"Now the whole earth had one language and few words" when the line of cursed Canaan began to build the infamous tower, when the Lord thwarted their arrogance by acting to "confuse their language, that they may not understand one another's speech." (Gen 7) It is terrifying, these words, terrifying to think what power lies in language. In pure language, tainted by sin but as yet unbroken, there are "few words." One word holds a vast amount of reality, which is not yet dissected by syllogisms hypotheses logarithms &c. This makes sense, since God, who is perfect, has only One Word by which all things were created, and from which all things take their identity. The multiplicity of creation serves, each bit, to illuminate another aspect of the fullness of Reality, which is God.
Now, thousands of years after Babel, the perversion and reduction of language to babble if not drivel--in accursed "texting", and when language is bent and twisted to serve hideously warped philosophies, two facts are driven home to me:
The centuries-old wisdom of a Latin Liturgy, immune to the perversions and corruptions of time, common usage, colloquialism, ignorance. Yes, Latin is immune to ignorance, for those who do not want to bother with learning, which not all need do!, cannot cheapen the meaning of a Latin word through everyday usage or incomplete comprehension, as happens to the common vocabulary. How right and wise and foreseeing were these ages of the Church, and what a calamity has overtaken the modern Liturgy, which inevitably, inevitably I tell you, sinks to the lowest common denominator!*
Secondly, though, and not completely separately, is the occult dimension which seeks power over the material world by attempting to rediscover words of power--real, actual utterances of the mouth by and through which they can control physical and even human realities. Lewis knew of this aspect of language (and Tolkien, although he focuses on it to a much lesser extent)--they were, after all, first philologists and linguists, the both of them, and only secondarily writers. It runs through his stories, even Narnia:
"The Queen let go of [Digory's] hand and raised her arm. She drew herself up to her full height and stood rigid. Then she said something which they couldn't understand (but it sounded horrid) . . . and those high and heavy doors trembled for a second as if they were made of silk and crumbled away until their was nothing left of them."
and the "Deplorable Word", that "secret of secrets", by which Jadis (the White Witch) had destroyed her world. (The Magician's Nephew)
It makes the kernel of That Hideous Strength, where Lewis recreates the story of Babel in the modern scientific and academic worlds, where Merlin has returned to help overthrow the new evil and wants to "wake [nature]. I will set a sword in every blade of grass" and Ransom rebukes him:
"I forbid you to speak of it . . . whatever of spirit may still linger in the earth has withdrawn since your time. You shall not speak a word to it. You shall not lift your little finger to call it up. I command you. It is in this age utterly unlawful."
Oh man! I won't draw this out any longer. But ponder, in your own mindframe and your own time, what insights are here in these brief sentences. Power over creation; the idea that body and spirit are drifting further apart with each passing year day hour; things that were possible or permissible ages ago simply may not be so any longer, yet people seek it because perhaps of pride and desire for more power than humans should have (cf Revenge of the Sith and Anakin's fall), or maybe because they desire mystery, that sense of more-than-self that does not exist in the mind that does not know God.
*The "Latin Mass" community is NOT perfect, nor does it have all the answers, and I am frequently ashamed and appalled at the arrogance and judgementalism with which its adherents attempt to propagate and defend their position. It is inexcusable. I speak "merely" of the language itself, not in defense of the unChristian attitude of any individual who might agree.
Showing posts with label Lewis. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Lewis. Show all posts
22 June 2014
19 July 2013
post-modernism and the abstracted self
I got into a Walker Percy kick again recently, for the first time in a while. At one point, I read him voraciously, reveling in the irony, the dissipation, the odd redemptions, at times bitter, at times flat, at times (such as Lancelot which I cannot in good conscience recommend to anyone but is an incredible feat), breathtaking.
Feeling irritated with Love in the Ruins, which is the first Percy book I got my hands on and usually delights me, I picked up Lost in the Cosmos, which I love but which, at one point, hit too close to home in its discussion of transcendence and re-entry. At a slight distance, though, I am able to appreciate it greatly, and equally greatly regret that it slipped my mind when writing my master's thesis (so passé and, it may be argued superfluous, but I so badly wanted to write). It's a superb treatment of the post-modern man--or human, if you prefer--dilemma of the abstracted self. Put simply, the modern man has no point of reference by which to define himself, so he is left floating in a constant state of impermanence, unmoored to any solid referent outside of himself . Art and science, claims Percy, are the two ways by which a person transcends the problem of reality, but then s/he is left with the problem of re-entering the word "at Wednesday afternoon at 4 o'clock": How does one who has tasted transcendence deal with the most mundane and humdrum of this often tedious reality?
One thing that slowly dawned on me is that, while spot on with the idea of transcendence and reality and the difficulties of the artist (and, to a lesser extent, the art-lover/receiver), something about the 1983 view of science wasn't quite relevant any more. There is some truth to it, that the "laity" revere science: medicinal, environmental, technological, but there is an edge, a disillusionment, that we have that was still absent to the wondering world of the '70s and '80s. We question surgeries and vaccines; our scientifically-altered food is making us an increasingly ill society; we have seen the limits of and also the fear of advanced weapons technology; we have reached the second decade of the 21st century and still drive cars, by and large, that run on four wheels and gasoline. So I pondered: What has replaced science as our panacea, our new god, our layman-available escape?
Oh friends: it is entertainment. Instead of seeking the cure for the abstracted, "flying dutchman" self, we have sought to numb it continually through means of ever-increasing, ever-more-extreme pleasures.
We are zombies.
Abstracted zombies.
The problem hasn't changed. We, as a societal whole, still are floating around, unmoored, untethered . . . except now we don't care. We numb it: lots of prescription drugs, lots of other drugs, lots of media--oh, such an incredible amount of media! (like this blog: teehee!)--fake online "communities", yogis and gurus and meditation and marriages and non-marriages and "alternative marriages" and God knows what else.
but we don't care, as long as we can numb it, even for a moment.
One slightly spooky coincidence is how well Percy's description of the modern man jives (yes, I did, and no I won't take it back) with C. S. Lewis's depiction of hell in The Great Divorce: isolated individuals, petty squabbling, incessant bickering over nothings, and, above all, the tininess. We are a nation of pusillanimity: of small-souled beings. How much you love your dog or cat or save the whales or the ozone layer doesn't matter a'tall in the end. What matters is our relationship to other human beings. We are the human race. The problem is not saving the abused animals or the abused earth or the whatever. The problem is that we are doing it instead of caring for each other. Because "caring" for each other has come to mean "let me do whatever the hell I want or I will scream intolerance at you."
We will not save ourselves or each other or the dogs (after all, it is very, very wounded people who abuse animals and children) or the earth (ditto that: if I don't care about myself, why should I care two pins about the earth?) or the whatever. And we cannot fix ourselves or help anyone else until we find moorings. And, as Walker Percy, the first in a family of generational suicides not to kill himself (it was at least his father and grandfather, if not great-grandfather, as well, and I believe an uncle or two) well knew, the only way to survive this world, to find moorings, is to find God. After that, well, as Lewis says:
"A sum can be put right: but only by going back till you find the error and working it afresh from that point, never simply by going on. Evil can be undone, but it cannot 'develop' into good. Time does not heal it. The spell must be unwound, bit by bit, 'with backward mutters of dissevering power'--or else not. It is still 'either-or'. If we insist on keeping Hell (or even Earth) we shall not see Heaven: if we accept Heaven we shall not be able to retain even the smallest and most intimate souvenirs of Hell." (The Great Divorce, "Preface")
Feeling irritated with Love in the Ruins, which is the first Percy book I got my hands on and usually delights me, I picked up Lost in the Cosmos, which I love but which, at one point, hit too close to home in its discussion of transcendence and re-entry. At a slight distance, though, I am able to appreciate it greatly, and equally greatly regret that it slipped my mind when writing my master's thesis (so passé and, it may be argued superfluous, but I so badly wanted to write). It's a superb treatment of the post-modern man--or human, if you prefer--dilemma of the abstracted self. Put simply, the modern man has no point of reference by which to define himself, so he is left floating in a constant state of impermanence, unmoored to any solid referent outside of himself . Art and science, claims Percy, are the two ways by which a person transcends the problem of reality, but then s/he is left with the problem of re-entering the word "at Wednesday afternoon at 4 o'clock": How does one who has tasted transcendence deal with the most mundane and humdrum of this often tedious reality?
One thing that slowly dawned on me is that, while spot on with the idea of transcendence and reality and the difficulties of the artist (and, to a lesser extent, the art-lover/receiver), something about the 1983 view of science wasn't quite relevant any more. There is some truth to it, that the "laity" revere science: medicinal, environmental, technological, but there is an edge, a disillusionment, that we have that was still absent to the wondering world of the '70s and '80s. We question surgeries and vaccines; our scientifically-altered food is making us an increasingly ill society; we have seen the limits of and also the fear of advanced weapons technology; we have reached the second decade of the 21st century and still drive cars, by and large, that run on four wheels and gasoline. So I pondered: What has replaced science as our panacea, our new god, our layman-available escape?
Oh friends: it is entertainment. Instead of seeking the cure for the abstracted, "flying dutchman" self, we have sought to numb it continually through means of ever-increasing, ever-more-extreme pleasures.
We are zombies.
Abstracted zombies.
The problem hasn't changed. We, as a societal whole, still are floating around, unmoored, untethered . . . except now we don't care. We numb it: lots of prescription drugs, lots of other drugs, lots of media--oh, such an incredible amount of media! (like this blog: teehee!)--fake online "communities", yogis and gurus and meditation and marriages and non-marriages and "alternative marriages" and God knows what else.
but we don't care, as long as we can numb it, even for a moment.
One slightly spooky coincidence is how well Percy's description of the modern man jives (yes, I did, and no I won't take it back) with C. S. Lewis's depiction of hell in The Great Divorce: isolated individuals, petty squabbling, incessant bickering over nothings, and, above all, the tininess. We are a nation of pusillanimity: of small-souled beings. How much you love your dog or cat or save the whales or the ozone layer doesn't matter a'tall in the end. What matters is our relationship to other human beings. We are the human race. The problem is not saving the abused animals or the abused earth or the whatever. The problem is that we are doing it instead of caring for each other. Because "caring" for each other has come to mean "let me do whatever the hell I want or I will scream intolerance at you."
We will not save ourselves or each other or the dogs (after all, it is very, very wounded people who abuse animals and children) or the earth (ditto that: if I don't care about myself, why should I care two pins about the earth?) or the whatever. And we cannot fix ourselves or help anyone else until we find moorings. And, as Walker Percy, the first in a family of generational suicides not to kill himself (it was at least his father and grandfather, if not great-grandfather, as well, and I believe an uncle or two) well knew, the only way to survive this world, to find moorings, is to find God. After that, well, as Lewis says:
"A sum can be put right: but only by going back till you find the error and working it afresh from that point, never simply by going on. Evil can be undone, but it cannot 'develop' into good. Time does not heal it. The spell must be unwound, bit by bit, 'with backward mutters of dissevering power'--or else not. It is still 'either-or'. If we insist on keeping Hell (or even Earth) we shall not see Heaven: if we accept Heaven we shall not be able to retain even the smallest and most intimate souvenirs of Hell." (The Great Divorce, "Preface")
24 February 2011
Chasing the Thrill & Snatching at Joy
"People get from books the idea that if you have married the right person you may expect to go on 'being in love' for ever . . . In this department of life, as in every other, thrills come at the beginning and do not last. The sort of thrill that a boy has at the first idea of flying will not go on when he has joined the R.A.F. and is really learning to fly. The thrill you feel on seeing some delightful place dies away when you really go to live there. Does this mean it would be better not to learn to fly and not to live in the beautiful place? By no means. In both cases, if you go through with it, the dying away of the first thrill will be compensated for by a quieter and more lasting kind of interest. What is more (and I can hardly find words to tell you how important I think this), it is just the people who are ready to submit to the loss of the thrill and settle down to sober interest, who are then most likely to meet new thrills in some quite different direction."
C. S. Lewis, Mere Christianity
I don't have it handy, but in Gaudy Night, Dorothy Sayers has a variation on this theme: It is the people who snatch at things, especially love, who, in actuality, do not know what they want and will never attain happiness, let alone love or joy. I read this passage in Lewis and have not been able to shake it from my mind, constantly turning over people I know, some who are so very dear to me, who are unable or at least unwilling to submit to the loss of the initial thrill and so flit from one thing to another, trying to maintain that level of living that is impossible and unfulfilling, both. I have been thinking of it in my own life, too, of the loss of that sort of intense, blinding, world-shattering love and accepting a much quieter, more peaceful sort of love. At times I nearly despised myself for it, thinking I was "settling" or "giving in," but it is neither of those things. Huge conflagrations die out--sometimes immediately, sometimes after burning for days or even weeks. They take too much to maintain. They are too big for themselves. And, more often than not, they are destructive. It is the hearth fire that can burn for years, that provides heat and warmth without consuming everything in its vicinity, that can be maintained and used and enjoyed in the actual living of life. It is the hearth fire, too, that gives the sort of light that one needs to enjoy and explore the new "thrills." When faced with the forest fire, one has no capacity for looking at other things--the fire dominates.
Applied to pleasure in general: Consider for a moment the sorts of things that modern media encourages. It is all about finding the "thrill," about moving from one experience to another, without cohesion or understanding or even necessarily enjoyment--anything to keep from growing bored, to keep from seeing emptiness. For snatching at thrills, whether in art, love, food, music, or anything else, is in fact nothing more than the desperate attempt to hide one's one emptiness, futility and despair.
C. S. Lewis, Mere Christianity
I don't have it handy, but in Gaudy Night, Dorothy Sayers has a variation on this theme: It is the people who snatch at things, especially love, who, in actuality, do not know what they want and will never attain happiness, let alone love or joy. I read this passage in Lewis and have not been able to shake it from my mind, constantly turning over people I know, some who are so very dear to me, who are unable or at least unwilling to submit to the loss of the initial thrill and so flit from one thing to another, trying to maintain that level of living that is impossible and unfulfilling, both. I have been thinking of it in my own life, too, of the loss of that sort of intense, blinding, world-shattering love and accepting a much quieter, more peaceful sort of love. At times I nearly despised myself for it, thinking I was "settling" or "giving in," but it is neither of those things. Huge conflagrations die out--sometimes immediately, sometimes after burning for days or even weeks. They take too much to maintain. They are too big for themselves. And, more often than not, they are destructive. It is the hearth fire that can burn for years, that provides heat and warmth without consuming everything in its vicinity, that can be maintained and used and enjoyed in the actual living of life. It is the hearth fire, too, that gives the sort of light that one needs to enjoy and explore the new "thrills." When faced with the forest fire, one has no capacity for looking at other things--the fire dominates.
Applied to pleasure in general: Consider for a moment the sorts of things that modern media encourages. It is all about finding the "thrill," about moving from one experience to another, without cohesion or understanding or even necessarily enjoyment--anything to keep from growing bored, to keep from seeing emptiness. For snatching at thrills, whether in art, love, food, music, or anything else, is in fact nothing more than the desperate attempt to hide one's one emptiness, futility and despair.
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