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enteleinI've been re-reading bits and pieces of Plato's Republic recently.
Tucked into the book are several mimeographed sheets (yes, with the purple ink and slightly blurry effect) of notes given to us by the instructor, a wizened little man who looked like Einstein's stoner brother. He was cool. I wish I had been able to take classes with him further than the one Philosophy 101 course I took with him, because he was fascinating, clever, and ultimately, very laid back for a university that size.
I was intensely curious after one class session, where he very seriously and mysteriously declared that one should speak the truth, all the time. There is never a time when one should lie. Logically, it does not make sense to lie. I wanted to know more. Such a little thing, but it made such an incredible impact on me that ever since then (and it's been, what, 8 or 9 years now?) I've been pondering that question: Why should I never lie? Can I tell the truth all the time? Why not?
I think it's made all the difference to me in my political persuasions, and I think has given me the added frustration of arguing with a right wing father in e-mail: he doesn't get that I am not a neatly-pigeonholed bleeding heart liberal commie pinko. He doesn't get that I am approaching his views through scientific and Socratic methods, because I really want to know. A large part of my feeling so depressed these past months (years?) has been the unfailing veil of uselessness attributed to my existence on this earth. Another online journalist I am rather fond of has been dealing with something similar, and once termed it as her "existential angst."
If you know me at all in reality, you probably have a good handle on the fact that I am not particularly religious. I was brought up with a tiny bit of Catholic stuff as a kid, and so on the rare occasion I will actually recite the Our Father at one of the endless step-family functions (weddings, baptisms, christenings, funerals, graduations) that happen in churches. But I don't honestly believe it. It's no fault of my own, really. It's not as if I have a set of circumstances that brought me around to believing we are a godless Earth. There's just something in my heart that is relentlessly pragmatic about divinity in this universe, and to a lot of people, it's harshly cynical. I can't help it. I just don't believe.
Sometimes, I wish I could, though. To have that buffer, that safety net of faith. What a relief that would be! To fold myself in the arms of Hallalujahs and Amens, to recognize Buddha, to cast away my material possessions, to chant and pray a certain number of times a day, to face East, to touch my forehead, my heart, my shoulders in turn, to speak in tongues even, throwing myself into the ecstasy of divine right and submissiveness to a collective morality ...
And that's where I start to feel very uncomfortable.
So, here I am, wishing I had a safety net below me of something, anything, that gives me hope and muster for the future. I have no guide, no map. I am pushing against the possibilities, and I lose my strength too quickly.
Does this make sense?
Plato's a bit of a fool, though, and his Republic is a bit too mindful of itself to truly be a dynamic, truthful society. I like my vices and my desires, they are antithesis to the ineffectual me.
Anyway.
In my readings, however, I became alarmed at how lax I've let my brain go over the last few years. In my note sheets, I scribbled down questions and revelations as we covered the material, and I almost want to weep at how very on-the-mark I seemed to be, how astute and intelligent I sounded, how my thirst for hunger was so very apparent in a few jotted notes, squished inbetween fuzzy paragraphs of purple-blue ink.
Tucked into the book are several mimeographed sheets (yes, with the purple ink and slightly blurry effect) of notes given to us by the instructor, a wizened little man who looked like Einstein's stoner brother. He was cool. I wish I had been able to take classes with him further than the one Philosophy 101 course I took with him, because he was fascinating, clever, and ultimately, very laid back for a university that size.
I was intensely curious after one class session, where he very seriously and mysteriously declared that one should speak the truth, all the time. There is never a time when one should lie. Logically, it does not make sense to lie. I wanted to know more. Such a little thing, but it made such an incredible impact on me that ever since then (and it's been, what, 8 or 9 years now?) I've been pondering that question: Why should I never lie? Can I tell the truth all the time? Why not?
I think it's made all the difference to me in my political persuasions, and I think has given me the added frustration of arguing with a right wing father in e-mail: he doesn't get that I am not a neatly-pigeonholed bleeding heart liberal commie pinko. He doesn't get that I am approaching his views through scientific and Socratic methods, because I really want to know. A large part of my feeling so depressed these past months (years?) has been the unfailing veil of uselessness attributed to my existence on this earth. Another online journalist I am rather fond of has been dealing with something similar, and once termed it as her "existential angst."
If you know me at all in reality, you probably have a good handle on the fact that I am not particularly religious. I was brought up with a tiny bit of Catholic stuff as a kid, and so on the rare occasion I will actually recite the Our Father at one of the endless step-family functions (weddings, baptisms, christenings, funerals, graduations) that happen in churches. But I don't honestly believe it. It's no fault of my own, really. It's not as if I have a set of circumstances that brought me around to believing we are a godless Earth. There's just something in my heart that is relentlessly pragmatic about divinity in this universe, and to a lot of people, it's harshly cynical. I can't help it. I just don't believe.
Sometimes, I wish I could, though. To have that buffer, that safety net of faith. What a relief that would be! To fold myself in the arms of Hallalujahs and Amens, to recognize Buddha, to cast away my material possessions, to chant and pray a certain number of times a day, to face East, to touch my forehead, my heart, my shoulders in turn, to speak in tongues even, throwing myself into the ecstasy of divine right and submissiveness to a collective morality ...
And that's where I start to feel very uncomfortable.
So, here I am, wishing I had a safety net below me of something, anything, that gives me hope and muster for the future. I have no guide, no map. I am pushing against the possibilities, and I lose my strength too quickly.
Does this make sense?
Plato's a bit of a fool, though, and his Republic is a bit too mindful of itself to truly be a dynamic, truthful society. I like my vices and my desires, they are antithesis to the ineffectual me.
Anyway.
In my readings, however, I became alarmed at how lax I've let my brain go over the last few years. In my note sheets, I scribbled down questions and revelations as we covered the material, and I almost want to weep at how very on-the-mark I seemed to be, how astute and intelligent I sounded, how my thirst for hunger was so very apparent in a few jotted notes, squished inbetween fuzzy paragraphs of purple-blue ink.
