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David Frum: What Does Secularism Offer in the Face of Mortality?

08 Sunday Nov 2015

Posted by jrbenjamin in Interview, Philosophy, Religion

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Tags

Afterlife, belief, Cholera, David Frum, fame, family, Genghis Khan, God, Immortality, interview, Life, meaning of life, MeaningofLife.tv, memory, Mortality, Philosophy, Phlogiston, Real Time with Bill Maher, Robert Wright, The Evolution of God, Why Romney Lost

David Frum

Robert Wright: Given the fact that you’re not looking forward to an afterlife, well… maybe the best approach is to just not think about death. But if you do think about it, is there a way you console yourself in the face of it?

David Frum: When you’re younger, it seems a much more terrifying prospect than it does when you’re older. I think we do see it coming and we accept it.

My consolation in my final hours, I hope, will be that I won’t have left anything unsaid. I won’t have left any of the people that I love in any doubt that I love them. That, to the extent of my ability, I’ve made provision for them. That they’ll be secure after I’m gone…

There’s something kind of megalomaniacal about wanting more, wanting our actions to have eternal consequence. I mean, I suppose that’s literally true — if you have a baby, and the baby has a baby, and so on, then yes, your action has an eternal consequence. But we ourselves are going to be forgotten so soon, and those of us who aren’t forgotten are going to be so misunderstood that they might be happier being forgotten.

There are a lot of things that are remembered for ill or even for derision. Whoever invented the Phlogiston theory, he’s remembered — and his work is held up to mockery in science classes from now and for a long time to come.

We look at history and remember the people who left behind misery. Genghis Khan remains a celebrity to this day. But how many people know the name of the man who proved how cholera was caused? How many remember the dozens of obscure civil engineers who put in safe and reliable water piping so we wouldn’t have it anymore?

Most of that desire for remembrance, it usually ends up pretty badly.

__________

An exchange from Frum and Wright’s interview last month in Wright’s MeaningofLife.tv series. You can pick up Frum’s newest Why Romney Lost or Wright’s expansive book The Evolution of God.

So, I think the answer is a resounding not much. Though not exactly wrong, the approach is in many ways an exercise in managing expectations.

Though I disagree with a good bit of Frum’s outlook, I thoroughly enjoyed this interview, as I do almost all of Robert Wright’s conversations, especially those on his new series MeaningofLife.tv. It’s a program devoted to the big questions, with guests who, like Frum, are leaders in their fields though not professionally or at least chiefly concerned with issues of origin, meaning, morality, and destiny.

This combination makes for an informal, direct exchange, where intelligent people can make dinner table points instead of polishing well-worn soundbites. As you’ll see in the Frum interview, this is a man who’s thought a lot about these things, though I’m not sure he’s ever been asked a question like “Are you religious?” on camera.

His answer, by the way, is an interesting one. “I’m religious, but I’m not spiritual,” Frum replies, echoing a common though unacknowledged thread in modern reform Judaism. It’s the reversal of that well-worn yawn “I’m spiritual, but I’m…” Well, I can’t even bring myself to type it.

If you want to hear more of Frum, I recommend watching his appearance on Friday’s Real Time with Bill Maher, which features a very worthwhile back and forth about why middle class America is falling to pieces.

You can also continue here:

  • Clive James thinks about mortality and the next generation
  • Existence for Existence’s Sake?: Dostoevsky, Sam Harris, and others on the surprising reason we want to stay alive
  • Physicist Alan Lightman writes about the cost of immortality

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“Immortality Ode” by William Wordsworth

07 Sunday Jun 2015

Posted by jrbenjamin in Poetry

≈ Comments Off on “Immortality Ode” by William Wordsworth

Tags

grief, loss, memory, Ode: Intimations of Immortality from Recollections of Early Childhood, Poem, poetry, William Wordsworth

William Wordsworth

What though the radiance which was once so bright
Be now for ever taken from my sight,
Though nothing can bring back the hour
Of splendour in the grass, of glory in the flower;
We will grieve not, rather find
Strength in what remains behind;
In the primal sympathy
Which having been must ever be;
In the soothing thoughts that spring
Out of human suffering;
In the faith that looks through death,
In years that bring the philosophic mind.

And O ye Fountains, Meadows, Hills, and Groves,
Forebode not any severing of our loves!
Yet in my heart of hearts I feel your might;
I only have relinquish’d one delight
To live beneath your more habitual sway.
I love the brooks which down their channels fret,
Even more than when I tripp’d lightly as they;
The innocent brightness of a new-born Day
Is lovely yet;
The clouds that gather round the setting sun
Do take a sober colouring from an eye
That hath kept watch o’er man’s mortality;
Another race hath been, and other palms are won.
Thanks to the human heart by which we live,
Thanks to its tenderness, its joys, and fears,
To me the meanest flower that blows can give
Thoughts that do often lie too deep for tears.

__________

From the last two sections of William Wordsworth’s 1802 poem “Immortality Ode.” The full work (which is often tellingly called the “Great Ode”) deserves a slow read. You’ll find it in the Penguin edition of Wordsworth’s Selected Poems.

There’s more:

  • “When I Consider How My Light Is Spent” by John Milton
  • “Neutral Tones” by Thomas Hardy
  • “Holy Island” by Andrew Motion

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What Old Photographs Mean

11 Monday May 2015

Posted by jrbenjamin in Biography

≈ Comments Off on What Old Photographs Mean

Tags

Douglas Hofstadter, Frédéric Chopin, I Am a Strange Loop, Love, memory, Music, Photographs, Robert Hofstadter, science

Robert Hofstadter

“One gloomy day in early 1991, a couple of months after my father died, I was standing in the kitchen of my parents’ house, and my mother, looking at a sweet and touching photograph of my father, taken perhaps fifteen years earlier, said to me, with a note of despair, ‘What meaning does that photograph have? None at all. It’s just a flat piece of paper with dark spots on it here and there. It’s useless.’ The bleakness of my mother’s grief-drenched remark set my head spinning because I knew instinctively that I disagreed with her, but I did not quite know how to express to her the way I felt the photograph should be considered.

After a few minutes of emotional pondering — soul-searching, quite literally — I hit upon an analogy that I felt could convey to my mother my point of view, and which I hoped might lend her at least a tiny degree of consolation. What I said to her was along the following lines.

In the living room we have a book of the Chopin études for piano. All of its pages are just pieces of paper with dark marks on them, just as two-dimensional and flat and foldable as the photograph of Dad — and yet, think of the powerful effect that they had on people all over the world for 150 years now. Thanks to those black marks on those flat sheets of paper, untold thousands of people have collectively spent millions of hours moving their fingers over the keyboards of pianos in complicated patterns, producing sounds that give them indescribable pleasure and a sense of great meaning. Those pianists in turn have conveyed to many millions of listeners, including you and me, the profound emotions that churned in Frédéric Chopin’s heart, thus affording all of us some partial access to Chopin’s interiority — to the experience of living in the heart, or rather the soul, of Frédéric Chopin. The marks on those sheets of paper are no less than soul-shards — scattered remnants of the shattered soul of Frédéric Chopin. Each of those strange geometries of notes has a unique power to bring back to life, inside our brains, some tiny fragment of the internal experiences of another human being — his sufferings, his joys, his deepest passions and tensions — and we thereby know, at least in part, what it was like to be that human being, and many people feel intense love for him. In just as potent a fashion, looking at that photograph of Dad brings back, to us who knew him intimately, the clearest memory of his smile and his gentleness, activates inside our living brains some of the most central representations of him that survive in us, makes little fragments of his soul dance again, but in the medium of brains other than his own. Like the score to a Chopin étude, that photograph is a soul-shard of someone departed, and it is something we should cherish as long as we live.

Although the above is a bit more flowery that what I said to my mother, it gives the essence of my message. I don’t know what effect it had on her feelings about the picture, but that photo is still there, on a counter in her kitchen, and every time I look at it, I remember that exchange.”

__________

From the beginning of Douglas R. Hofstadter’s remarkable book I Am a Strange Loop.

Pictured above: Robert Hofstadter, 1961 Nobel prize winner in psychics, discoverer of the structure of protons and neutrons, and father of Douglas.

Read on:

  • Why do we care about music?
  • David McCullough summarizes why studying the past matters
  • Shostakovich and music as a protest against death

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The Question of Nostalgia

24 Monday Nov 2014

Posted by jrbenjamin in Literature

≈ Leave a comment

Tags

Fiction, Julian Barnes, literature, memory, Nostalgia, novel, past, School, School Days, The Sense of an Ending

Julian Barnes

“I’m not very interested in my schooldays, and don’t feel any nostalgia for them. But school is where it all began…

Back then, things were plainer: less money, no electronic devices, little fashion tyranny, no girlfriends. There was nothing to distract us from our human and filial duty which was to study, pass exams, use those qualifications to find a job, and then put together a way of life unthreateningly fuller than that of our parents, who would approve, while privately comparing it to their own earlier lives, which had been simpler, and therefore superior. None of this, of course, was ever stated.

In those days, we imagined ourselves as being kept in some kind of holding pen, waiting to be released into our lives. And when that moment came, our lives – and time itself – would speed up. How were we to know that our lives had in any case begun, that some advantage had already been gained, some damage already inflicted? Also, that our release would only be into a larger holding pen, whose boundaries would be at first undiscernible. […]

But I’ve ben turning over in my mind the question of nostalgia, and whether I suffer from it. I certainly don’t get soggy at the memory of some childhood knickknack; nor do I want to deceive myself sentimentally about something that wasn’t even true at the time — love of the old school, and so on. But if nostalgia means the powerful recollection of strong emotions — and a regret that such feelings are no longer present in our lives — then I plead guilty… And if we’re talking about strong feelings that will never come again, I suppose it’s possible to be nostalgic about remembered pain as well as remembered pleasure.”

__________

Julian Barnes, writing in his Booker Prize winning novella The Sense of an Ending.

Go on:

  • Donna Tart on the intoxicating power of a teacher who believes in you
  • Barnes describes how and why printed books will survive
  • John Updike’s stirring remembrance of girls in fall

Julian Barnes and Kavanaugh

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What’s the Point of Reading History if You’ll Just Forget It Later?

20 Friday Jun 2014

Posted by jrbenjamin in History

≈ 1 Comment

Tags

Dale Favier, English History, European History, Facts, history, human nature, memory, Norman Davies, Poland, The Pond Water of History, understanding, Wisdom

Map of the World

“When I was young and foolish, I thought I could learn all of history and have it all available in my head, or at least a lot of European history, or at least a lot of English history. Now I know that almost all this stuff will fall right back out of my head again. That doesn’t necessarily mean it’s not worth doing. There is another kind of knowledge building up, a synoptic sense of what people have done and will do, what sorts of organizations have succeeded, what sorts have failed, and some of the common notions of why. It’s all terribly vague and unsatisfactory, and the more you read the more you realize how variable and subjective the notions are, but as it accumulates I find that I’m far less likely to be fooled by the demagogues and politicians of the moment. I’m no better at predicting the future than anyone else, but I recognize the rashness of betting on my predictions better than most. History has a way of wriggling out of what people expect.

And there is a sense one gets for the fullness, depth, complexity of any one place and its people. It’s like looking at pond water under a microscope: suddenly you become aware of the incredible richness and diversity referred to — but also concealed — by a name like “water” or “Poland.”… That, too, is worth knowing: and you gradually obtain the conviction that the parts of the world that have not yet been given thousand-page histories by an Oxford or Harvard don are every bit as diverse and complex. You may not have looked at them yet through the microscope; you don’t know what’s there; but you know that if you did, they would resolve into new worlds and new constellations of sub-worlds. That, I guess, is what you really gain by reading these fat narrative histories: a sense for just how large the human universe is.”

__________

Dale Favier, writing about his experience reading through Norman Davies two-volume history of Poland, in his blog post “The Pond Water of History”.

By the way: I found this gem on TheDish, my favorite site on the internet. I encourage all of you to read and subscribe.

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Christopher Hitchens and His Mother

29 Thursday Aug 2013

Posted by jrbenjamin in Biography

≈ 8 Comments

Tags

Adolescence, Balliol College, Childhood, Children, Christopher Hitchens, Hitch-22, Hitchens, memoir, memory, motherhood, Shakespeare, Writing

Christopher Hitchens

“I mustn’t pretend to remember more than I really do, but I am very aware that it makes a great difference to have had, in early life, a passionate lady in one’s own corner…

I am speaking of the time of my adolescence. As the fact of this development became inescapably evident (in the early fall of 1964, according to my best memory) and as it came time to go back to school again, my mother took me for a memorable drive along Portsmouth Harbor. I think I had an idea of what was coming when I scrambled into the seat alongside her. There had been a few fatuous and bungled attempts at ‘facts of life’ chats from my repressed and awkward schoolmasters (and some hair-raising speculations from some of my more advanced schoolmates: I myself being what was euphemistically called ‘a late developer’), and I somehow knew that my father would very emphatically not want to undertake any gruff moment of manly heart-to-heart with his firstborn—as indeed my mother confirmed by way of explanation for what she was herself about to say. In the next few moments, guiding the Hillman smoothly along the road, she managed with near-magical deftness and lightness to convey the idea that, if you felt strongly enough about somebody and learned to take their desires, too, into account, the resulting mutuality and reciprocity would be much more than merely worthwhile. I don’t know quite how she managed this, and I still marvel at the way that she both recognized and transcended my innocence, but the outcome was a deep peace and satisfaction that I can yet feel (and, on some especially good subsequent occasions, have been able to call clearly to my mind).

She never liked any of my girlfriends, ever, but her criticisms were sometimes quite pointed (‘Honestly darling, she’s madly sweet and everything but she does look a bit like a pit-pony.’) yet she never made me think that she was one of those mothers who can’t surrender their son to another female. She was so little of a Jewish mother, indeed, that she didn’t even allow me to know about her ancestry: something that I do very slightly hold against her. She wasn’t overprotective, she let me roam and hitchhike about the place from quite a young age, she yearned only for me to improve my education (aha!), she had books of finely bound poetry apart from the MacNeice (Rupert Brooke, and Palgrave’s Golden Treasury), which I will die to save even if my house burns down; she drove me all the way to Stratford for the Shakespeare anniversary in 1966 and on the wintry day later that year that I was accepted by Balliol College, Oxford, I absolutely knew that she felt at least some of the sacrifice and tedium and weariness of the years had been worthwhile.”

__________

One of my favorite sections from one of my favorite memoirs, Hitch-22 by Christopher Hitchens.

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The Palace of Memory

29 Monday Jul 2013

Posted by jrbenjamin in Literature

≈ 6 Comments

Tags

Age, Aging, careers, Children, General Philosophy, literature, Love, Martin Amis, memory, past, reflection

Martin Amis

“A very strange thing happens to you – a very good thing happens to you – in your early fifties. And I’m assuming that my case is typical, which is what novelists do; a poet can’t be typical about anything, but a novelist is an everyman (and an innocent and a literary being), and you assume that how you feel is how everyone feels.

And I’ll predict that in your fifties, something enormous will happen in your mind, and it’s like discovering another continent on the globe: and what happens is, you’re suddenly visited by the past.

And it’s there like a huge palace in your mind, and you can go visit all these different rooms and staircases and chambers. And it’s particularly the erotic, the amatory past – and if you have children, they’re somehow very strongly present in this palace of the past.

I say it to my sons – I don’t say it to my daughters – look, when you’re having an affair, make notes. Try to remember everything about it. Because this is what you’re going to need when you’re older. You’re going to need these rooms.

And they’re a huge resource as you continue to grow and age.”

__________

From Martin Amis’s interview with Edmundo Paz Soldan at the British Council’s Hay Festival in Xalapa in Veracruz, Mexico.

Although I’m not to the same stage of life as Amis, I think that this is the image, the framework for understanding memory that most accords with my own experience. I like the conception of memory as a physical system with its own reified, mapable dimensions that you can mentally inhabit and explore.

From another recent Amis interview for the LA Review of Books:

Did having children have a big effect on your writing?

MA: Oh yes. For one thing, I had this new cast of characters… Children are very comic.

I was quite broody for a while before they came. I’d got completely fed up with the single life. I wanted a new relationship between me and the world, and having children does change that. They’re the best thing, children. I felt from a very young age that these were the things on offer in life, and I wanted to have the life that involves bearing children. A negative example was Philip Larkin — no children, no marriage, no divorce, no war. My father was the opposite; he did it all…

It’s very nice to still have a 13 year old. It’s rejuvenating just looking at her. I find them fascinating. They’ll be gone soon. The empty nest — people have nervous breakdowns. I’ll be sad when they leave home…

As you get older, you don’t take any comfort in your achievements. What matters is how it went with women and how it went with children. That’s what becomes important.

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Can You Remember Where You Left Those Keys?

25 Monday Mar 2013

Posted by jrbenjamin in Literature

≈ 2 Comments

Tags

literature, Martin Amis, memory, Money: A Suicide Note, novel

Young Martin Amis“Memory’s a funny thing, isn’t it. You don’t agree? I don’t agree either. Memory has never amused me much, and I find its tricks more and more wearisome as I grow older. Perhaps memory simply stays the same but has less work to do as the days fill out. My memory’s in good shape, I think. It’s just that my life is getting less memorable all the time. Can you remember where you left those keys? Why should you? Lying in the tub some slow afternoon, can you remember if you’ve washed your toes? (Taking a leak is boring, isn’t it, after the first few thousand times? Whew, isn’t that a drag?) I can’t remember half the stuff I do any more. But then I don’t want to much.”

__________

A reflection from John Self, protagonist of Martin Amis’s hilarious riot-of-a-novel Money: A Suicide Note.

Read other excerpts from the book here:

Martin Amis

There’s Only One Way to Get Good at Fighting

New YorkIn L.A.

Thailand PlaneThat Head-on-Heart Stuff

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Identity Is Memory

19 Wednesday Dec 2012

Posted by jrbenjamin in Philosophy

≈ 10 Comments

Tags

Julian Barnes, Lawrence Durrell, memory, Nothing to Be Frightened Of

Julian Barnes“Memory is identity, I have believed this since — oh, since I can remember. You are what you have done; what you have done is in your memory; what you remember defines who you are; when you forget your life you cease to be, even before your death. I once spent many years failing to save a friend from a long alcoholic decline. I watched her, from close at hand, lose her short-term memory, and then her long-term, and with them most of everything in between. It was a terrifying example of what Lawrence Durrell in a poem called ‘the slow disgracing of the mind’: the mind’s fall from grace. And with that fall — the loss of specific and general memories being patched over by absurd feats of fabulation, as the mind reassured itself and her but no one else — there was a comparable fall for those who knew and loved her. We were trying to hold on to our memories of her — and thus, quite simply, to her — telling ourselves that ‘she’ was still there, clouded over but occasionally visible in sudden moments of truth and clarity. Protestingly, I would repeat, in an attempt to convince myself as much as those I was addressing, ‘She’s just the same underneath.’ Later I realized that I had always been fooling myself, and the ‘underneath’ was being — had been — destroyed at the same rate as the visible surface. She had gone, was off in a world that convinced only herself — except that, from her panic, it was clear that such conviction was only occasional. Identity is memory, I told myself; memory is identity.”

__________

From Nothing to Be Frightened Ofby Julian Barnes.

In looking back over the past twelve months, I’m certain that this is, for me, the book of 2012. I’ve read it several times since January, and every return to the text has — like a massive painting or multi-layered movie — brought forth something previously unseen. With each revisit to its pages, you learn something else and feel something new in Nothing to Be Frightened Of. As in the excerpt above, Barnes crafts sentences of the utmost elegance, which form paragraphs brimming with power and poignancy. But the book isn’t all serious. “I don’t believe in God, but I miss Him” is the opening sentence of the text, signaling a voice which is as intense as it is ironic, as playful as it is pokerfaced. In his New York Times review of Nothing to Be Frightened Of, Garrison Keillor called it, “a deep seismic tremor of a book,” and that’s what it is: a volume that thunders across your mind, leaving lingering ideas and a lasting impression for days after you put it down.

Read other excerpts from Barnes’s book here:

Because the Universe is Happening to YouJulian Barnes

Mere Human Love
Julian BarnesNothing to Be Frightened OfJulian Barnes

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