Archive for the ‘Essay’ Category

Angry Atheist Syndrome

May 1, 2016

wwwangry

 

The following exchange from Kurt Vonnegut’s novel Slaughterhouse-Five takes place in a  WWII POW camp between a German guard and an American prisoner.  It highlights the arbitrary and capricious nature of human existence.

An American had muttered something which a guard did not like. The guard knew English, and he hauled the American out of ranks, knocked him down.
The American was astonished. He stood up shakily, spitting blood. He had meant no harm by what he had said, evidently, had no idea the guard would hear or understand.
“Why me?” he asked the guard.
Vy you? Vy anybody?” he said.

“That’s not fair” is a common kid complaint, to which parents in Southern California sometimes respond “If you want fair, go to Pomona.” (Pomona is where the LA County Fairgrounds are.)  In other words, “Life ain’t fair, kid; you better hurry up and get used to it.”

Human beings (and at least some of our poop-flinging primate cousins) are hardwired by evolution to seek fairness and equity. So a big part of the human struggle consists of coming to terms with a world where, as poet Robert Pinsky notes,  “nobody gets what they deserve more than everybody else.

This is something that Christian and nonbeliever alike must deal with. Theosophy is the branch of theology devoted to answering the following question: How can a just, merciful, and loving God allow so much suffering to exist in the world? Here are some stock answers: God is a mystery beyond human comprehension; God will mete out perfect distributive justice in the afterlife; humanity is “fallen” (it’s Eve’s darn fault for eating that blasted apple.)

As a devout deist, I also believe that God is beyond human comprehension. But unlike Christians, I refuse to anthropomorphize God in order to reduce the incomprehensible chasm between God and humanity. And I think it’s extremely unlikely that God gives a rat’s patootie about me or about anything else for that matter. (Caring about things is a function of possessing a physical body; I really can’t imagine that God has one. Besides, the universe was around for a long, long time before humans showed up, so existence obviously isn’t about us.)

So how do I face life each day despite all of the suffering and injustice in the world? By constantly reminding myself about everything that is good and beautiful in this world, especially Love.

Unfortunately, not all atheists are as well-adjusted as I am. And many atheists fall into the trap of hating God and religion because it’s so much easier than confronting the font of anger which dwells within their breasts.

Such God-hating atheists as Christopher Hitchens, Richard Wright, and Bill Maher come off as pathetic, bellowing fools.

The subtitle of a book Hitchens wrote about organized religion is How Religion Spoils Everything.  Everything?  Talk about your unsubstantiated sweeping generalizations.

Like Hitchens, Richard Wright is incapable of appreciating anything that is good or beautiful about organized religion. In his memoir Black Boy, Wright heaps scorn on the African American church, a great and lovely institution which, in addition to offering succor to so many in pain, has also been at the forefront of the heroic struggle for civil rights.

Wright is “disgusted” by the “snobbery, clannishness, gossip, intrigue, petty class rivalry, and conspicuous displays of cheap clothing” which he encounters in church. Of course, with the possible exception of “cheap clothing,” these phenomena are apparent in all human institutions. It is disheartening that Wright’s quest to slay all dragons prevents him from experiencing the virtuous aspects of organized Christianity. He is absolutely blind to the worldly fellowship, charity, comfort, hope, and spiritual fulfillment religion has to offer. And the immense beauty of religious art and music are completely lost on him. As Wright sees it, “(t)he naked will to power seemed always to walk in the wake of a hymn”.

Bill Maher called religion a “neurological disorder” Of course, Bill Maher also said that children are “assholes” (presumable because they disturb him on airplanes.) And Maher also said that women are liars because he once gave his date twenty dollars to pick up something at the store and she forgot to give him change. Critical thinking is obviously not Bill Maher’s strong suit. (Arianna Huffington suggested that her friend Bill Maher needs to start dating a better class of women.)

 

by Richard W. Bray

Put Your Foot on his Head and Drown Him Quickly: Is This Baldassare Castiglione’s Ultimate Advice in The Book of the Courtier?

September 3, 2015

Baldassare Castiglione

Baldassare Castiglione’s The Book of the Courtier is a work which articulates some very sensitive issues. It is a deliberately ambiguous book at least in part because Castiglione wrote in tumultuous times when one could literally lose his head for offending the wrong people. Castiglione therefore wisely obscured his own final perspective by utilizing the clamor of contrasting opinions. Because there is no particular protagonist with whom the reader is expected to identify, no single dominant voice emerges on the book’s most sensitive question: Is the courtier ultimately loyal to himself or to the prince he serves?

Castiglione sought to convey a set of beliefs when he wrote The Book of the Courtier. However, well-founded prudence caused him to be circumspect in his presentation. Thus modern readers cannot ascertain Castiglione’s ultimate point of view with certainty. And it is also possible that his own opinions are as ambiguous as his dialogue. However, one thing can be stated unequivocally about The Book of the Courtier—despite the pretense that its interlocutors are playing a game, they are discussing critical issues which were often a matter of life and death.

The characters in The Book of the Courtier attempt to describe the qualities which define the ideal courtier; this is a very serious question. Yet the tone of the dialogue often seems Pollyannaish in contrast to its historical backdrop. A preponderance of the voices in the dialogue proffer a touchingly idealistic view of the courtier’s role. The disparity between the amount of ink devoted to the idealists versus that given to advocates of realpolitik is curious. The dialogue is dominated by unctuous proclamations that the courtier should be a paladin of honor and virtue. But such claims seem ridiculous when one considers the political realities of the time. The Medici family did not come to dominate Italian politics by being nice guys.

Occasionally, however, cynical dissenting views creep into the discussion. These counterarguments are often so compelling that the reader is left to wonder who exactly is foiling whom. At times one is tempted to ask if Castiglione were really a closet Machiavellian. The fact that the reader is unable to prove which side the author is on is a striking indication of his artistry. Castiglione’s final objective in writing The Book of the Courtier remains obscure because the views of both the idealists and the realists are eloquently expressed.

When Federico asserts in a pious tone that a good courtier “should never seek to gain grace of favor through wicked methods or dishonest means,” Calmeta cynically retorts that “our rulers love only those who follow such paths.” This interaction summarizes the conflict which permeates the entire dialogue: Should courtiers be loyal to their princes in the name of aristocratic honor or should they simply do what is best for their careers? Although the mood of The Book of the Courtier fluctuates from light to serious, the anxiety around this conflict simmers near the surface throughout, and sometimes it bubbles to the surface.

Castiglione asserts that the objective of the dialogue is to determine how to “create a courtier so perfect that the prince who is worthy of his service, even though his dominion is small, can count himself a truly great ruler.” Ottaviano argues that the ideal courtier should function as a sort of “whetstone” who “should introduce the prince to many virtues, such as justice, generosity, and magnanimity.” Federico echoes this sentiment by describing the perfect courtier as a tireless servant: “[V]ery rarely, or hardly ever will he ask his master anything for himself.”

However, the mawkish tone of such declarations makes it difficult for us to take them seriously as representations of courtly discourse during the Italian Renaissance, which was a cauldron of guile and intrigue. Ottaviano’s and Federico’s naive proclamations give little indication that Castiglione was a contemporary of Machiavelli unless we are willing to entertain the notion that Castiglione was some a closet Machiavellian.

Perhaps Castiglione furtively conceals his real message
in The Book the Courtier: Deceit and subterfuge constitute a courtier’s most effective self-defense in dangerous times. By utilizing some of the dialogue’s least appealing interlocutors to voice this reality, Castiglione shrewdly shelters himself from charges of cynicism. Cesare Gonzago, for example, has a limited role in the dialogue. Yet he adroitly articulates what could be seen as Castiglione’s hidden agenda when he demonstrates the temerity to counter the prevailing view that virtue is the courtier’s most important asset. When Magnifico asserts that it is unwise for a courtier speak ill of another courtier in order to gain a woman’s favor, Cesare wryly observes that “I confess that I haven’t the sense to be able to refrain from speaking ill of a rival of mine, unless you can teach me a better way of causing his downfall.” Cesare is not merely refuting Magnifico; he is also rebutting Federico’s unsophisticated assertion that an ideal courtier, “will speak no evil, and least of all of his lords.”

Magnifico is amused by Cesare’s perceptive observation, and although he expresses the sentiment that “I should never like our courtier to practice deceit,” he nonetheless happily relates the following proverb: “When your enemy is in water up to his waist, you should extend him your hand and pull him out of danger; but when he is in up to his chin, then put your foot on his head and drown him quickly.” Like Castiglione, Magnifico enjoys playing the game of defining how an ideal courtier would behave in a perfect world. But he is unable to resist pointing out that the sixteenth century Italian court was hardly an exemplary society.

A work of literature conceived to elicit an identical response from each potential reader is merely propaganda, and The Book of the Courtier is no such thing. Baldassare Castiglione’s The Book of the Courtier does not contain a simple, unified interpretation discernible only to the particularly astute reader. The Book of the Courtier is praiseworthy for the complexity of its ambiguities, which is hallmark of great literature.

by Richard W. Bray

A Journey Across Syllables

July 5, 2015
I Rode My Ten Speed to Pomona to Buy this Single

I Rode My Ten Speed to Pomona to Buy this Single

Where have you gone, Joe DiMaggio,
Our nation turns its lonely eyes to you.

When songwriter Paul Simon wrote the above lines in his song “Mrs. Robinson” he was grasping after the illusion that the 1950s had been a simpler time than the turbulent 1960s. (But there are no simple times.)

Mickey Mantle and Joe DiMaggio were Yankee teammates and unfriendly rivals. Years after writing Mrs Robinson, Paul Simon met Mickle Mantle. Simon gushed on and on about how Mantle had been his boyhood hero. When Mantle asked Simon why he had chosen to glorify DiMaggio rather than Mantle, Simon replied

“It was syllables, Mickey, the syllables were all wrong.”

A song, like any other type of poem, is a journey across syllables, and syllables are made of sounds. Linguists call these sounds phonemes. Linguists are people who study words. In England linguists are called philologists, which is a wonderful-sounding word. My favorite philologist is Henry Higgins from “My Fair Lady.” (Yes, I know he’s not a real person. So what?)

Linguists name and catalogue the sounds that make up languages. (That’s a lot of work.) They give these sounds really cool-sounding names like “fricatives” and “diphthongs.” Years ago I had to memorize the names of all the English language phonemes and a whole bunch of other stuff for a midterm in my Structure of Language class with Dr. Hilles. It was a tough test. (I got a 96%, thank you very much. But the student who spent her lectures reading fashion magazines got an 18%.)

Anyhow, those hardworking linguists tell us that the total number of phonemes employed in earthling human languages ranges from 11 to 112. The English language provides us with about forty-four phonemes to work with. That’s plenty of sounds for your gifted lyricist.

When Barry Manilow was recording the song that would make him famous, he had a phoneme problem. See if you can spot it.

Well you came and you gave without taking
But I sent you away, oh Brandy
Well you kissed me and stopped me from shaking
And I need you today, oh Brandy

The “b’” sound at the beginning of the word “Brandy” is called a voiced bilabial stop: voiced because it involves the vocal cords; bilabial because it utilizes both lips; and stop because it provides a halt between sounds. (Compare the voiced bilabial stop of the “b” sound with the voiceless bilabial stop of the “p” sound.)

The “br” sound at the beginning of the name “Brandy” was a jarring jolt which interrupted the flow of sounds. When Manilow switched out the name Brandy with the name Mandy, the sounds smoothly melted together, and the rest, as they say, is history. (The “m” sound is called a bilabial nasal)

Now consider the following stanza from Bob Dylan’s song “Shelter from the Storm.

In a little hilltop village, they gambled for my clothes
I bargained for salvation and she gave me a lethal dose
I offered up my innocence I got repaid with scorn
Come in, she said
I’ll give ya shelter from the storm

I lied. We’re not going to consider the whole stanza, with all its wit, humor, irony, imagery, and biblical references. We are only going to talk about the first half of the first line.

Say “in a little hilltop village” to yourself aloud. Now say it again, this time thinking about what your tongue, lips, and teeth are doing. Notice how all the action is happening at the front of your mouth.

And as for those poor benighted souls who don’t think song lyrics are poetry. Well, read the first comment on this blog post. It’s by somebody named Richard W. Bray.

by Richard W. Bray

Too Big for Our Own Good: Kurt Vonnegut on the Human Brain

February 8, 2015

So far the human episode has been a brief chapter in the story of life on Earth—about two hundred thousand years.  That’s not very long compared to the dung beetles who feed on rhinoceros droppings, which are the hearty descendants of bugs that were frolicking in dinosaur poop at least forty million years ago.  And sharks have been around for over 400 Million years.

Although it’s fun to fantasize about a time long ago when giant monsters roamed the earth, it’s much more painful to imagine a point in the future when Mother Nature says: “Time’s up, humans.  You had your chance, but you blew it.”   Indeed, as the poet Richard Wilbur notes, it’s almost impossible to imagine a future on this planet without us:

Nor shall you scare us with talk of the death of the race.
How should we dream of this place without us?—

The novel Galapagos by Kurt Vonnegut describes a future where evolution has altered humanity beyond recognition.  A million years hence, we have mutated into a furry, seal-like creature with flippers and a much smaller brain encased in a “streamlined skull.”  Our future progeny is no longer equipped to build skyscrapers or compose Beethoven’s Ninth Symphony.  And these new creatures exhibit an immense moral superiority over modern-day humans because they lack the intellectual and physical tools to harm one another on a grand scale.  Besides, “how could you ever hold somebody in bondage with nothing but your flippers and your mouth?”

According to the Ghost of Leon Trout, the narrator of Galapagos who witnesses the million-year transformation of our species, this reduction of endowment is all for the better because humans

back then had a brain weighing about three kilograms!  There was no end to the evil schemes that a thought machine that oversized couldn’t imagine and execute.

Trout’s Ghost concludes that the human brain “is much too big to be practical.”  A practical brain would never “divert” people from “the main business of life by the hobgoblins of opinion.” The main business of life, of course, is survival and procreation.  Yet by some freak of evolution, human beings are capable of so much more.

Trout’s Ghost laments how our “overelaborate nervous circuitry” is responsible “for the evils we [are] seeing or hearing about simply everywhere.”  Furthermore, such self-inflicted horrors as war, famine, slavery, and genocide are “as purely a product of oversized brains as Beethoven’s Ninth Symphony.”

Trout’s ghost confides that, “A million years later, I feel like apologizing for the human race.”  He also describes “the most diabolical aspect” of the oversized human brain:

They would tell their owners, in effect, “Here is a crazy thing we could actually do.”….And then, as though in trances, the people would really do it—have slaves fight each other to the death in the Colosseum, or burn people alive in the public square for holding opinions which were locally unpopular, or build factories whose only purpose was to kill people in industrial quantities, or to blow up whole cities, and on and on.”

Here’s another disadvantage to having too much brain power for our own good:

Big brains back then were not only capable of being cruel for the sake of cruelty.  They could also feel all sorts of pain to which lower animals were entirely insensitive.

Today the “mass of mankind” is “quietly desperate” because “the infernal computers inside their skulls [are] incapable of idleness.”  The constant din of thought inside our brains that people must bear is akin to having “Ghetto blasters inside our heads.” And there is

no shutting them down! Whether we had anything for them to do or not, they ran “All the time!  And were they ever loud!  Oh, God, were they ever loud.”

Like Brick in Tennessee in Williams’ “Cat on a Hot Tin Roof,” humanity craves to hear a “click in the head” which renders life “peaceful.” In Galapagos, Kurt Vonnegut suggests an evolutionary solution to the plight which ails us.  And perhaps it is the most plausible solution.  As Emily Dickinson notes

Narcotics cannot still the Tooth That nibbles at the soul

by Richard W. Bray

This Happy Now

January 20, 2015
Not Me and Max

Not Me and Max

As soon as Max sees me grab the leash, he goes into spasms of delight, jumping in the air and making little pirouettes. Joy. It’s not just for humans.

(I try not to say the word “walk” in front of Max unless I’m ready to take him for one. So in order not to tease him, I’ll say, “Maybe I’ll take Max for a ‘W-Word’ later this afternoon.”)

Like so many poets, Max is giddy for the natural world, and he cannot contain his enthusiasm for outside smells, sights, and sounds. And like Max, William Wordsworth began to cultivate his love of nature exploring “those few nooks to which my happy feet/ Were limited.”

Unlike so many human beings, however, Max is not overburdened by the demands of his quotidian existence. And I’m pretty sure he’s never given much thought to the meaning of life. It is therefore unlikely that Max could share with Mr. Wordsworth

That blessed mood
In which the burthen of the mystery,
In which the heavy and the weary weight
Of all this unintelligible world
Is lighten’d:—that serene and blessed mood,
In which affections gently lead us on,
Until, the breath of this corporeal frame,
And even the motion of our human blood
Almost suspended, we are laid asleep
In body, and become a living soul:
While with an eye made quiet by the power
Of harmony, and the deep power of joy,
We see into the things of life

But ecstasy also hurts. Wordsworth referred to such ecstatic moments as “spots of time.” Spots of time are often induced by nature, and as Sheldon W. Liebman explains, nature is “a domain in which the fundamental conditions of life are mixed, even paradoxical.” Ecstasy hurts because even in its thrall we realize that soon we will return to a world where

That time is past,
And all its aching joys are now no more,

Once we get beyond joy “And all its dizzy raptures” we are once again confined to “The still, sad music of humanity”

In the poem “Hamlen Brook,” Richard Wilbur calls this phenomenon “joy’s trick.” (Collected Poems 115).

Confronted with the immense beauty of the natural world, Wilbur laments his inability to “drink all this”

Joy’s trick is to supply
Dry lips with what can cool and slake,
Leaving them dumbstruck also with an ache
Nothing can satisfy.

For his part, Robert Frost argues that “Happiness Makes Up In Height For What It Lacks In Length” (Collected Poems 445).

There are many moments in Frost’s poetry when

We went from house to wood
For change of solitude. (445)

And the trick for human beings is to appreciate this happy now on its own terms. Frost explains in “Two Look at Two” (283).

‘This must be all.’ It was all. Still they stood,
A great wave from it going over them,
As if the earth in one unlooked-for favor
Had made them certain earth returned their love.

by Richard W. Bray

Only Babies Expected Dreams to Come True: A Few More Thoughts on Theodore Roethke’s Glass House

August 30, 2014

glasshouse

The whiskey on your breath
Could make a small boy dizzy;
But I hung on like death:
Such waltzing was not easy.

Theodore Roethke, My Papa’s Waltz

I always get a strong reaction from my students when I teach Theodore Roethke’s often-anthologized poemMy Papa’s Waltz.” It’s about a drunken father who, much to his wife’s dismay, drags his young son through the kitchen and off to bed in a rambunctious dance. The poem is a Rorschach test on how my students feel about parental intoxication; they divide into partisan factions when I ask them whether this poem is a depiction of child abuse or merely an example of paternal playfulness.

Shortly after his father’s death, Theodore Roethke scribbled down some “accounts about his childhood and of his relations with his father” (23). For some reason, in a sketch titled “Papa” Roethke refers to himself as “John.” And here we find the genesis of “My Papa’s Waltz.”

Sometimes he dreamed about Papa. Once it seemed Papa came in and danced around with him. John put his feet on top of Papa’s and they’d waltzed. He-dee-dei-dei. Rump-tee-tump. Only babies expected dreams to come true (24).

Until I read The Glass House: The Life of Theodore Roethke by Allan Seager (previously discussed on this blog here), I had always assumed “My Papa’s Waltz” was based upon actual events. And Roethke, a great fabulist when it came to recounting the details of his own life, encouraged the false assumption that alcoholism was rife in his family.

While his father regularly took a schnapps or two, he could hardly be called a drinking man in spite of Ted’s later statement that he came from a long line of drunks. And his mother never took a drink in her life (38).

In the essay “Papa” Roethke laments that his father “didn’t like him much” (24). And in a another adolescent remembrance called “Fish Tale,” Roethke further reveals

I was awkward of mind as well as body. I asked thousands of questions. I always imagined myself fearfully hungry. All these things irritated my father who wanted, above all, to make me a wise fisherman and a self-reliant woodsman (25).

The Glass House is a biography written by Allan Seager, a novelist who happened to be an acquaintance of his subject. And Seager often takes the liberty of presenting speculation as though it were fact:

Quite illogically, Ted felt that his father, by dying, had betrayed him, left him far too soon without his love and guidance, and intermittently in those moments when he remembered his father as flawless, Ted was tormented by guilt for even having entertained the notion that a great man like his father could have done anything so base as to betray his son (62).

It’s clear that the death of Roethke’s father, a pivotal event which shaped both his life and his poetry, was the “most important thing that ever happened to him” (104). And Seager suggests that “It is an interesting conjecture whether, had his father lived, he would have been a poet at all” (62). But such speculation merely leads us to the cul-de-sac of a tautology: If Theodore Roethke had lived a different life, he would have been a different person.

Early in Roethke’s career, Rolfe Humphries (“The first poet of ability with whom Ted could have a continuing association”) served as a friend and mentor to the poet (76). In his usual fashion, Roethke attempted to impress Humphries with absurd accounts of his ties to organized crime and tales of women who were “always falling in love” with him (78). Humphries was impressed by Roethke’s talent (“the kid’s good”), but he saw through the bravado (78):

Humphries, however, penetrated the mask. “There was a lot of self-hatred in Ted, you know” he said. Everyone who knew Ted well recognized this eventually, that he was host to a mass of free-floating guilt that made him loathe himself (78).

And perhaps it was self-hatred which compelled Roethke to deceptively claim that he had driven a Stutz Bearcat as an undergraduate, that he had traveled to Russian and Germany, or that he had won a Hopwood Award before there was a Hopwood Award (83;112). But Theodore Roethke, mob associate?

When he was past fifty, Ted liked to say that he had friends in the Purple Gang in Detroit. (“I had such an in with the Purples, they offered to bump off my Aunt Margaret for me. As a favor, you understand”) (58).

Allan Seager is remarkably forgiving about Roethke’s habitual dissembling, concocting various explanations and excuses.

In his later years, as we all do, Ted liked to tinker with his past, rectify it by selections and suppressions, true it up to fit a mature notion of himself or it may be that he was unaware that he was rectifying, that he really remembered his youth in this way (38).

Two factors which may help explain Roethke’s often-strange behavior are alcoholism and mental illness. Today, of course, his bipolar condition could be controlled with drugs, but at the time hospitalization and long periods of rest were the only available remedies for Roethke’s occasional manic episodes. And these episodes could be rather frightening for Roethke and those around him. On one occasion he told Catherine De Vries, the wife of a colleague with whom he often went walking: “I could throttle you and stick you under a culvert and they wouldn’t find you for weeks” (90).

Today some might refer to Roethke’s copious alcohol consumption as “self-medication.” Yet there was a dark side to his drinking. “[H]e would drink heavily and, drunk, he grew wild, broke furniture, and beat out windows with his fist” (63-64). One of Roethke’s psychiatrists surmised that “his troubles were merely the running expenses he paid for being his kind of poet” and another said simply, “You can’t cure a personality” (109).

It’s possible that a prescription for lithium and a twelve-step program would have rendered Theodore Roethke a happier man. We can never know how this might have affected Roethke’s poetry, but Seager suggests that

the very qualities that made Ted a poet seem to have been the ones that made him ill, his sensibility and his energy….His native energy seems to have piled up inside him as a result of the abrasions of his youthful environment, an energy of resentment, rage, and fear, and to have been released by the shock of his father’s death (103)

In addition to being one of America’s greatest poets, Roethke was also a renowned teacher. Not surprisingly, his pedagogy was often unorthodox. Here’s an example from when he was teaching at Michigan State.

He said he was going to give them an assignment in the description of a physical action. “Now you watch what I do for the next five minutes and describe it,” he said. He opened up one of the windows and climbed out on a narrow ledge that ran around the building. He edged around the three sides of the building, making faces through each window, and climbed in again. Teachers do not usually do this (88-89).

Roethke could be remarkably blunt with his students. For example, he once “snarled at a torpid class”

You’ve heard of casting pearls before swine, haven’t you? Come on, you must have. Well, those were metaphorical pearls before metaphorical swine. But what I’m doing is casting real pearls before real swine (114).

Roethke taught in a less politically-correct era when professors were afforded great deference. And he had the temerity to say things that would quickly get today’s college professor into hot water. Seager recounts this episode from when he and Roethke were colleagues at Bennington College:

I was standing in the corridor as he was finishing the last class of a term. He said, “Well, I guess that’s all. Don’t turn into a lot of little bitches before next semester.” The girls, of course, adored him and it was at Bennington that his reputation as a great teacher began to burgeon (136).

by Richard W. Bray

Some Thoughts on Sobering Up: From Temperance to Prohibition in Antebellum America, 1800-1860 by Ian R. Tyrrell

June 17, 2014

A substantial American Temperance movement rose and fell during the first half of the nineteenth century. Prohibitionists are often depicted as reactionaries, but this broadly-based movement was largely fueled by contemporary American notions of progress and self-improvement. And the results were, temporarily, astounding. Relying primarily at first on the power of moral suasion to instigate change in popular attitudes about drinking, the antebellum Temperance movement fomented a drastic reduction per capita consumption of alcohol over the course of a few decades; however, the various and substantial efforts of the Temperance movement backfired when many in their ranks went too far and began to support the outright legal prohibition of alcohol.

Anti-drinking activists eventually succeeded in passing prohibition laws in several municipalities and thirteen states. But these so-called “Maine Laws” proved to be immensely unpopular in practice. And by the end of the 1850s, the per capita level of alcohol consumption was higher than it had been at the beginning of the century (302).

The nineteenth century Temperance movement began in New England, spread quickly to New York City, and “eventually spurred a new wave of political activity in every northern and western state” (260). The story of how this movement grew and transformed “from temperance to teetotalism, and from moral suasion to prohibition” is deftly chronicled in Sobering Up: From Temperance to Prohibition in Antebellum America, 1800-1860 by Ian R. Tyrrell (10).

A common misconception is that the Temperance movement was largely a rural revolt against modernity.
However, the movement’s leaders who “are so often depicted by historians as deeply conservative were in fact encouraging and exploiting change” (128). The early Temperance movement was bolstered by the support of artisans and entrepreneurs, the type of men who saw value in being “temperate, sober, and virtuous in habits because they relied on their own exertions for upward mobility” (141). These forward-looking, upwardly-mobile men “were working to create a society of competitive individuals instilled with the virtues of sobriety and industry” (125). These early leaders of the Temperance movement were hardly reactionaries; on the contrary, they were “(P)rofoundly influenced by the spirit of romantic perfectionism which permeated antebellum social thought, the men who were most strongly committed to temperance reform in the late 1830s expressed a deep and abiding faith in man’s potential for improvement” (126).

The Temperance movement, which included but was not limited to The American Temperance Society, The American Temperance Union, The New England Tract Society, The Massachusetts Society for the Suppression of Intemperance, The Sons of Temperance and The Washingtonians, represented a variegated coalition of interests which included secular, spiritual, industrial, professional, and Nativist elements. In Democracy in America Alex de Tocqueville chronicles the dynamics that would propel the antebellum Temperance movement. And Tyrrell describes the impressive power and reach of voluntary democratic American organizations at this time:

Given the structure of American political and legal institution and American conceptions of democratic values, there was a premium placed upon voluntary organizations to effect change. Under such a system, it was possible for articulate and well-organized minorities to achieve much more success and influence than their sheer numbers would indicate (10).

Temperance was a thoroughly middle-class movement and it is therefore unsurprising that single factor which “most disturbed these promoters of social change was the role of liquor within lower-class life” (8). A major aim of the early Temperance movement was to “mobilize the respectable population first, so they would encourage temperance in the larger society” (8). In this spirit, it was argued that “the moderate drinker set the worst example for his fellow man” (72).

Starting in the 1830s, as the Temperance movement veered in the direction of promoting total abstinence, and its leaders began to challenge the common American assumption that the “ideal” approach to alcohol consumption was “moderation and not abstinence” (16). This was a radical shift in American attitude towards the consumption of alcohol. As Terrell notes the “popular belief that Puritans condemned the consumption of alcohol has no basis in fact” (16). On the contrary, the consumption of fermented ciders was an “integral part colonial fabric” (18).

Originally, “Temperance societies did not condemn moderate drinking because it was practiced by too many of its supporters” (42). These early activists “did not, like later temperance reformers, try to eliminate the liquor traffic but sought to regulate it” (43). In Massachusetts reformers originally “urged” the merchants of alcohol “to suspend the sale of liquor to minors and to habitual drunkards” (43). Furthermore, the “first temperance reformers especially railed against the sale of liquor by the drink to local townspeople in small retail shops licensed only to sell for consumption off the premises” (43). In the eyes of reformers, such “dramshops” did not offer any of the “socially useful purpose”, of taverns, such as “providing refreshment for the weary traveler” (43).

But support for total abstinence from alcohol would soon garner remarkable public support as demonstrated by the astronomical success of the American Temperance Society.

Within five years of the inception of its program of reform, The American Temperance Society could point to 2,200 temperance societies in the United States, embracing 170,000 members. By 1833, there were more than 6,000 societies and a million members pledged to total abstinence from the use of spirits (87).

The Washingtonians were another immensely successful pro-abstinence organization. Founded in May of 1840, the Washington Temperance Society of Baltimore was dedicated to the “growing conviction among Temperance supporters that drunkards could be saved” (160). They chose their name based upon the audacious premise that President “Washington had delivered he country from its political oppression; the teetotalers believed they would liberate Americans from the greater social oppression of alcohol” (160). And their growth was spectacular. “By the end of 1841, Washingtonians claimed 12,00 adherents in Baltimore, 10,000 in New York, 5,000 in Boston, and a total of 200,000 throughout the North (160).

At their “experience meetings,” Washingtonians employed strategies that were remarkably similar to the what we see today at an Alcoholics Anonymous meeting: “By publicly confessing sins, reformed men felt a sense of atonement for their past. They could put their sins behind them and assert their new sobriety” (172-173). Also like AA, Washingtonians “substituted emotional and psychological appeal for the rational arguments against liquor” and functioned on the belief that “by saving others they (alcoholics) simultaneously saved themselves (163; 174) (Curiously, neither of AAs founders, William Griffith Wilson and Dr. Robert Smith, had heard of the Washingtonians.)

But many in the Temperance movement began to look for political rather than personal solutions to alcoholism. For example, The American Temperance Union

clashed with the Washingtonians over the issue of prohibition. While temperance regulars had adopted general prohibition as the ultimate aim of reform by 1840, the Washingtonians renounced all reliance on legal measures (199)

Starting in New England, a new movement for local “prohibition was a spontaneous movement without central direction from the American Temperance Society or from professional agents of any of the other temperance societies” (226). This mutation of the Temperance movement was led by people who believed that “the community had the right and the obligation to regulate the morality of the individual through law” (227). The prohibitionists were frustrated by the limitations of local solutions; therefore, over time

their concern moved outward from the local level to the state level, as they discovered the magnitude and the complexity of obtaining local solutions for intemperance (226).

These antebellum Prohibition laws mostly came and went in a spasm of self-righteousness. As Tyrrell notes, the year “1855 represented the pinnacle of achievement for the organized temperance movement in terms of power and influence” (282). Those who had dreamed that “the nation would soon be one sober republic from the Atlantic to the Pacific” were soon disappointed (282). After the ratification of the

New Hampshire prohibitory law in August 1855, not a single new state adopted prohibition for the next twenty-five years, and most of the states which had embraced prohibition in the early 1850s modified or repealed their Maine Laws in the late 1850s and 1860s (282).

The 1850s was a tempestuous decade which culminated in the massive conflagration of the Civil War. The antebellum Temperance movement went down in ashes, but it rose like a Phoenix during the twentieth century. Sadly, Americans still have not learned a major lesson of our history—when it comes to efforts to reduce the consumption of controlled substances, moral suasion is much more effective than prohibition.

by Richard W. Bray

A Few Thoughts on Virtue and Vice

May 17, 2014
Alexander Pope

Alexander Pope

Many vices have corresponding virtues. Consider the following pairs of adjectives.

Confident/Cocky
Trusting/Gullible
Audacious/Impudent
Candid/Indiscreet
Gallant/Foolhardy
Deliberate/Dithering

In each of the above examples, there is a point where excess converts virtue into vice.

Consider the Wooden Paradox from basketball coach John Wooden: Be quick but don’t hurry. In other words, give maximum effort without losing control. Expedience is good; reckless haste is not. Thus we excel by straining a virtue to the edge of the border where it becomes its corresponding vice.

Controlling our appetites is a key to maximizing virtues without rendering them vices. As philosopher Phillipa Foot* notes, “Virtues belong to the will” (13).

For example, there is virtue in Hamlet’s impulse to redress his father’s murder; however, the mindless barbarism of Hamlet’s hunger for retribution obliterates a guiltless family—Ophelia, Polonius, and Laertes. Enraged recklessness is the vice which transforms Hamlet’s valor into senseless carnage.

To his credit, Hamlet is aware of such folly. That’s why he salutes Horatio’s staid and sober equanimity:

Give me that man
That is not passion’s slave, and I will wear him
In my heart’s core, ay, in my heart of heart,
As I do thee

It is not good enough simply to act upon justifiable impulses because, as Foot notes, “almost any desire can lead a man to act unjustly” (9). Like Hamlet’s ill-fated quest for justice, much death, loss, and destruction is perpetrated in the name of love, charity, temperance, and security. Alexander Pope warns us to be wary because

The same ambition can destroy or save,
And makes a patriot as it makes a knave.

It is difficult to discern the corresponding virtues for “moral failings such as pride, vanity, worldliness and avarice” which “harm both their possessor and others” (Foot 3). Pride is a fundamental flaw bred in the bone of humanity. Excessive self-satisfaction puffs us up; it distends the ego and smothers benevolence. But you don’t have to take my word for it:

Before destruction the heart of man is haughty (Proverbs 18:12)

Whether we credit our existence to God or evolution, there is no such thing as a self-made man.

Let’s imagine a man who comes into the world with a massive endowment of skill and will who also happens to be born at that right time and place to garner great fortune and esteem during his lifetime. Shouldn’t this man be immensely grateful for his fortuitous circumstances? Why does pride so often trump modesty in the solipsistic hearts of the fortunate?

Compassion and humility are the best antidotes to our capacious appetites and our rampant self-love.

*All Philippa Foot quotations from Virtues and Vices and Other Essays in Moral Philosophy

by Richard W. Bray

The Little Toil of Love

April 13, 2014

new-zeland-zealand-the-free-spring-meadow

I had no time to Hate—
Because
The Grave would hinder Me—
And Life was not so
Ample I
Could finish—Enmity—

Emily Dickinson

The human mind is capable of generating rational thoughts, but thinking is not a rational process. Our thoughts are the fruit of our emotions. The poet Theodore Roethke points out

We Think by Feeling

Our perceptions are limited and transcendence is an illusion. Wallace Stevens reminds us

Your world is you. I am my world

It’s not my task in life to figure out who the good people are
. There are people that I admire; there are people that I enjoy being around; there are people who annoy me; there are people that I don’t enjoy being around. But people are not what I think about them. And whatever fraction of my life I spend evaluating the overall worth of particular human beings is a waste of my precious time on earth. Life is not a contest, and even if it were, no one appointed me judge.

We see others through the prism of how we wish to perceive ourselves. W.H. Auden explains

A friend is the old, old tale of Narcissus.

It is easier to feel compassion for others when I am feeling good about myself. And forgiving myself for my imperfections makes it easier to accept the imperfections of others.

My cruel and petty and spiteful impulses are the excrescence of my inadequacies. I cannot make these impulses go away. But I can endeavor to check myself whenever I fantasize about seeing bad things happen to other people. It’s a perpetual struggle.

by Richard W. Bray

Life Remains a Blessing

March 20, 2014

galaxy

Sentient consciousness is a marvelous gift; I’m really glad I exist.

I would be happy to thank Someone for every glorious breath that life grants me; I just can’t quite figure out whom to thank. God? Which one?

I’m a devout deist because my Creator has endowed me with the type of brain which renders me incapable of experiencing a connection to an anthropomorphized God. I can’t imagine ever giving myself over to the God of the Christians, for example. First of all, a God who wishes to be exalted by the likes of me would be all too human for me to take seriously. Moreover, there are billions of people on Earth who believe in reincarnation while billions of other people believe in heaven. These are two mutually incompatible outcomes of existence. Maybe billions of people are right and billions of people are wrong. Who knows?  Fortunately, it’s not my task in life to figure these things out.

To be clear, I am not one of those New Atheists who hates God for not existing. On the contrary, I encounter many things in Christianity that are good and beautiful. I’m all for fellowship, good works, humility, and forgiveness; furthermore, the Peace Christians are my heroes. (And I really don’t think grownups should have heroes.)

But the universe got along just fine for a long, long time before human beings came onto the scene, so it’s obvious that Existence really isn’t about us.

For some reason or another, human beings have developed the capacity to appreciate the fact that we exist. At any rate, for me, life remains a blessing, as W. H. Auden notes in “As I Walked Out One Evening,” his bleak and lovely meditation on Christianity

This brings me to the Christian concept of grace. Although there is much bickering over the theological specifics of grace within and between Christian denominations, grace is basically the notion that human beings have done nothing to deserve the love and mercy bestowed upon us by God. Instead of arguing about how loving and merciful God actually is, I will simply concede that our existence is unearned. Life is a mysterious take-it-or-leave-it proposition. And griping about how life should be different is a silly waste of our precious time on Earth.

As Robert Pinsky notes in “Family Values,” his bleak and lovely poem about resentment and cupidity,

nobody gets what they/ Deserve more than everybody else.

Does anyone deserve to have an unhappy childhood? Of course not.  But this world is not about fairness.

The universe wasn’t built for us. But it’s a spectacular privilege to be granted the slight and brief glimpse that our limited consciousness affords.

I don’t “hope for higher raptures, when life’s day is done.” The physical world is sufficiently marvelous for me.

I’ll leave the final word on grace to Kris Kristofferson.

by Richard W. Bray