Monday, July 28, 2008

AN INTRODUCTION TO EMMANUEL LEVINAS

Emmanuel Levinas (1906-1995)

"My effort consists in showing that knowledge is in reality an immanence, and that there is no rupture of the isolation of being in knowledge; and on the other hand, that in communication of knowledge one is found beside the Other, not confronted with him, not in the rectitude of the in-front-of-him. But being in direct relation with the Other is not to thematize the Other and consider him in the same manner as one considers a known object, nor to communicate a knowledge to him. In reality, the fact of being is what is most private; existence is the sole thing I cannot communicate; I can tell about it, but I cannot share my existence. Solitude thus appears as the isolation which marks the very event of being. The social is beyond ontology." "...I am responsible for the Other without waiting for reciprocity, were I to die for it. Reciprocity is his affair. It is precisely insofar as the relation between the Other and me is not reciporcal that I am subjection to the Other; and I am "subject" essentially in this sense. It is I who support all...The I always has one responsibility more than all the others."

Levinas, the French philosopher, was born in Kaunas, Lithuania to Jewish parents. He moved to France in 1923, and, between the years of 1928 and 1929, resided in Germany where he studied under Husserl and Heidegger. Levinas published his first book, Theorie de l'intuition dans la phenomenologie de Husserl, in 1930, and became influential in France for his translations of Husserl and Heidegger into French. In the late 1950's and early 1960's, Levinas began to formulate his own philosophy which became increasingly critical of Heidegger's philosophy, and, with his critique of prior phenomenological thinkers and Western philosophy in general, Levinas began to assert the primacy of the ethical relationship with the Other.

Levinas' scholarship directly influenced the movement of existential-phenomenology in France. His translations and secondary texts influenced thinkers such as Sartre and Merleau-Ponty. In the last several decades, Levinas has become increasingly influential in continental philosophy, and his influence is evident in Jacques Derrida's more recent writings, where he has increasingly emphasized a Levinasian ethics as being at the heart of deconstruction. Derrida, a close colleague of Levinas, influenced Levinas' attempt in his book, Otherwise than Being (1998), to go beyond the still too ontological language of his Totality and Infinity (1969).

Levinas' philosophy is directly related to his experiences during World War II. His family died in the Holocaust, and, as a French citizen and soldier, Levinas himself became a prisoner of war in Germany. While Levinas was forced to perform labor as a prisoner of war, his wife and daughter were kept hidden in a French monastary until his return. This experience, coupled with Heidegger's affiliation to National Socialism during the war, clearly and understandably led to a profound crisis in Levinas' enthusiasm for Heidegger. "One can forgive many Germans," Levinas once wrote, "but there are some Germans it is difficult to forgive. It is difficult to forgive Heidegger." At the same time, Levinas felt that Heidegger could not simply be forgotten, but most be gotten beyond. If Heidegger is concerned with Being, Levinas is concerned with ethics, and ethics, for Levinas, is beyond being--Otherwise than Being.

Levinas' work, particularly beginning with his Totality and Infinity (1969), is a critique of Heidegger and Husserl, not to mention all of Western philsophy, in the service of ethics. Levinas is concerned that Western philosophy has been preoccupied with Being, the totality, at the expense of what is otherwise than Being, what lies outside the totality of Being as transcendent, exterior, infinite, alterior, the Other. Levinas wants to distinguish ethics from ontology. Levinas' ethics is situated in an "encounter" with the Other which cannot be reduced to a symmetrical "relationship." That is, it cannot be localized historically or temporally. "Ethics," in Levinas' sense, does not mean what is typically referred to as "morality," or a code of conduct about how one should act. For Levinas (1969), "ethics" is a calling into question of the "Same":

"A calling into question of the Same--which cannot occur within the egoistic spontaneity of the Same--is brought about by the Other. We name this calling into question of my spontaneity by the presence of the Other ethics. The strangeness of the Other, his irreducibility to the I, to my thoughts and my possessions, is precisely accomplishmed as a calling into question of my spontaneity as ethics. Metaphysics, transcendence, the welcoming of the Other by the Same, of the Other by Me, is concretely produced as the calling into question of the Same by the Other, that is, as the ethics that accomplishes the critical essence of knowledge." (Totality and Infinity, p. 33)

Levinas adopts a style of writing that is fluid and includes self-effacing double-movements. Ethics cannot be reduced to a set of propositions--cannot be reduced to the Same (or, thinking in terms of Lacan, to the One of the Symbolic)--and so Levinas must repeatedly unfold and then withdraw his propositions. Even as he uses the language of ontology, his style of writing endeavor's to resist ontology's totalizing grasp. "Western philosophy," writes Levinas (1969), "has most often been an ontology: a reduction of the Other to the Same by interposition of a middle and neutral terms that ensures the comprehension of being" (pp. 33-34). As ontology, philosophy is narcissistic, seeking pleasure by incorporating the other into the Same. Philosophy, in this sense, is an "egology" whenever it asserts the primacy of the self, the Same, the subject or Being. Ontology as totality admits to no outside. Thus, if Levinas is to preserve the Other, the Other cannot become an object of knowledge or experience within the totality of an egology. In the enjoyment (jouissance) of egology, the I is the "living from" which uses up the other in order to fulfill its own needs and desires. The "transmutation of the other into the same," writes Levinas (1969), is "the essence of enjoyment" (p. 113). The other, in this sense, however, is not the Other. Only the other, not the Other, can become a source of enjoyment. The transcendence of the other is not a threat to the self, but rather a source of satisfaction and happiness:

"The I is, to be sure, happiness, presence at home with itself. But, as sufficiency in its non-sufficiency, it remains in the non-I; it is enjoyment of ‘something else,' never of itself. Autochthonous, that is, rooted in what it is not, it is nevertheless, wtihin this enrootedness independent and separated." (Levinas, Totality and Infinity, 1969, p. 152)

The relation with the Other, however, is a "relation without relation" (p. 79). The Other is never reduced to the Same, thus remaining unknowable, outside of the totality of the Same. The encounter with the Other calls egology into question. The "I" can no longer live in the fantasy of a unique possession of the world. The power and freedom of the Same are called into question. The Other cannot be possessed, resists enjoyment, and, as the I encounters this Otherr, it is called back to the meaning of its freedom--a freedom which is founded by the Other and which, in this encounter, is called to responsibility and obligation towards the Other as genuine freedom.

As responsible for the infinite Other, I am called to guard her against the systematic determination of any moral law. "For Levinas, the God that provides sanctity for the Other can never be reduced to a set of commandments because the Other calls me only as herself" (Cornell, 1998, p. 140). To reduce the Other who calls me as a unique self in the face-to-face to a set of a priori moral principles is a violence to her alterity. And since my responsibility to the Other is to the Other in her uniqueness and alterity, my responsibility is infinite. "It is precisely because the Good is the good of the Other that it cannot be fully actualized" (Cornell, 1998, p. 141).





The French-Jewish philosopher Emmanuel Levinas (1906-1995) made ethics the central point of his philosophical inquiries. He considered ethics to be the prima philosophia, the first and foremost central issue of all philosophical investigation, in spite of the Greek tradition that from the time of Aristotle onwards had always allotted this first place to metaphysics. Levinas believed that metaphysics and ethics were in fact one and the same. In this equation of metaphysics and ethics he wanted to underscore the Hebraic element in Western thought, though he knew well that the Greek Socrates also had made endeavors to show the metaphysics of ethics. But the difference with Socrates is the fact that Levinian ethics are more rooted in a religious view on life, while Socrates wanted to show the rationality of right ethical conduct.
This has brought a number of students of philosophy to believe that there is a mystical element in the thought of Levinas, precisely because he wants to transcend rationality as the source of his ethics. This makes it worthwhile to consider the similarities and the dissimilarities between the thought of Levinas and mysticism. That way we may perhaps in the end be able to answer the question whether Levinas was a mystic or not; whether his thought is mystical or otherwise indebted to mysticism.
Ethics
To understand Levinas´ thought we must begin with his teacher, the German Edmund Husserl. Husserl had discovered that all consciousness is characterized by intentionality. With intentionality he meant that consciousness has an innate tendency to objectify all external objects and all internal and external psychisms. This objectifying isn´t done in any random manner. It has a certain purpose built into it: it aims at making all exteriors fall into the very matrix of consciousness itself. According to Husserl every act of objectification is in fact an act of subjectification. Consciousness wants the object to become an object to me as a subject. So this will of consciousness is to equate, to make what is strange familiar, to make the other the same. All perception, all experiencing, all understanding -all modi operandi of consciousness- have precisely this intentionality: they aim at possessing the outside world in logical terms, to make psychologically and intellectually mine what seems remote and strange.
Levinas and Jacques Derrida both agree: this intentionality of consciousness is a kind of violence. Consciousness wants to conquer the world by objectifying it. It does not need be. It takes in, with the intent of adapting it to its own. The Other must become the Same. So in the postmodern thought of Derrida this intentionality becomes problematic. Rationality and (relative) consciousness are dismantled as having, so to speak, criminal traits. They want to rob existence of the thing-in-itself. This according to Derrida is the metaphysics of violence.
This criticism of Husserl is also the starting point of Levinas. He wants to show that there is a metaphysical element in existence that always remains totally strange to me. This element defies all objectification of consciousness. It can never be expressed in the classical Greek language of logical thinking. Because of its total strangeness it escapes me. It can never be pinned down. But nevertheless it makes an appeal. It wants itself to be heard, though it can never be understood. According to Levinas this strange other is the voice of ethics itself. It is the goodness of existence that confronts me, shakes me, disturbs me and drags me away from my self preoccupation and self complacency. It can never be subdued because it will always remain the remote and infinite other.
This voice of the eternal other comes to me, as a religious imperative, by way of the countenance of my fellow human being. As an individual I am an autonomous being striving to prolong my own enjoyment by way of consumption, housing, work and the accumulation of property. In these aspects I can shape my own life and I´m free to do as I want. My aim is to bring everything in life to fit the rules that I have set up. But there is something mysterious in the countenance of the other that upsets me and turns my autonomy into an heteronomy. When confronted with the other I loose my freedom. I become responsible for his well being. I cannot escape the claim of ethics in taking care of my fellow human being. The other confronts me with the fact that I will never be able to secure my life on my own. Somehow life needs otherness also.
At the metaphysical-ethical level of existence I can never escape the otherness of the countenance and its appeal. The mysteriousness of that individual other keeps upsetting me. I can not reduce that countenance in front of me to a class or a category. But at an ontological level -ie. within an ontology of immanence- the other becomes reduced to an impersonal class and is fitted into the totalitarian scheme of categorization. He is reduced from a being to being. He becomes part of a greater field and so loses his compelling uniqueness. Instead of that countenance in front of me he becomes simply a nigger, a gypsy, a Jew. At this ontological level violence again is possible. Because the other is robbed of his unique otherness.
The ethical relationship is asymmetrical. The ethical obligation I feel for the other is far greater than the claims I may have on him. Levinas speaks in this respect in almost religious language: the other comes to me ´from above´, he ´descends on me´, like God spoke from the heights of mount Sinai to his people. The countenance of the other is far greater than me, because my own self is always the exception. I may try to picture the other as a self too, but I never succeed in doing so. The self of the other always remains enigmatic, escaping all objectification of consciousness. I am never able to see the other as she or he really is. This makes my small, relatively familiar `I` the exception in a world of silent, hidden and mysterious selves.
So the essence of ethics is metaphysical. Ethics descends on me from a hidden, supranatural world of otherness. But a posteriori, after the instigations of an ethical appeal have descended on me, an element of comparison, an element of rationalization presents itself. Then I start to think about the right way to act. Then justice wants some questions to be answered. I will have to make some -often difficult- choices. This is the problem of justice, because there is always a third who makes the ethical relationship with my fellow human being more complicated. Who should I help first? Who should I help more? Why? This problem would not be there if there wasn´t a third. The third impels us to think.

Criticism

This is a nutshell the philosophy of Levinas. The aim of this article is to compare this philosophy with the insights of mysticism. So it is best to start this criticism now. Later on some other points in the ethics of Levinas will be addressed, but they will be presented in the course of argumentation.
The most fundamental difference between mysticism and Levinas is the axiom of mysticism that the otherness of the other is just an illusion. At a fundamental level I and the other are the same. We have the same divine substantia. We all share the same Self with a capital. When I look the other in the eye and when the other looks at me, we recognize ourselves in our eyes. We love and respect each other, because we are basically the same. This is not a metaphor meaning ´we are all in it together´ or ´we are put up with each other´, no, this is very literally so: my deepest `I´ is no different from your deepest `I´.
Schopenhauer also has pointed to the fact that all ethics are based on this mutual recognition of sameness. When I see someone on the verge of drowning, I will not hesitate a second. Even before I have given it any thought, I will have undone my trousers to get into the water. The help I will give my fellow human being in such distress is not provoked by mental considerations. The instigation to act immediately is premental. It comes from the metaphysical level of Self, from our shared godliness. Before I have thought about, it flashes through my heart -not through my mind-: 'there is ´me´ lying in the water! I have to save ´me´'.
In these premental, ethical and instinctive feelings I equate the life of that illusionary ´other´ with my own life. My respect for the life of others -and in fact for all life- comes from the fact that my deepest and true Self and the Self of that submergent other over there in the water are nothing more and nothing less than Life itself. Life recognizes Life. Forces are joined and ranks are closed. In these decisive moments of great danger and distress all otherness -which was an illusion anyhow- falls away. Man can only be so good and so brave because he is in fact saving ´himself´, when he is saving others. But remember, the ethics of help and braveness are premental: ´why did you do it, risking your own life?´ ´I don´t know. I simply acted.`
If the other would be a total -even a metaphysically total, as Levinas would have it- stranger to me, it would leave me stone cold. I would shrug, walk away and think the old testamentian ´am I my brother´s keeper?` The strangeness of the other would prevent me from having any inner connection. But as it is, in respect, love and all ethics I leave aside the otherness of the other and focus on what we have in common, which is not simply an attribute (which would be an indifferens, in Stoic terms), but which is our deepest substantia.
It is precisely as Levinas describes: the other is holy to me, he has a greater claim on me than I have on him, he comes to me ´from above´ etc. But it is so for reasons that are precisely contrary to the arguments Levinas presents. The otherness of the other is not an epiphany of the sacred. It is an epiphenomenon of the sacred; merely an illusion that is set aside on decisive and deeply felt moments of being touched by the other. The other moves my heart, because she is the God that I actually am. This feeling strikes me, moves me, upsets me and makes me wonder about Who I actually am. This is the source of all ethics: the thunderbolt strikes me that I am actually the other and the other is actually me.
Levinas is right that there is otherness in the other. But his otherness is the same as my own otherness is to me. He is as other to me as I am other to myself. For the otherness of the other is only at the level of personality and ego. At this level I am also other to mySelf. If I identify myself with this level -the wrong assumption that I am so and so and this and that- I also become estranged to myself. I will then be other than myself, an idea not very accurately analyzed within the phenomenology of Husserl nor within the ethics of Levinas, but which is one of the basic insights of mysticism. When I am other than myself, I will also become other to the other. He will not recognize me anymore. If I build up a too strong personalty he will in fact mock me for it, disrespect me for it, aye, even hate me for it. Then the Levinian metaphysicality of all ethics is lost between the other and me.
The mystics also speak of the countenance of the other, but for them it is the mask, the persona, that hides the true essence of the other. That´s why the mystics close their eyes and look for the Original Face -both of the self and the other-, ie. the countenance we have before we were born, which is our true identity if only we would somehow manage to strip ourself of the so and so, the this and that and the then and then. So it is not the countenance of the other that stirs me. It is the eyes of the other that make the appeal, because the eyes reflect our deepest soul. That´s why we never look another in the eyes when we humiliate or violate each other. If I would look the other in the eyes I would only see myself. This would refrain me from any violation.
But the countenance is the mask, the persona, the hypocrite, the stage player. I use my countenance to play my role and hide the real me that I am. One can easily check this with a little experiment. All it takes is to take a mirror and hold it before our face. Within a few seconds we will be ´making faces´ and mimicking to the mirror. Instantaneously the role playing begins. I will play the sad person, or the smiling person, or the person in need etc. We do this all the time, when we meet people. Thus the face is very cleverly trained in serving our needs of the moment. What the personality wants, the face reflects. But the eyes never lie. For Levinas the countenance reflects the countenance of God, after who´s image we are made. But only the eyes do so in fact, the countenance never. For the eyes reflect the divine Self which is the true center of every being. And right away, prementally, it shivers and moves in my soul: `it is Me that I see there in the eyes before me!´ But only because I am able, by looking deep into the eyes, to lift up the mask and see behind any countenance the other is showing.
Synchronicity and diachronicity
The assumption of the fundamental otherness of the other reveals a deep inner contradiction within the philosophy of Levinas. To make this clear we shall have to describe two philosophical terms Levinas uses in explaining the workings of consciousness and time:
synchronicity
My consciousness collects all sorts of sense impressions, together with the thoughts, feelings, and memories that I have, to bring them together at a single point in time: at this present moment at which I am conscious. Relative consciousness ´sucks in´ the past, the present and the future, so to speak. It does so to give an overall view of my life and its surroundings. Its purpose is to give meaning to every object that is (re)presented. This is the synchronicity of consciousness. Its working is a presence in the here and now. It condenses all time to this nunctuous point of synchronicity. Its function is to shed light on everything that has happened, happens and will happen, but it can only do so at some present moment. I may move the beam of light backwards to the past or forwards to the future, but the projecting of the light and the projector of the light are only at the synchronic level of a nunctuous moment.
diachronicity
So consciousness works at a synchronic level. But my life and my relative existence are located in time. Living as an organism I am in the claws of time. The fleeting of time tends to escape the control of my consciousness. Time has a life of its own. It devours me. In the end it will even annihilate me and my consciousness. Then I will again have fallen into the dark abyss of time. This is diachronic time, the time outside of my consciousness. My consciousness aims at shedding light on this diachronic time to give some meaning to it all, but it only succeeds incompletely and piecemeal.So in the existential philosophy of Levinas the world of light is only the world of our consciousness. The world of light is only at the synchronic level. But outside of this world of light there is the world of diachronic time. This world escapes me. So it is a world of darkness, a world of meaninglessness. I am its victim.
The existence of this world confronts me when the synthesizing capacity of my consciousness has failed me, like in the hours of sleeplessness, in suffering or in the ultimate unsatisfactoriness of erotic pleasure. Levinas calls this world the `il y a`, the ´there is...` of diachronic time.Now the great problem within the philosophy of Levinas is: the other must belong to the dark world of ´il y a´, precisely because he is essentially other than my consciousness. He escapes the light of my consciousness. He always remains the Other. He can never totally be reduced to the synchronic world of the Same. Would this be so, he would not, in Levinian terms, escape the ´violence´ of my consciousness. He would be reduced to the me. This reduction would show my lack of respect and my hunger for control. The other remains outside of my devouring consciousness in the diachronic world of time.
According to Levinas, it is precisely because of this otherness, because of his being outside my synchronicity, that he can make his ethical appeal.But the problem is: the world of ´il y a´ is a world of meaninglessness, of darkness, not the world of light. If the other belongs to this world of ´il y a´ he would be also meaningless to me. I would not have any connection with him whatsoever, but he would haunt my sleepless nights as a source of ignorance, fear and resentment. My consciousness would not be able to locate him in synchronic time. He would literally be a total stranger to my world. In short: his ethical appeal would be meaningless and therefor refused.
Levinas proposed a solution to this problem that has some resemblances with mysticism. He said that not all of the other belonged to the dark world of immanent being, the diachronic world of ´il y a´. The ethical element in my meeting with the other belonged to a world beyond immanent being. He called this the transcendent world of ´other-than-being´, autrement qu`être. All goodness, all ethics come from this other world that is beyond the being of this world.The mystics would nod and assent to this solution, but not wholeheartedly. There would still remain qualms and doubts about this solution. For they would say that precisely this belonging to the world of ´autrement qu´être´ makes us ethically the same. It takes away all otherness of the other. It is not the Other that is the source of all goodness in the world, it is the Same. So the difference between mysticism and Levinas comes down to the problem of the One and the Many. So let´s see what the mystics have to say about sameness and otherness. The metaphysics of mysticism.
The existentialism of Levinas accords consciousness only a place within me. So consciousness in the books of Levinas is always a relative consciousness. But in mysticism my consciousness is part of (or more correctly: overlaps with) a larger kosmic consciousness, called Pure or Absolute Consciousness. So in mysticism the beam of light is not only within me, but it is everywhere in the kosmos. This is the misconception that I have to liberate myself from, that I would be the sole keeper of the beam of light. Like Plato said, at a transcendent level we are all inhabitants of a world of light. The only thing I have to do is to transcend this world of immanence. In this transcendence I will find the meaning I am looking for.In religious language: I will have to find God to find meaning. Levinas would assent to this transcendence, but the unsurmountable difference with mysticism is his description of the complete Otherness of God. In mysticism we believe that God and the deepest Me are one and the same.
But suppose Levinas would retort: ´with the complete Otherness of the ´autrement qu´être´, of the other and of God I mean that they always remain different from and strange to my personal me. Is this not an insight of mysticism also, that the form and the personal are merely an illusion? What else does the word ´illusion´ mean than that it is other than Reality? Does this not mean that the substratum and the epiphenomenon of form are incompatible? I do not see any fundamental difference between my philosophy and the philosophy of mysticism.`But I think this is a wrong explanation of the metaphysics of mysticism. For in mysticism the One and the Many are ontologically different -and here Levinas is right- but they also share the same metaphysics, which means that both the One and the Many share the same godliness. The One is in the Many and the Many are in the One. This is the great mystical paradox: ´This world is illusionary. Only Brahman is real. The world is Brahman´. So God is never a stranger to me. Not even to my personal me. He is not the completely Other.
He is the fundamentally Same. In mysticism we transcend all duality, also the duality man versus God. But in the Hebraic thought of Levinas God remains so holy and inapproachable that He always remains the completely Other. The duality is not transcended, but strengthened instead. I think this misconception stems from a wrong understanding of the nature of divinity. For it is true that the deepest godliness of myself, of the other, of all existence always remains to a certain degree unknown and unknowable to me. But we must not confuse this unknowability of God with a complete otherness of God. That something is unknown or not known yet does not mean that it is other. This is jumping to conclusions.If God or my fellow human being were completely other than me, I would not have any rapport with them nor with that other world that is beyond immanent being and its beings, but that is my true home. In mysticism this rapport is felt so strongly because all differences between this so called me and this so called other are in fact illusionary. But let´s not stress the argument too much, because the point is made.Similarities between Levinian thought and mysticism.
The mystical element in the thought of Levinas is his analysis of the ´autrement qu´être´ as mainly ethical. His ´autrement´ is the source of all quality and goodness in the world. Mysticism agrees on this. Whether we believe in an unsurmountable duality between God and the world -as Levinas does- or whether we believe that godliness is the essential element of all life -as mysticism does-, we both believe that quality, happiness and goodness depend on some sort of transcendence. The being moved, the being touched, the friendly smile, the arm around the shoulder, in short, compassion, friendliness and altruistic behavior all have their roots in a mysterious component of life, that is the source as well as the telos of all existence. Levinas and mysticism also agree on the fact that there is infinity and that this fact leads to a fundamental unknowability of the world. When our thought tries to capture this infinity within the finity of its own paradigmata, it behaves in a violent and totalitarian way. It wants to shrink the infinity and the forever newness of the world to fit its own views and claims. This is for Levinas and also for mysticism the ultimate hybris. This brought him to believe that the intentionality of our relative consciousness and its seeking for truth within a mental paradigma have to be transcended. Here Levinas and Zen have much in common. Like Zen, Levinas also wants to break out to a level of no-mind. But for Levinas this outbreak is mainly an ethical one. I can only break out in the ethical relationship I have with the other. In the confrontation with the other I am forced by God to break out. So for Levinas the other is the ultimate meditation in life.
Amsterdam December 8 2005

Sunday, July 13, 2008

The Myth of Sisyphus

The gods had condemned Sisyphus to ceaselessly rolling a rock to the top of a mountain, whence the stone would fall back of its own weight. They had thought with some reason that there is no more dreadful punishment than futile and hopeless labor.
If one believes Homer, Sisyphus was the wisest and most prudent of mortals. According to another tradition, however, he was disposed to practice the profession of highwayman. I see no contradiction in this. Opinions differ as to the reasons why he became the futile laborer of the underworld. To begin with, he is accused of a certain levity in regard to the gods. He stole their secrets. Egina, the daughter of Esopus, was carried off by Jupiter. The father was shocked by that disappearance and complained to Sisyphus. He, who knew of the abduction, offered to tell about it on condition that Esopus would give water to the citadel of Corinth. To the celestial thunderbolts he preferred the benediction of water. He was punished for this in the underworld. Homer tells us also that Sisyphus had put Death in chains. Pluto could not endure the sight of his deserted, silent empire. He dispatched the god of war, who liberated Death from the hands of her conqueror.
It is said that Sisyphus, being near to death, rashly wanted to test his wife's love. He ordered her to cast his unburied body into the middle of the public square. Sisyphus woke up in the underworld. And there, annoyed by an obedience so contrary to human love, he obtained from Pluto permission to return to earth in order to chastise his wife. But when he had seen again the face of this world, enjoyed water and sun, warm stones and the sea, he no longer wanted to go back to the infernal darkness. Recalls, signs of anger, warnings were of no avail. Many years more he lived facing the curve of the gulf, the sparkling sea, and the smiles of earth. A decree of the gods was necessary. Mercury came and seized the impudent man by the collar and, snatching him from his joys, lead him forcibly back to the underworld, where his rock was ready for him.
You have already grasped that Sisyphus is the absurd hero. He is, as much through his passions as through his torture. His scorn of the gods, his hatred of death, and his passion for life won him that unspeakable penalty in which the whole being is exerted toward accomplishing nothing. This is the price that must be paid for the passions of this earth. Nothing is told us about Sisyphus in the underworld. Myths are made for the imagination to breathe life into them. As for this myth, one sees merely the whole effort of a body straining to raise the huge stone, to roll it, and push it up a slope a hundred times over; one sees the face screwed up, the cheek tight against the stone, the shoulder bracing the clay-covered mass, the foot wedging it, the fresh start with arms outstretched, the wholly human security of two earth-clotted hands. At the very end of his long effort measured by skyless space and time without depth, the purpose is achieved. Then Sisyphus watches the stone rush down in a few moments toward that lower world whence he will have to push it up again toward the summit. He goes back down to the plain.
It is during that return, that pause, that Sisyphus interests me. A face that toils so close to stones is already stone itself! I see that man going back down with a heavy yet measured step toward the torment of which he will never know the end. That hour like a breathing-space which returns as surely as his suffering, that is the hour of consciousness. At each of those moments when he leaves the heights and gradually sinks toward the lairs of the gods, he is superior to his fate. He is stronger than his rock.
If this myth is tragic, that is because its hero is conscious. Where would his torture be, indeed, if at every step the hope of succeeding upheld him? The workman of today works everyday in his life at the same tasks, and his fate is no less absurd. But it is tragic only at the rare moments when it becomes conscious. Sisyphus, proletarian of the gods, powerless and rebellious, knows the whole extent of his wretched condition: it is what he thinks of during his descent. The lucidity that was to constitute his torture at the same time crowns his victory. There is no fate that can not be surmounted by scorn.
If the descent is thus sometimes performed in sorrow, it can also take place in joy. This word is not too much. Again I fancy Sisyphus returning toward his rock, and the sorrow was in the beginning. When the images of earth cling too tightly to memory, when the call of happiness becomes too insistent, it happens that melancholy arises in man's heart: this is the rock's victory, this is the rock itself. The boundless grief is too heavy to bear. These are our nights of Gethsemane. But crushing truths perish from being acknowledged. Thus, Edipus at the outset obeys fate without knowing it. But from the moment he knows, his tragedy begins. Yet at the same moment, blind and desperate, he realizes that the only bond linking him to the world is the cool hand of a girl. Then a tremendous remark rings out: "Despite so many ordeals, my advanced age and the nobility of my soul make me conclude that all is well." Sophocles' Edipus, like Dostoevsky's Kirilov, thus gives the recipe for the absurd victory. Ancient wisdom confirms modern heroism.
One does not discover the absurd without being tempted to write a manual of happiness. "What!---by such narrow ways--?" There is but one world, however. Happiness and the absurd are two sons of the same earth. They are inseparable. It would be a mistake to say that happiness necessarily springs from the absurd. discovery. It happens as well that the felling of the absurd springs from happiness. "I conclude that all is well," says Edipus, and that remark is sacred. It echoes in the wild and limited universe of man. It teaches that all is not, has not been, exhausted. It drives out of this world a god who had come into it with dissatisfaction and a preference for futile suffering. It makes of fate a human matter, which must be settled among men.
All Sisyphus' silent joy is contained therein. His fate belongs to him. His rock is a thing Likewise, the absurd man, when he contemplates his torment, silences all the idols. In the universe suddenly restored to its silence, the myriad wondering little voices of the earth rise up. Unconscious, secret calls, invitations from all the faces, they are the necessary reverse and price of victory. There is no sun without shadow, and it is essential to know the night. The absurd man says yes and his efforts will henceforth be unceasing. If there is a personal fate, there is no higher destiny, or at least there is, but one which he concludes is inevitable and despicable. For the rest, he knows himself to be the master of his days. At that subtle moment when man glances backward over his life, Sisyphus returning toward his rock, in that slight pivoting he contemplates that series of unrelated actions which become his fate, created by him, combined under his memory's eye and soon sealed by his death. Thus, convinced of the wholly human origin of all that is human, a blind man eager to see who knows that the night has no end, he is still on the go. The rock is still rolling.
I leave Sisyphus at the foot of the mountain! One always finds one's burden again. But Sisyphus teaches the higher fidelity that negates the gods and raises rocks. He too concludes that all is well. This universe henceforth without a master seems to him neither sterile nor futile. Each atom of that stone, each mineral flake of that night filled mountain, in itself forms a world. The struggle itself toward the heights is enough to fill a man's heart. One must imagine Sisyphus happy.

A Free Man's Worship

Bertrand Russell
A brief introduction: "A Free Man's Worship" (first published as "The Free Man's Worship" in Dec. 1903) is perhaps Bertrand Russell's best known and most reprinted essay. Its mood and language have often been explained, even by Russell himself, as reflecting a particular time in his life; "it depend(s)," he wrote in 1929, "upon a metaphysic which is more platonic than that which I now believe in." Yet the essay sounds many characteristic Russellian themes and preoccupations and deserves consideration--and further serious study--as an historical landmark of early-twentieth-century European thought. For a scholarly edition with some documentation, see Volume 12 of The Collected Papers of Bertrand Russell, entitled Contemplation and Action, 1902-14 (London, 1985; now published by Routledge).

To Dr. Faustus in his study Mephistopheles told the history of the Creation, saying:
"The endless praises of the choirs of angels had begun to grow wearisome; for, after all, did he not deserve their praise? Had he not given them endless joy? Would it not be more amusing to obtain undeserved praise, to be worshipped by beings whom he tortured? He smiled inwardly, and resolved that the great drama should be performed.
"For countless ages the hot nebula whirled aimlessly through space. At length it began to take shape, the central mass threw off planets, the planets cooled, boiling seas and burning mountains heaved and tossed, from black masses of cloud hot sheets of rain deluged the barely solid crust. And now the first germ of life grew in the depths of the ocean, and developed rapidly in the fructifying warmth into vast forest trees, huge ferns springing from the damp mould, sea monsters breeding, fighting, devouring, and passing away. And from the monsters, as the play unfolded itself, Man was born, with the power of thought, the knowledge of good and evil, and the cruel thirst for worship. And Man saw that all is passing in this mad, monstrous world, that all is struggling to snatch, at any cost, a few brief moments of life before Death's inexorable decree. And Man said: `There is a hidden purpose, could we but fathom it, and the purpose is good; for we must reverence something, and in the visible world there is nothing worthy of reverence.' And Man stood aside from the struggle, resolving that God intended harmony to come out of chaos by human efforts. And when he followed the instincts which God had transmitted to him from his ancestry of beasts of prey, he called it Sin, and asked God to forgive him. But he doubted whether he could be justly forgiven, until he invented a divine Plan by which God's wrath was to have been appeased. And seeing the present was bad, he made it yet worse, that thereby the future might be better. And he gave God thanks for the strength that enabled him to forgo even the joys that were possible. And God smiled; and when he saw that Man had become perfect in renunciation and worship, he sent another sun through the sky, which crashed into Man's sun; and all returned again to nebula.
"`Yes,' he murmured, `it was a good play; I will have it performed again.'"
Such, in outline, but even more purposeless, more void of meaning, is the world which Science presents for our belief. Amid such a world, if anywhere, our ideals henceforward must find a home. That Man is the product of causes which had no prevision of the end they were achieving; that his origin, his growth, his hopes and fears, his loves and his beliefs, are but the outcome of accidental collocations of atoms; that no fire, no heroism, no intensity of thought and feeling, can preserve an individual life beyond the grave; that all the labours of the ages, all the devotion, all the inspiration, all the noonday brightness of human genius, are destined to extinction in the vast death of the solar system, and that the whole temple of Man's achievement must inevitably be buried beneath the debris of a universe in ruins--all these things, if not quite beyond dispute, are yet so nearly certain, that no philosophy which rejects them can hope to stand. Only within the scaffolding of these truths, only on the firm foundation of unyielding despair, can the soul's habitation henceforth be safely built.
How, in such an alien and inhuman world, can so powerless a creature as Man preserve his aspirations untarnished? A strange mystery it is that Nature, omnipotent but blind, in the revolutions of her secular hurryings through the abysses of space, has brought forth at last a child, subject still to her power, but gifted with sight, with knowledge of good and evil, with the capacity of judging all the works of his unthinking Mother. In spite of Death, the mark and seal of the parental control, Man is yet free, during his brief years, to examine, to criticise, to know, and in imagination to create. To him alone, in the world with which he is acquainted, this freedom belongs; and in this lies his superiority to the resistless forces that control his outward life.
The savage, like ourselves, feels the oppression of his impotence before the powers of Nature; but having in himself nothing that he respects more than Power, he is willing to prostrate himself before his gods, without inquiring whether they are worthy of his worship. Pathetic and very terrible is the long history of cruelty and torture, of degradation and human sacrifice, endured in the hope of placating the jealous gods: surely, the trembling believer thinks, when what is most precious has been freely given, their lust for blood must be appeased, and more will not be required. The religion of Moloch--as such creeds may be generically called--is in essence the cringing submission of the slave, who dare not, even in his heart, allow the thought that his master deserves no adulation. Since the independence of ideals is not yet acknowledged, Power may be freely worshipped, and receive an unlimited respect, despite its wanton infliction of pain.
But gradually, as morality grows bolder, the claim of the ideal world begins to be felt; and worship, if it is not to cease, must be given to gods of another kind than those created by the savage. Some, though they feel the demands of the ideal, will still consciously reject them, still urging that naked Power is worthy of worship. Such is the attitude inculcated in God's answer to Job out of the whirlwind: the divine power and knowledge are paraded, but of the divine goodness there is no hint. Such also is the attitude of those who, in our own day, base their morality upon the struggle for survival, maintaining that the survivors are necessarily the fittest. But others, not content with an answer so repugnant to the moral sense, will adopt the position which we have become accustomed to regard as specially religious, maintaining that, in some hidden manner, the world of fact is really harmonious with the world of ideals. Thus Man creates God, all-powerful and all-good, the mystic unity of what is and what should be.
But the world of fact, after all, is not good; and, in submitting our judgment to it, there is an element of slavishness from which our thoughts must be purged. For in all things it is well to exalt the dignity of Man, by freeing him as far as possible from the tyranny of non-human Power. When we have realised that Power is largely bad, that man, with his knowledge of good and evil, is but a helpless atom in a world which has no such knowledge, the choice is again presented to us: Shall we worship Force, or shall we worship Goodness? Shall our God exist and be evil, or shall he be recognised as the creation of our own conscience?
The answer to this question is very momentous, and affects profoundly our whole morality. The worship of Force, to which Carlyle and Nietzsche and the creed of Militarism have accustomed us, is the result of failure to maintain our own ideals against a hostile universe: it is itself a prostrate submission to evil, a sacrifice of our best to Moloch. If strength indeed is to be respected, let us respect rather the strength of those who refuse that false "recognition of facts" which fails to recognise that facts are often bad. Let us admit that, in the world we know, there are many things that would be better otherwise, and that the ideals to which we do and must adhere are not realised in the realm of matter. Let us preserve our respect for truth, for beauty, for the ideal of perfection which life does not permit us to attain, though none of these things meet with the approval of the unconscious universe. If Power is bad, as it seems to be, let us reject it from our hearts. In this lies Man's true freedom: in determination to worship only the God created by our own love of the good, to respect only the heaven which inspires the insight of our best moments. In action, in desire, we must submit perpetually to the tyranny of outside forces; but in thought, in aspiration, we are free, free from our fellow-men, free from the petty planet on which our bodies impotently crawl, free even, while we live, from the tyranny of death. Let us learn, then, that energy of faith which enables us to live constantly in the vision of the good; and let us descend, in action, into the world of fact, with that vision always before us.
When first the opposition of fact and ideal grows fully visible, a spirit of fiery revolt, of fierce hatred of the gods, seems necessary to the assertion of freedom. To defy with Promethean constancy a hostile universe, to keep its evil always in view, always actively hated, to refuse no pain that the malice of Power can invent, appears to be the duty of all who will not bow before the inevitable. But indignation is still a bondage, for it compels our thoughts to be occupied with an evil world; and in the fierceness of desire from which rebellion springs there is a kind of self-assertion which it is necessary for the wise to overcome. Indignation is a submission of our thoughts, but not of our desires; the Stoic freedom in which wisdom consists is found in the submission of our desires, but not of our thoughts. From the submission of our desires springs the virtue of resignation; from the freedom of our thoughts springs the whole world of art and philosophy, and the vision of beauty by which, at last, we half reconquer the reluctant world. But the vision of beauty is possible only to unfettered contemplation, to thoughts not weighted by the load of eager wishes; and thus Freedom comes only to those who no longer ask of life that it shall yield them any of those personal goods that are subject to the mutations of Time.
Although the necessity of renunciation is evidence of the existence of evil, yet Christianity, in preaching it, has shown a wisdom exceeding that of the Promethean philosophy of rebellion. It must be admitted that, of the things we desire, some, though they prove impossible, are yet real goods; others, however, as ardently longed for, do not form part of a fully purified ideal. The belief that what must be renounced is bad, though sometimes false, is far less often false than untamed passion supposes; and the creed of religion, by providing a reason for proving that it is never false, has been the means of purifying our hopes by the discovery of many austere truths.
But there is in resignation a further good element: even real goods, when they are unattainable, ought not to be fretfully desired. To every man comes, sooner or later, the great renunciation. For the young, there is nothing unattainable; a good thing desired with the whole force of a passionate will, and yet impossible, is to them not credible. Yet, by death, by illness, by poverty, or by the voice of duty, we must learn, each one of us, that the world was not made for us, and that, however beautiful may be the things we crave, Fate may nevertheless forbid them. It is the part of courage, when misfortune comes, to bear without repining the ruin of our hopes, to turn away our thoughts from vain regrets. This degree of submission to Power is not only just and right: it is the very gate of wisdom.
But passive renunciation is not the whole of wisdom; for not by renunciation alone can we build a temple for the worship of our own ideals. Haunting foreshadowings of the temple appear in the realm of imagination, in music, in architecture, in the untroubled kingdom of reason, and in the golden sunset magic of lyrics, where beauty shines and glows, remote from the touch of sorrow, remote from the fear of change, remote from the failures and disenchantments of the world of fact. In the contemplation of these things the vision of heaven will shape itself in our hearts, giving at once a touchstone to judge the world about us, and an inspiration by which to fashion to our needs whatever is not incapable of serving as a stone in the sacred temple.
Except for those rare spirits that are born without sin, there is a cavern of darkness to be traversed before that temple can be entered. The gate of the cavern is despair, and its floor is paved with the gravestones of abandoned hopes. There Self must die; there the eagerness, the greed of untamed desire must be slain, for only so can the soul be freed from the empire of Fate. But out of the cavern the Gate of Renunciation leads again to the daylight of wisdom, by whose radiance a new insight, a new joy, a new tenderness, shine forth to gladden the pilgrim's heart.
When, without the bitterness of impotent rebellion, we have learnt both to resign ourselves to the outward rules of Fate and to recognise that the non-human world is unworthy of our worship, it becomes possible at last so to transform and refashion the unconscious universe, so to transmute it in the crucible of imagination, that a new image of shining gold replaces the old idol of clay. In all the multiform facts of the world--in the visual shapes of trees and mountains and clouds, in the events of the life of man, even in the very omnipotence of Death--the insight of creative idealism can find the reflection of a beauty which its own thoughts first made. In this way mind asserts its subtle mastery over the thoughtless forces of Nature. The more evil the material with which it deals, the more thwarting to untrained desire, the greater is its achievement in inducing the reluctant rock to yield up its hidden treasures, the prouder its victory in compelling the opposing forces to swell the pageant of its triumph. Of all the arts, Tragedy is the proudest, the most triumphant; for it builds its shining citadel in the very centre of the enemy's country, on the very summit of his highest mountain; from its impregnable watchtowers, his camps and arsenals, his columns and forts, are all revealed; within its walls the free life continues, while the legions of Death and Pain and Despair, and all the servile captains of tyrant Fate, afford the burghers of that dauntless city new spectacles of beauty. Happy those sacred ramparts, thrice happy the dwellers on that all-seeing eminence. Honour to those brave warriors who, through countless ages of warfare, have preserved for us the priceless heritage of liberty, and have kept undefiled by sacrilegious invaders the home of the unsubdued.
But the beauty of Tragedy does but make visible a quality which, in more or less obvious shapes, is present always and everywhere in life. In the spectacle of Death, in the endurance of intolerable pain, and in the irrevocableness of a vanished past, there is a sacredness, an overpowering awe, a feeling of the vastness, the depth, the inexhaustible mystery of existence, in which, as by some strange marriage of pain, the sufferer is bound to the world by bonds of sorrow. In these moments of insight, we lose all eagerness of temporary desire, all struggling and striving for petty ends, all care for the little trivial things that, to a superficial view, make up the common life of day by day; we see, surrounding the narrow raft illumined by the flickering light of human comradeship, the dark ocean on whose rolling waves we toss for a brief hour; from the great night without, a chill blast breaks in upon our refuge; all the loneliness of humanity amid hostile forces is concentrated upon the individual soul, which must struggle alone, with what of courage it can command, against the whole weight of a universe that cares nothing for its hopes and fears. Victory, in this struggle with the powers of darkness, is the true baptism into the glorious company of heroes, the true initiation into the overmastering beauty of human existence. From that awful encounter of the soul with the outer world, enunciation, wisdom, and charity are born; and with their birth a new life begins. To take into the inmost shrine of the soul the irresistible forces whose puppets we seem to be--Death and change, the irrevocableness of the past, and the powerlessness of Man before the blind hurry of the universe from vanity to vanity--to feel these things and know them is to conquer them.
This is the reason why the Past has such magical power. The beauty of its motionless and silent pictures is like the enchanted purity of late autumn, when the leaves, though one breath would make them fall, still glow against the sky in golden glory. The Past does not change or strive; like Duncan, after life's fitful fever it sleeps well; what was eager and grasping, what was petty and transitory, has faded away, the things that were beautiful and eternal shine out of it like stars in the night. Its beauty, to a soul not worthy of it, is unendurable; but to a soul which has conquered Fate it is the key of religion.
The life of Man, viewed outwardly, is but a small thing in comparison with the forces of Nature. The slave is doomed to worship Time and Fate and Death, because they are greater than anything he finds in himself, and because all his thoughts are of things which they devour. But, great as they are, to think of them greatly, to feel their passionless splendour, is greater still. And such thought makes us free men; we no longer bow before the inevitable in Oriental subjection, but we absorb it, and make it a part of ourselves. To abandon the struggle for private happiness, to expel all eagerness of temporary desire, to burn with passion for eternal things--this is emancipation, and this is the free man's worship. And this liberation is effected by a contemplation of Fate; for Fate itself is subdued by the mind which leaves nothing to be purged by the purifying fire of Time.
United with his fellow-men by the strongest of all ties, the tie of a common doom, the free man finds that a new vision is with him always, shedding over every daily task the light of love. The life of Man is a long march through the night, surrounded by invisible foes, tortured by weariness and pain, towards a goal that few can hope to reach, and where none may tarry long. One by one, as they march, our comrades vanish from our sight, seized by the silent orders of omnipotent Death. Very brief is the time in which we can help them, in which their happiness or misery is decided. Be it ours to shed sunshine on their path, to lighten their sorrows by the balm of sympathy, to give them the pure joy of a never-tiring affection, to strengthen failing courage, to instil faith in hours of despair. Let us not weigh in grudging scales their merits and demerits, but let us think only of their need--of the sorrows, the difficulties, perhaps the blindnesses, that make the misery of their lives; let us remember that they are fellow-sufferers in the same darkness, actors in the same tragedy as ourselves. And so, when their day is over, when their good and their evil have become eternal by the immortality of the past, be it ours to feel that, where they suffered, where they failed, no deed of ours was the cause; but wherever a spark of the divine fire kindled in their hearts, we were ready with encouragement, with sympathy, with brave words in which high courage glowed.
Brief and powerless is Man's life; on him and all his race the slow, sure doom falls pitiless and dark. Blind to good and evil, reckless of destruction, omnipotent matter rolls on its relentless way; for Man, condemned to-day to lose his dearest, to-morrow himself to pass through the gate of darkness, it remains only to cherish, ere yet the blow falls, the lofty thoughts that ennoble his little day; disdaining the coward terrors of the slave of Fate, to worship at the shrine that his own hands have built; undismayed by the empire of chance, to preserve a mind free from the wanton tyranny that rules his outward life; proudly defiant of the irresistible forces that tolerate, for a moment, his knowledge and his condemnation, to sustain alone, a weary but unyielding Atlas, the world that his own ideals have fashioned despite the trampling march of unconscious power.
Electronic colophon: This electronic text was typed for the BRS Home Page in July, 1996 by John R. Lenz from the 1929 U.S. edition (pp. 46-57) of Mysticism and Logic (orig. London, 1918). I used a copy of this book signed by BR himself. Russell's signature in the title of this electronic version is that very signature, which I reproduced using a scanner and irony: another essay in the same collection is "The Place of Science in a Liberal Education."


Sunday, July 6, 2008

The President's Council on Bioethics, Washington, D.C., March 2008

Human Dignity and Bioethics: Essays Commissioned by the President's Council on Bioethics

http://www.bioethics.gov/reports/human_dignity/index.html

TABLE OF CONTENTS


Letter of Transmittal
Members of the President's Council on Bioethics
Council Staff and Consultants
Acknowledgments


Introduction


Chapter 1: Bioethics and the Question of Human Dignity (Schulman)
Chapter 2: Human Dignity and Respect for Persons: A Historical Perspective on Public Bioethics (Davis)


Part 1: Dignity and Modern Science


Chapter 3: How to Protect Human Dignity from Science (Dennett)
Chapter 4: Human Dignity and the Mystery of the Human Soul (Kraynak)
Commentary on Kraynak (Dennett)
Commentary on Dennett (Kraynak)
Commentary on Dennett (Gómez-Lobo)
Chapter 5: Human Dignity from a Neurophilosophical Perspective (Churchland)
Commentary on Churchland (Meilaender)

Part 2: Human Nature and the Future of Man


Chapter 6: Human Uniqueness and Human Dignity: Persons in Nature and the Nature of Persons (Rolston)
Chapter 7: Human Dignity and the Future of Man (Rubin)
Chapter 8: Dignity and Enhancement (Bostrom)


Part 3: Dignity and Modern Culture


Chapter 9: human Dignity and Public Discourse (Neuhaus)
Chapter 10: Modern and American Dignity (Lawler)
Chapter 11: Human dignity: Exploring and Explicating the Council's Vision (Meilaender)
Commentary on Meilaender and Dennett (Lawler)
Commentary on Meilaender and Dennett (Schaub)


Part 4: The Source and Meaning of Dignity


Chapter 12: Defending Human Dignity (Kass)
Chapter 13: Kant's Concept of Human Dignity as a Resource for Bioethics (Shell)
Chapter 14: Human Dignity and Political Entitlements (Nussbaum)
Commentary on Nussbaum, Shell, and Kass (Schaub)
Chapter 15: The Irreducibly Religious Character of Human Dignity (Gelernter)


Part 5: Theories of Human Dignity


Chapter 16: The Nature and Basis of Human Dignity (Lee, George)
Chapter 17: Two Arguments From human Dignity (Weithman)
Chapter 18: Dignity and Bioethics: History, Theory, and Selected Applications (Sulmasy)


Part 6: Human Dignity and the Practice of Medicine


Chapter 19: Human Dignity and the Seriously Ill Patient (Dresser)
Chapter 20: The Lived Experience of Human Dignity (Pellegrino)


Contributors