article seems akin to wasting time explaining why "Weekend at Bernie's II" was not a great film.
So, here's the short version, though I reserve the right to write up an expanded version if for some reason Fish lights up the blogosphere:
Fish's schtick is very tiresome. He's a sad case, like the former sports demi-god who keeps playing years after his prime. The fans keep applauding out of respect, but it becomes harder and harder to remember the days when he could slam-dunk. Worse, people look back on his old work and realize that he was never such a great player, but was a great self-promoter with a good agent.
I never thought much of Fish, but at one time there were others who did. He needs to stop sullying their memories. I could do a line-by-line critique of his article, which would normally be a sign of academic respect, but in this case I think it would be more disrespectful to do so.
So, polite applause for Fish, please, then let's ignore his article.
Monday, July 18, 2005
A Man's Gotta Have Goals
In a comment to this post about my first month of blogging, Scott Kaufman wrote:
"And best of luck on your next as-of-now-unmentioned goal."
Hmmm ... I actually didn't have another goal. I really started this blog because Dr. Gill over at Logoi Kai Erga suggested we do it together, and I've enjoyed reading Steven Taylor's blog. I set that secret benchmark for myself to make sure this was not a waste of my time. Beyond that, I suppose my goals were to try to say something interesting occasionally (the kind of thing I like to read in other blogs) and prevent blogging from interfering with my other writing. So far, so good, I guess.
Perhaps I should set another goal for myself -- something measurable yet meaningful. I'm too new to all this to know what a good goal might be, or even if a goal is desirable. Perhaps always striving for more hits or more links or more posts might get in the way of the original purpose of this blog, and merely become an electronic version of the faux-intellectual pundit one sees on news analysis shows. The goal "say smart stuff on a regular basis" seems foolhardy, since it would encourage me to imagine that I have smart thoughts on a regular basis; Mrs. Nokes can testify that my dumb ideas come with greater regularity than my smart ones.
Any input from readers or philograms (I love that new-word-smell) on potential goals would be welcome.
"And best of luck on your next as-of-now-unmentioned goal."
Hmmm ... I actually didn't have another goal. I really started this blog because Dr. Gill over at Logoi Kai Erga suggested we do it together, and I've enjoyed reading Steven Taylor's blog. I set that secret benchmark for myself to make sure this was not a waste of my time. Beyond that, I suppose my goals were to try to say something interesting occasionally (the kind of thing I like to read in other blogs) and prevent blogging from interfering with my other writing. So far, so good, I guess.
Perhaps I should set another goal for myself -- something measurable yet meaningful. I'm too new to all this to know what a good goal might be, or even if a goal is desirable. Perhaps always striving for more hits or more links or more posts might get in the way of the original purpose of this blog, and merely become an electronic version of the faux-intellectual pundit one sees on news analysis shows. The goal "say smart stuff on a regular basis" seems foolhardy, since it would encourage me to imagine that I have smart thoughts on a regular basis; Mrs. Nokes can testify that my dumb ideas come with greater regularity than my smart ones.
Any input from readers or philograms (I love that new-word-smell) on potential goals would be welcome.
DeLong on Theory
Brad DeLong has an interesting post reacting to the talk at the Valve about Theory's Empire. I haven't joined the discussion over at the Valve despite being invited, because I suspected the discussion would not be worthwhile. I've looked at some of the posts there, and don't regret my decision.
I think DeLong gives too much credit to Foucault (I've not read Tribe); for example, his "rational kernel" looks like the "close reading" of the New Critics. Nevertheless, I think DeLong's article is worth a read because in his generousity to Foucault he demonstrates what might be done if one leaves Foucault behind, or as he puts it, using Foucault's ideas as "tools" rather than as "masters."
By the way, be sure to look at that LONG footnote. He includes excerpts from some of the few bits I've seen that are worth your time to read.
I think DeLong gives too much credit to Foucault (I've not read Tribe); for example, his "rational kernel" looks like the "close reading" of the New Critics. Nevertheless, I think DeLong's article is worth a read because in his generousity to Foucault he demonstrates what might be done if one leaves Foucault behind, or as he puts it, using Foucault's ideas as "tools" rather than as "masters."
By the way, be sure to look at that LONG footnote. He includes excerpts from some of the few bits I've seen that are worth your time to read.
Sunday, July 17, 2005
Literary Adultery
I've been reading Denis de Rougement's Love in the Western World, though I'm taking my sweet time on it of late. One of the arguments he makes is that adultery is the most prominent form of romantic love in medieval lit because love requires obstacles -- or at least literary love requires obstacles to form an interesting narrative arc.
I think he is right to say that the obstacle issue is one reason that love and marriage are so rarely compatible in medieval lit, but surely that can't be the only reason. Love does indeed thrive on obstacles: consider how you feel when separated from your lover because they have to travel, rather than simply leading busy lives. Throwing up obstacles, real or imagined, seems to help romantic love thrive.
I wonder, for example, about domestic dispute calls to the police. I've heard cops complain that they hate domestic dispute calls the most, because as soon as they arrive they are treated as interlopers, even by the person who called them. I suspect that sometimes the caller doesn't simply change her mind, but instead suddenly sees the police as obstacles to love rather than protectors -- and the storyline in her mind changes. It's hard to tell, since the psychology of the domestic dispute is so bitter and complicated.
Nevertheless, the jealous-husband-as-obstacle can't be the only reason for the prominence of adultery, since many other imaginable obstacles exist, e.g. the jealous father, the supernatural guardian (witch, dragon, etc), geographical separation, etc. Actually, it seems to me that in medievalism (depictions of the medieval in the modern world), non-adulterous obstacles are more common. And surely the most famous real-life love story of the Middle Ages, Abelard and Heloise, fits into the category of jealous father (uncle) rather than husband, followed by the obstacle of castration.
The most influential religious understanding of romantic love, too, is entirely within the bounds of marriage. The image of Christ as Bridegroom and the Church as the Bride is central to the Christian understanding of marriage. In this case, love must overcome a rather large obstacle -- death. The narrative demands that the marriage not be consummated (i.e. Pentacost and the founding of the Church) until after the resurrection, that is, after the Groom overcomes the obstacle of death to be united with the Bride. It goes without saying that adultery in this situation is a big no-no ... of all the angry husbands I'd fear, God's got them all beat in the wrath department.
I think, then, that adultery's prominence is partially explained by its role as an obstacle in the romantic narrative, but its primacy over other obstacles must have another explanation. Perhaps romantic love requires a profane element, and the complete violation of a sacrament of marriage fulfills that role.
In an episode of "Futurama," Bender is dating the Planet Express ship. Leela protests to him, "Bender, dating your co-worker and primary mode of transportation is immoral, illogical and a violation of interstellar shipping statute 437-B." Bender replies, "That's what makes it so nasty!" Why is the nastiness of the relationship an advantage in Bender's cartoon mind? I think this gets at the core of adultery -- if we make the profane aspect of it a virtue, as we find in medieval literature, we have no need to justify our behavior, and indeed justification itself detracts from the "romance" aspect.
Gimme good ol' fashioned married love any day.
I think he is right to say that the obstacle issue is one reason that love and marriage are so rarely compatible in medieval lit, but surely that can't be the only reason. Love does indeed thrive on obstacles: consider how you feel when separated from your lover because they have to travel, rather than simply leading busy lives. Throwing up obstacles, real or imagined, seems to help romantic love thrive.
I wonder, for example, about domestic dispute calls to the police. I've heard cops complain that they hate domestic dispute calls the most, because as soon as they arrive they are treated as interlopers, even by the person who called them. I suspect that sometimes the caller doesn't simply change her mind, but instead suddenly sees the police as obstacles to love rather than protectors -- and the storyline in her mind changes. It's hard to tell, since the psychology of the domestic dispute is so bitter and complicated.
Nevertheless, the jealous-husband-as-obstacle can't be the only reason for the prominence of adultery, since many other imaginable obstacles exist, e.g. the jealous father, the supernatural guardian (witch, dragon, etc), geographical separation, etc. Actually, it seems to me that in medievalism (depictions of the medieval in the modern world), non-adulterous obstacles are more common. And surely the most famous real-life love story of the Middle Ages, Abelard and Heloise, fits into the category of jealous father (uncle) rather than husband, followed by the obstacle of castration.
The most influential religious understanding of romantic love, too, is entirely within the bounds of marriage. The image of Christ as Bridegroom and the Church as the Bride is central to the Christian understanding of marriage. In this case, love must overcome a rather large obstacle -- death. The narrative demands that the marriage not be consummated (i.e. Pentacost and the founding of the Church) until after the resurrection, that is, after the Groom overcomes the obstacle of death to be united with the Bride. It goes without saying that adultery in this situation is a big no-no ... of all the angry husbands I'd fear, God's got them all beat in the wrath department.
I think, then, that adultery's prominence is partially explained by its role as an obstacle in the romantic narrative, but its primacy over other obstacles must have another explanation. Perhaps romantic love requires a profane element, and the complete violation of a sacrament of marriage fulfills that role.
In an episode of "Futurama," Bender is dating the Planet Express ship. Leela protests to him, "Bender, dating your co-worker and primary mode of transportation is immoral, illogical and a violation of interstellar shipping statute 437-B." Bender replies, "That's what makes it so nasty!" Why is the nastiness of the relationship an advantage in Bender's cartoon mind? I think this gets at the core of adultery -- if we make the profane aspect of it a virtue, as we find in medieval literature, we have no need to justify our behavior, and indeed justification itself detracts from the "romance" aspect.
Gimme good ol' fashioned married love any day.
Saturday, July 16, 2005
First milestone!
Today marks the one month anniversary for Unlocked Wordhoard! Hooray!
Even more importantly, I managed to meet a secret goal, which was this: I wanted to have at least 500 hits by the one-month mark. Though the number is itself arbitrary, I had a benchmark to help me determine if Wordhoard is really a site of public intellectualism (both from myself and comments from others), or if it is just a place of random musings in an echo chamber. If it were the latter, I might continue to keep it, but I would treat it as irrelevant to my mission as a professor.
As of this writing, I'm at 551 hits, averaging about 35 per day. Of course, by the standard of others who get hundreds of thousands of hits when they post pictures of their cats, this is small potatoes. But for me, even counting family, friends, and students, 35 hits per day probably represents at least a dozen people I don't know concerned about the life of the nuos (the mind or spirit). That's about the size of a seminar-level class ... just enough for me to think that this whole enterprise is worthwhile.
I've found another statistic that I think is pretty interesting, though I'm not sure what it means: the Site Meter tells me the average length of visits. Just two weeks ago, the average length was about two minutes. Now, it is just over four and a half. Like I said, I'm not sure what this sudden increase in length of visits means, but I hope what it means is that people are slowing down in their frantic pointing-and-clicking to consider some of the issues I raise here. I don't ask that anyone agree with me (indeed, I reserve the right to change my own mind at any time), but I do ask that people consider the matters raised here, and if they think they have something worthwhile to add, that they throw me a comment.
By the way, I hope readers are interested in love, because with my upcoming class on love in medieval lit, I suspect I'll be thinking deeply about love a great deal in the coming months, and posting accordingly.
Even more importantly, I managed to meet a secret goal, which was this: I wanted to have at least 500 hits by the one-month mark. Though the number is itself arbitrary, I had a benchmark to help me determine if Wordhoard is really a site of public intellectualism (both from myself and comments from others), or if it is just a place of random musings in an echo chamber. If it were the latter, I might continue to keep it, but I would treat it as irrelevant to my mission as a professor.
As of this writing, I'm at 551 hits, averaging about 35 per day. Of course, by the standard of others who get hundreds of thousands of hits when they post pictures of their cats, this is small potatoes. But for me, even counting family, friends, and students, 35 hits per day probably represents at least a dozen people I don't know concerned about the life of the nuos (the mind or spirit). That's about the size of a seminar-level class ... just enough for me to think that this whole enterprise is worthwhile.
I've found another statistic that I think is pretty interesting, though I'm not sure what it means: the Site Meter tells me the average length of visits. Just two weeks ago, the average length was about two minutes. Now, it is just over four and a half. Like I said, I'm not sure what this sudden increase in length of visits means, but I hope what it means is that people are slowing down in their frantic pointing-and-clicking to consider some of the issues I raise here. I don't ask that anyone agree with me (indeed, I reserve the right to change my own mind at any time), but I do ask that people consider the matters raised here, and if they think they have something worthwhile to add, that they throw me a comment.
By the way, I hope readers are interested in love, because with my upcoming class on love in medieval lit, I suspect I'll be thinking deeply about love a great deal in the coming months, and posting accordingly.
Friday, July 15, 2005
Philogrammateus
Scott Gosnell has a very nice post about kinds of "friendship" that get struck up between people on the blogosphere, regardless of whether those people have met. He kindly mentions me, and writes:
"I’d really like to meet Dr. Nokes after having a stimulating discussion with him today here at The View (it started at his site). In a rather distant way, I now consider Dr. Stokes [sic] a friend, or at least an acquaintance, though we’ve never met. I suppose after exchanging meaningful conversation, opinions, viewpoints, whatever, you just can’t call someone a stranger any more. I know next to nothing about Pennywit, yet he can’t possibly be a stranger after the discussions we’ve had. Do we have a word for this type of relationship?"
I don't think we have such a word, so if I could coin a neologism, might I suggest "philogrammateus," a conflation of "brotherly love" and "scribe" in Greek? Of course, using the full word in common parlance would be challenging, particularly considering that the plural would be "philogrammateis."
I suggest, then, truncating it to "philogram" and "philograms." I too, consider Mr. Gosnell a philogram, and would love to meet him.
"I’d really like to meet Dr. Nokes after having a stimulating discussion with him today here at The View (it started at his site). In a rather distant way, I now consider Dr. Stokes [sic] a friend, or at least an acquaintance, though we’ve never met. I suppose after exchanging meaningful conversation, opinions, viewpoints, whatever, you just can’t call someone a stranger any more. I know next to nothing about Pennywit, yet he can’t possibly be a stranger after the discussions we’ve had. Do we have a word for this type of relationship?"
I don't think we have such a word, so if I could coin a neologism, might I suggest "philogrammateus," a conflation of "brotherly love" and "scribe" in Greek? Of course, using the full word in common parlance would be challenging, particularly considering that the plural would be "philogrammateis."
I suggest, then, truncating it to "philogram" and "philograms." I too, consider Mr. Gosnell a philogram, and would love to meet him.
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