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A New and Ancient Ethic |
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 Posted Saturday, November 3, 2007 @ 00:40 AM
Christ Episcopal Church sends out an “almost monthly newsletter” called Clarion. Sometimes it has inspirational tidbits, though generally its purpose is simply to keep parishioners up to date on the various goings-on of the parish. This latest issue features an adaptation from a keynote address from Dr. Alan Wolfelt of the Center for Loss and Life Transition in Fort Collins, Colorado. Specifically, Dr. Wolfelt makes a distinction between a “companioning versus treating” medical healthcare model, though Clarion (in full keeping of the spirit of Dr. Wolfelt’s words) has substituted the somewhat more familiar term “caregiving” for “companioning.” It reminds me of the saying that a Christian psychologist once shared with me that true counseling is not about seeing through people but about seeing people through (among other places, the original address can be found in its entirety at the WSFDA site):
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bonnie
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Posted Saturday, November 3, 2007 @ 11:56 AM
The loving suggestions regarding “seeing people through” are yogic, as well! May a confessional Lutheran yogini wish a belated happy Reformation Day to an Episcopalian taoist? The art history teacher in me recommends pondering the rich symbolism in Hans Holbein the Younger’s The Ambassadors. Vanitas, complete with an anamorphic skull and a peeking-out-of-the-rich-curtains crucifix, balances the pride of these fine, Renaissance gentlemen from the Age of Discovery. I’ve been away from computers, visiting one of my older children, and I see that I’ve missed much here. The anticipation of catching up of with your writings and the comments of your readers is something I look forward to with great anticipation! |
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sara
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Posted Saturday, November 3, 2007 @ 04:01 PM
Eric, many of those caregiving ideas remind me of something Evelyn Underhill wrote….”the final test of holiness is not seeming very different from other people, but being used to make other people very different.” Bonnie, your artistic and musical references are adding class and and a touch of gentility to our Forum discourses. I’ve noticed that my posture improves noticeably when I read them.  |
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bonnie
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Posted Saturday, November 3, 2007 @ 05:03 PM
Reading my musings makes you sit up straight, Sara? Tell me I get you to eat your vegetables and I shall try to adopt you. |
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bonnie
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Posted Sunday, November 4, 2007 @ 11:17 AM
Also, your quotation from Evelyn Underhill is beautiful, Sara, though I am glad that I don’t have to take a holiness test just now. |
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sara
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Posted Sunday, November 4, 2007 @ 12:41 PM
Frankly, Bonnie, I don’t think there is any “final test.” However, we should be prepared to take a large number of “pop quizzes”. I examined Holbein’s The Ambassadors and my brain almost exploded when I discovered what I was intended to see, but hadn’t. Without guidance, I would have looked at the picture and said, “Hmmm. That guy on the right looks a little like Luciano Pavarotti. And the guy on the left. Rather good-looking. But, what a coat! Talk about puffy sleeves! Did they stuff those sleeves? And the red shirt. That must symbolize something. Does it button in the back? I guess he needed help to put it on. Curious material. Silk? Looks almost slick. Gee whiz, he must have sweat a lot in that coat.” Yes, dear Bonnie, I am a philistine. However, I am little less of one, now that you have joined the Forum. BTW, my husband says we actually may own a copy of the 1952 edition of Tristan and Isolde which you referred to in another discussion, but it is stored away because it is in record format and we no longer own a stereo! My husband is quite interested in music, although mostly Bach and weepy Italian operas. Anyway, I shall definitely go to the library and find T&I in CD form and listen for that chord. What fun! I’ve imagined what it must sound like, and am curious to discover how similar it will be to the slow and languishing chord I’ve created in my head (which sounds a lot like a wistful groan) |
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Posted Sunday, November 4, 2007 @ 01:45 PM
I was reminded of the Tao te Ching today and dug it out to find this particular passage numbered 17 in older translations or 61 in the (recommended) version translated by Victor H. Mair: Quote: 61 (17) Preeminent is one whose subjects barely know he exists; The next is one to whom they feel close and praise; The next is one whom they fear; The lowest is one whom they despise. When the ruler’s trust is wanting, there will be no trust in him. Cautious, he values his words. When his work is completed and his affairs finished, the common people say, “We are like this by ourselves.” The Tao te Ching is of course a handbook for rulers, and the idea here is quite clear: the very best rulers put into practice a mentality like the one above. Specifically, the following passage is even clearer: Quote: 66 (24) Who is puffed up cannot stand, Who is self-absorbed has no distinction, Who is self-revealing does not shine, Who is self-assertive has no merit, Who is self-praising does not last long. As for the Way, we may say these are “excess provisions and extra baggage.” Creation abhors such extravagances. Therefore, One who aspires to the Way, does not abide in them. Putting the two together, the best rulers are effectively invisible, and to the degree that they gain notice and recognition for themselves, the people “feel close and praise” them. While such leaders have a clear, unclouded vision in mind, they remain unobtrusive, staying out of the way of other people to such a degree that their subjects believe that the “natural” harmony that results is merely innate: “We are like this by ourselves.” This reminds me very much of the Evelyn Underhill quotation that I too found very thought-provoking, except that holiness is not so much the clear vision of the saint as the clear vision of the spirit alive and at work within the saint: there is a sense where the saint is used in spite of himself, a concept not necessarily as evident in the teachings of the Tao. Even here, though, the Chinese sage would see such effective leadership as an embodiment of the Dao, or Way: a sort of channeling, if you like, just as the banks of a river direct—channel—the stream or as the wire channels the current. I find it interesting to note that river banks and wire are both necessary to give shape and direction to the flow, even though their energy is not their own—there seems to be the necessity of some type of incarnation. And in the case of the river, it is often even called a channel. I think now of the empty spaces we spoke about some time ago in Circles in a World of Squares: the hollow spaces contain nothing, yet that is their value: the space inside the cup is what is valuable, even though the cup must nevertheless be bounded in order to contain the empty space. Still, if the cup is self-possessed, it is misguided: that is, while it must be what it is to provide a container for its contents, nevertheless its content—that which is not its own that it merely embodies for a time—is why we value the cup. If one is going to be the kind of leader that is invisible, one is going to have to have humility and abandon notions of self-praising. Humility is the absence of pride, but pride (in the “puffed-up” sense) is a certain sign of the presence of insecurity and lack in general. There is real strength in humility, for humility is what it is, whereas pride pretends to be what it is not and thus cannot stand, for it has no legs. In this sense, pride does not exist: it is a “non”-thing: the absence of the quality of humility. “Creation abhors such extravagances,” another way of saying that “creation abhors a vacuum,” for that is precisely what such “extravagances” are: vacuity. Obviously the caregiving ethic in the first post is not exactly the same as these ideas, but it operates on similar principles. Likely the ethical base is the same (or nearly so), though it is directed toward different ends. And one thing that that Tao te Ching does not seem to allow for so much that the caregiving ethic does is the acceptance of ambiguity. Certainly Taoism offers the means to flow to such contours (and if all goes well, “flow” will in part be the topic of this week’s newsletter), but again, there is a difference in emphasis. The greatest connection between the two, however—and the reason such areas share an intersection with so many other sages, teachers, and philosophies—is because they are all concerned with virtue, something we may presume is cut from the same fabric no matter around which diverse bodies it may be draped or in what varieties of ways. That is the nature of truth: it is of one essence, even as it appears in many diverse forms. The reason is simple: we as human beings have more in common than we do apart the world over and those who seek the good, the true, and the beautiful are capable of meeting in the center, a place remarkably homogeneous, particularly when compared to the fringes. As George MacDonald suggests, everything in the universe keeps pushing upward and inward toward the center, a fact brought out in sharp relief by those who invest their time and energies into perfecting themselves—and maybe more to the point of the original post, who not only perfect themselves but extend that hand of fellowship, benevolence, and most especially love to their fellow creatures, being rivers and cups overflowing their banks, unable to contain that which they embody. It is a difficult way at times, as it seems like there are many obstacles that stand in our path—not least of which our own frailty and lack of discipline—yet when one can surrender in humility and get out of the way—when one reaches true invisibility—one can effect great change in the world for good. |
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cferraro
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Posted Monday, November 5, 2007 @ 03:09 PM
Yet again am I taught these things by trial and error. I wonder truly if I can learn to be less self-absorbed, less talkative, more of a listener, and not just to find a solution. I guess that in the last two years, I have begun (near the beginning) to learn what it is to listen. And I have always believed myself to be an excellent listener since I can repeat almost verbatim what people have said, movies after seeing them once, books (not the whole thing, I’m nothing spectacular or anything :), but the point is, I can remember almost everything that is said during a conversation, and my wife would say, “you are not hearing me”. It was so offensive for her to say that, but as I said, it has been in the last two years that I have found out that I am in fact a horrible listener. I would always listen, hear the “facts” and then present a solution, and would always leave her feeling inadequate, angry, and “unheard”. The point of listening, as this states, and as I am finding out to be true, is not to “answer a question”. I’m not her teacher with a textbook in my hand since she does not come with a manual, nor do any of us. The point of listening is to listen…that’s it. It is to listen and to help the person speaking clarify how they are feeling. Then after that, to be quiet and to think about what that person said. Wow, what an amazing difference to me. --------------------
Expectation is the Hindrance of Learning |
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Posted Saturday, November 17, 2007 @ 01:43 AM
American psychologist, author, and media personality Dr. Joyce Brothers has observed that “Listening, not imitation, may be the highest form of flattery.” Of course what she has in mind is “active listening,” as it is often called: there is, as you suggests, a difference between merely hearing and being actively engaged in what is being said. I came across a site that offers some practical advice on active listening: see here. Or, as another article entitled Active Listening: Hear What People are Really Saying indicates: Quote: It is obvious to say that if you have poor interpersonal communications skills (which include active listening), your productivity will suffer simply because you do not have the tools needed to influence, persuade and negotiate – all necessary for workplace success. Lines of communications must be open between people who rely on one another to get work done. ….. People speak at 100 to 175 words per minute (WPM), but they can listen intelligently at up to 300 words per minute. Since only a part of our mind is paying attention, it is easy to go into mind drift - thinking about other things while listening to someone. The cure for this is active listening - which involves listening with a purpose. It may be to gain information, obtain directions, understand others, solve problems, share interest, see how another person feels, show support, etc. Also, as a sidebar, on another thread, we were talking about the siren’s songs and how Odysseus had to be tied to the mast and have wax thrust down his ears to avoid their deathly seduction: not only does the heading of this blog portray that scene complete with sirens, it also mentions something I find very interesting: We Change Our Minds Less Often Than We Think. Do you know the painting and artist, Bonnie? The faces of the sirens all remind me a lot of a particular artist, but offhand I do not know who. |
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Painter1013
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Posted Saturday, November 17, 2007 @ 11:29 AM
Care giving: it is so odd this is the first article I stumbled upon after last night. If you want see “What does God think of you or me?” I guess I have been evasive so to speak thinking if I sympathize too much with someone’s pain it will transfer to me. I also find the communication article very helpful. |
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Posted Saturday, November 17, 2007 @ 05:17 PM
I have answered my own question. First, I am very familiar with John William Waterhouse’s 1895 St. Cecilia, having first seen it long ago in the article from the Catholic Educator’s Resource Center where I also first learned of the now very familiar concept of “the music of the spheres”: see Is Music Sacred? I also have Waterhouse’s 1896 Hylas and the Nymphs saved on my computer among my assorted collection of art. If you look at that painting, you’ll notice that the faces of all the nymphs are remarkably similar. Then, if you compare that to “St. Cecilia” and his 1891 painting Ulysses and the Sirens, you’ll see why the latter looked so familiar. Apparently all of Waterhouse’s women look similar. (Incidentally, “Ulysses” was the Roman name for “Odysseus,” the hero from Homer’s Odyssey: with Greek mythology, you generally have two names for each hero, one the original Greek name and the other one Roman, as the Romans took over Greek mythology pretty much wholesale, except for Latinizing the names. I happen to have a preference for the original Greek, but that’s just me.) |
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bonnie
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Posted Sunday, November 18, 2007 @ 07:18 PM
My little platoon prefers the Greek myths over the Roman adoptions, too, Eric. We especially love the D’Aulaires’ illustrations. My new grandson was given the middle name, Kullervo, from the Finnish myth, Kalevala; He will require a keen sense of humility and humor. This epic poem is credited for bringing Christianity to Finland, by the way. The women who embodied beauty to the Pre-Raphaelites had a certain look: Pale skin, statuesque figure, and long, thick hair. To me, they look a tad masculine. Jane Burden (Mrs. William Morris), Elizabeth Siddal, Fanny Cornforth, Marie Spartali Stillman, and Alexa Wilding were considered the epitome of beauty in the late 19th century. Waterhouse was the most classical of this group of romantic artists. His models remain a mystery, though some think they were “based” on his sister and wife. His models resemble the women in all of the paintings of his fellow Brotherhood artists. I am enjoying the threads here immensely! |
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bonnie
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Posted Sunday, November 18, 2007 @ 07:49 PM
Dear me, I almost forgot that the wonderful poetess, Christina Rossetti, was a model for her brother, Pre-Raphaelite, Dante Gabriel Rossetti! She appears in The Girlhood of Mary Virgin and The Annunciation. D. G. also illustrated her finest poem, The Goblin Market. 30 years later, Laurence Housman, took a different, but equally brilliant turn. Who Shall Deliver Me? ~Christina Rossetti (1876) God strengthen me to bear myself; That heaviest weight of all to bear, Inalienable weight of care. All others are outside myself; I lock my door and bar them out The turmoil, tedium, gad-about. I lock my door upon myself, And bar them out; but who shall wall Self from myself, most loathed of all? If I could once lay down myself, And start self-purged upon the race That all must run! Death runs apace. If I could set aside myself, And start with lightened heart upon The road by all men overgone! God harden me against myself, This coward with pathetic voice Who craves for ease and rest and joys. Myself, arch-traitor to myself; My hollowest friend, my deadliest foe, My clog whatever road I go. Yet One there is can curb myself, Can roll the strangling load from me Break off the yoke and set me free. God’s Peace, Bonnie |
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Posted Sunday, November 18, 2007 @ 08:53 PM
It interests me to learn about the Pre-Raphaelites. My art history is relatively lacking, at least in terms of classical Western art. (I actually know a fair bit about African and Asian art, which obviously has a totally different aesthetic, but one I find beautiful. I have been quite pleased with myself in my ability to enter an art museum and at least recognize—even if can’t always name—the artifacts from the various African tribes, which tend to be very distinctive from each other and in general much more stylized than classical Western painting.) However, when you mentioned Rossetti, I immediately recognized the name.  I don’t really think of myself as being the great literary aficionado, though I certainly know a lot more about literature than even African and Asian art, but I don’t think I give myself enough credit sometimes. Just this afternoon I was reading a reactionary accounting of American literature that suggested that contemporary authors like Toni Morrison were not American literature. It went on to discuss that the problem with modern literature is that it denies the problem of evil within and that we need to get back to literature that is more friendly to American values like the bible. Now I do not deny that a lot of contemporary authors are a different breed and in some ways their work at times does seem somewhat anemic—I haven’t yet been able to put my finger on why—nor do I deny the role of the bible as having tremendous influence on Western literature. I do not believe that contemporary authors avoid the problem of evil within: they write about life, and one cannot write about life without writing about struggling against our own baser tendencies. It may not look quite the same as it once did, but no matter its form, it is not being denied. To my mind, literature has lots of room for lots of voices and these kinds of articles would amuse me if they didn’t irritate me so much. And by lots and lots of voices, I guess I am thinking of a whole lot more than the whole PC notion of tolerance and diversity as important as I consider those things to be: I am thinking of the many diverse and beautiful cultures of the world and the rich treasures that emerge from them. In other words, I am thinking not as an American feeling pleased for promoting such a progressive view, but rather as the grateful recipient of some truly outstanding treasures from around the world that help me to lead the truly good life, the life that is good because it is good, a life that is filled with insight and understanding and helps me to become far more than I am. I mean, sitting down some of the philosophical, spiritual, and literary texts from around the world can literally be mind-expanding—and not just mind-expanding, but character-expanding, person-expanding, soul-expanding. All that to say, I guess I’m just going to have to face the fact that I have formulated some pretty strong notions of literature, and, while I tended to emphasize the philosophical side of my education, I’ve actually had about twice as many classes in “letters”: in fact, literature has framed my entire academic career thus far, though it is strange I do not really think of myself as being “literary” even now. I guess it is because, no matter how one slices it, I tend to think of myself as a thinker and a pragmatist first who appreciates the arts because of their ability to draw out the finest in us, but who has little use for the sort of connoisseur whose views of art seem motivated primarily by the power to command the applause of the select few. There is art and then there is art: that I do not deny. But one’s attitude has much to do with whether or not that fact will cause one to truly become more than he is or whether it will be an excuse to indulge in narcissism, distancing oneself from others rather than engaging in the pursuit to become even more fully human in the best, most robust sense of the term. |
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bonnie
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Posted Sunday, November 18, 2007 @ 10:49 PM
Eric~ Your insightful comment brings to mind three things: 1) Great art enhances lives, indeed! The world’s most beloved painting is Velazquez’ “Las Meninas.” What a story it tells of the true nature of royalty, children (some privileged, some hard-working and some handicapped) artists, and even animals! It turns art snobbery on its ear. As it turns out, we are all invited into the portraiture, a veritable tour de force of mirrors and social arrangements. Michel Foucault interpreted “the working painter in all his objective realism” as being part of a shift of what was acceptable in history’s discourse on art. (The Order of Things) 2) My 14 year old daughter is working on a paper to prove that fiction is always more true than nonfiction. It is fun to ponder this! |
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bonnie
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Posted Sunday, November 18, 2007 @ 10:51 PM
3) “Museum” is a fun new book about the people who work behind the scenes at the Metropolitan Art Museum in NYC. |
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Posted Sunday, November 18, 2007 @ 11:13 PM
Not surprisingly, most of what I have read of Foucalt dealt with power and ethical models similar to modern care ethics that reached mainstream acceptance via feminist channels. On that note, my recent scholarship on Confucianism suggests that Foucalt and others have been casting their eye on Confucius because of the holism that fuses “good form” with the more traditional notion of virtue: a virtuous life is not only morally good, but also aesthetic: good form is the outer expression of inner virtue. Foucalt is interesting, as are many of the Continental school (though truthfully I would soon starve if that was the only diet I had to feast upon). And I find it interesting that a lot of Western paradigms are being overturned in light of what the East has classically taught for centuries. What is truly ironic is that China—the country from which Confucius hails—has been increasingly dismissing the old traditions Foucalt and other ultra-contemporary scholars are considering in favor of a consumerist-capitalist model of commerce. It manifests in other ways as well: Time had a recent write-up that referred to the current youth in China as the ”Me” Generation. On your second point, while I do not know if I could myself favor fiction or nonfiction one over the other—each has its place—nevertheless, I would certainly agree that a narrative-based format has a level of power in and of the fact that it embeds/embodies far more than just information. That same argument could be made for art in general: art of all types embodies a level of human transmission that goes beyond a merely abstracted transfer of information. I can achieve “critical distance,” as it is sometimes called, through a lot of academic writing, say, in sociology or anthropology. But in a well-written short story or novel, I can not only learn the same information, but to greater or lesser degree actually experience the culture for myself. Having thus vicariously “lived” there, “meeting” all the many people involved, I can achieve a level of understanding and empathy not always possible through more abstracted means. The same concept is especially obvious in theater and dance as well and music in its own way as well. For painting and the graphic arts, however, they do not always explain themselves. Much can be transmitted, but the role of the critic can also be important as well. I likened this some time ago to sophia and logos: or, to borrow from kindergarten, “show and tell.” As I have told my students in past classes, a picture in a newspaper is accompanied by a caption because it requires both to tell the full story. |
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bonnie
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Posted Tuesday, November 20, 2007 @ 08:11 PM
I should have mentioned that MUSEUM is by Danny Danziger and that my daughter got her idea from the questions of Schoolmaster Thomas Gradgrind in Dickens’ HARD TIMES. I must confess that I do not understand Foucault one bit. Speaking of nonfiction, Dorling Kindersley is a publisher of the most wonderful books for children. I love how my young scholars are unafraid to jump into a work of art and observe every detail with open hearts and minds. Our homeschool center has a classical emphasis, so many of the students begin Art History knowing much about Bible history and Greek and Roman history. Children seem to naturally relish symbolism, which makes teaching a blast. |
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Posted Wednesday, November 21, 2007 @ 00:16 AM
It is interesting that your daughter got her ideas from a character in a novel: one fictitious Thomas Gradgrind. In my case, I often read non-fiction but have been inundated with fiction this semester and have marveled at the contrast. I think it has been good for me, truthfully: I think it’s made me just a little more human. It has been said that without a background in the bible—perhaps even more so than a background in Greek and Roman history—one cannot really understand classic literature. I think there is a lot of truth to that: undoubtedly given that a number of classical Western paintings take as their theme Greek myths, classic literature, and biblical themes, I can imagine that the young scholars in your homeschool center would positively thrive. There is much to be said for that, and I find it interesting that the Ivy League universities still favor the classics much more so than state and other mainstream universities. It is not that in state or mainstream universities one cannot get an education in the classics, but one either has to intentionally seek out those courses or just have a natural inclination in that direction. Which to some degree leads me to Foucalt and what is required to fully understand him. Just as your young scholars are heads and shoulders above many of their public school peers in being thoroughly versed in Greek and Roman history and myths as well as the biblical narrative and classic literature in general, so too the person who has read and thoroughly assimilated Freud, Kant, Hegel, Marx, and feminist criticisms is head and shoulders above others in understanding Michel Foucalt. (Of course Foucalt is also versed in other texts as well, ranging from Plato, Aristotle, and other classic philosophers to contemporary heavyweights like Wittgenstein, Heidegger, and to lesser degree Arendt, and also many of the classic texts from around the world as well.) The bottom line is that Freud and Marx are the two most obvious sources in Foucalt’s approach to the world: that is, (in part) he sees the world in terms of psychoanalysis on the one hand and conflicting struggles for power on the other. The continental thinkers in general—of which Foucalt is a part—lean heavily on a post-Freudian, post-Marxian understanding of the world, seeing the forces that be in a state of constant flux. Put differently, they interpret the world as forces jockeying for power, and in this dynamic interplay, power “oscillates”: that is, in order to keep power, a force (say, a government, ruler, or political group) has to grant other groups a temporary transfer of power. Rather than trying to quell opposing forces, I might to some degree encourage them in an underhanded, Machiavellian sense. This approach is related to the beliefs that (1) in order to have strong national ties, we need to have a common enemy (or enemies) and (2) we should keep our friends close and our enemies closer. Bear with me: let me explain. Within the borders of our nation exists a few extremists who are strongly opposed to the government. Let’s say that I am the government. And let’s say that I stage a public execution. On the classic accounting, this execution is designed to show that I am the boss and to deter people from crime. But it serves a second, hidden purpose: I want to flush out of hiding those extremists. Each display of power on my part raises their ire and soon enough, they try to wreck havoc. During the time that they openly rebel, they do cause havoc: they have real power and there is a risk that I might lose my rulership if their power is too strong. But if I can quickly quell the uprising, I have accomplished two things: I have flushed out my political enemies, and I have given the remaining public a common enemy. Power oscillates. And it must, if it is to remain dynamic. From this reading, politicians are cast in a much shadier light, and a much different understand of things like the Oklahoma City bombings begins to emerge. My point is that when the “unibombers” of the country come unhinged, they temporarily hold some of the power. When I, the governing authority, take back this power, I have rid myself of one less threat to my leadership, and I have given the public someone to rally against, turning their eyes away from me and the things I do. Power has oscillated, and I remain solidly “seated on my throne” because of it. To understand Foucalt and these thinkers is in part to give up a level of innocence. There is a very real sense of Machiavelli at play here: the original reaction to The Prince was met with on the one hand those who believed it was the inerrant scripture of the devil himself, and on the other, those who believed that he, being so close to the court, was merely blowing the top off what already existed, exposing the diabolical nature of politics for what it was/is. Foucalt and others can be seen in that light as well: their ideas do not seem very noble at times, yet they may very well be seeing the upper echelons of power for exactly who and what they are. Would you believe that I learned this part of my knowledge of Foucalt from my class on Shakespeare? I already had a fair handle on his ideas before from my own reading, but this helped focus the idea of the “oscillation of power” much more clearly for me. It really isn’t surprising that I would learn such things in a class on Shakespeare: contemporary literary criticism isn’t what it used to be. Just as you encountered Foucalt in what I presume was a book on art, it is no surprise that the post-structuralist thinkers would emerge in the other disciplines as well. In fact, the arts remain on the cutting edge, at times even getting ahead of the critics and philosophers. It has often been noted that what we call postmodernism started in large degree as a school of architecture (though I am inclined to argue—postmodernism is part of the undercurrent that just happened to be given a label by architectural design). Anyway, there is a sense in which each text builds on the texts before it: thus, as one example, Marx’s view owes a debt to Hegel in adopting the latter’s view of thesis, antithesis, and synthesis and applying that to the unfolding of history. The same concept that applies to texts building on texts might be said for technology as well: we literally do stand on the shoulders of giants: no one human being could achieve what has been achieved technologically, but after thousands of years on this planet, the repository of knowledge is growing exponentially. It is really quite sobering to contemplate. |
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Posted Wednesday, November 21, 2007 @ 01:44 AM
I just thought about the Tao te Ching post. Some difference in perspective: Quote: Preeminent is [the ruler] whose subjects barely know he exists; The next is one to whom they feel close and praise; The next is one whom they fear; The lowest is one whom they despise. When the ruler’s trust is wanting, there will be no trust in him. But then again, the Machiavellian ruler seems virtuous, though of course he is anything but: he’s a “player.” |
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