Pursuit of Meaning in Life

Partly in response to Judah Leon Abravanel (c. 1465 – c. 1523) and his work Dialogues of Love (Dialoghi d'amore), Daniel Boyarin writes: 

“Rabbinic Judaism invested significance in the body which in the other formations [Christian and Jewish] was invested in the soul. That is, for rabbinic Jews, the human being was defined as a body – animated, to be sure, by a soul – while for Hellenistic Jews (such as Philo) and (at least many Greek-speaking) Christians (such as Paul) these essence of human being is a soul housed in a body” (Boyarin, 1993, 5).  

This difference, to me, is the essence of how we look at existence as a whole, and what kind of world view we shape and shapes us. Sadly, I don't think that we even have a "world view" (Weltanschaung) today. Thanks to Twitter, Facebook and other social media, life has devolved into a hodge podge of catch phrases that oscillate from one extreme to the other. 

Thanks to the fact that we have politicized everything relating to human existence, we have lost the sights and sounds of the metaphysics.  How can we expect to enter into a deeper meaning of life, if we are constantly living according to what Twitter feed feeds us?  It may be feeding us but it's certainly not nourishing us.

To be sure, social media has its place.  It can be used for sharing information, sometimes even knowledge, and you may even have occasionally a good conversation with others.  But to expect an existential answer is to expect an improbability. 

Some don't even have enough awareness to know that they are living half-lives, zombies going from one click to the next.  For those, I don't know what to say: maybe you're just a zombie troll and there is no hope for you.  An optimist in me tends to refuse that option.

Writers, pundits, critics - all say that to speak like this is to be nostalgic about the past because we are idealizing it.  Not at all.  I am merely looking at the facts.  Statistically, and how people choose to reveal themselves on the social media, tells us that they do not know the difference between sacred and profane, soul and body, body and mind.  I would even settle for some mind/body dualism in a conversation if people knew that such question even exists.

Digitization and politicization of everything, which should not be digitized and politicized, has made this world into a place that lacks joy and wonder.  Lacking such vision means that we are incapable of seeing the other person face to face, and that incapability leads to a lack of insight.  If there is no insight, there is no discernment, and if there is no discernment, then there is no action.

That is why, despite the illusion that everything is moving so fast, it's not moving at all.  We are just holograms of our potential selves, displaying the stilted animation of our bodies without minds, and certainly without souls. 

This is why, as a society, we have such strange view of sex as well.  It has nothing to do with eros.  It is, I would posit, even worse than anything Victorians imagined because sexual experience (whether excessive, hedonistic, or loving) is found in a non-erotic static.  Today's sex is a white padded cell - a sterile room of one's own in which the other is not recognized at all.  

We are left with loud voices that are not connected to bodies, with meaningless chatter masquerading as profound expressions, with crassness masquerading as intellectual prowess.  It takes courage to be still and to embrace the silence.  

If being free means anything to us, then we will make the first step on the path to the Unknown because the Unknown is more known to us than we might assume.  But we have to be prepared to let go of any expectations and attachments that have politicized and digitized our existence.  Otherwise, we will remain in an illusion, a pretense of real life, and not only will we not know the deeper meaning of our existence but also we will have no idea what politics really is or how digital world can truly be used.   
 

Anti-intellectualism, provincialism, and cosmopolitanism…what is “the soul of America?”

{This is a way of introducing a topic of cosmopolitanism into the public discourse. I will be exploring this in a series on cosmopolitanism, bringing into the foreground cultural issues of today (for example, a relationship between religion and cosmopolitanism, as a way of trying to understand where we have been and where we are going.}

Tower of Babel, Pieter Brueghel the Elder, 1563.

A society, for the most part, functions on the basis of naming things.  We use language to express ourselves, however imperfect and inadequate it may seem.  Art, especially painting/sculpture and music, transcends the inevitable linguistic barrier.  But when we are dealing with one another, when we are encountering one another, on most occasions, we use language to communicate.  And so, we name things.    In Genesis 2:20, “the man gave names to all the tame animals, all the birds of the air, and all the wild animals.” 

Naming is important; it speaks to the uniqueness of our world and the creation.

Let me juxtapose the proper naming to empty labeling of humanity.  I don’t think that we are doing much “naming” these days: in other words, we are not open to life process, we are not actually encountering, judging, thinking, and making a decision.  Unfortunately, we fall into “political party” lines and we recite them creating populism and collectivism, which I really can’t stand.  I have an aversion when someone accepts all the precepts of a particular political system without giving it any thought, without dynamism of human mind.  And this relates to the matters of faith as well.  “A thousand questions do not equal one doubt,” said Cardinal Newman.  So, ask!  Think!  Judge!  Decide!

Falling into a particular party line, whether it’s conservative or liberal, externally, is what bothers me the most.  Let me clarify this.  If you are a “liberal,” then you must dress like a hippie, or an academic, and drive a Volvo, Subaru or VW.  If you are a “conservative,” then you have to like country music, proclaim how ‘merica’s the best country in the world, and you also have to like hunting.  If you’re a “liberal,” then you will constantly criticize your government (that is, Republican government) and will want progress at all costs, without really knowing what this progress is, you will be “open-minded” to other cultures as well, and you’re bumper sticker will say “coexist.”  If you’re a “conservative,” then you will hate those Muslims because they should all perish. They are all the same, and Islam needs to become extinct.

Pretty joyless picture of what it means to be a “liberal” and “conservative” these days, if you ask me.  All of these externals have nothing to do with who you are, in your interiority, in your soul. 

Who has decided that an affiliation to a political party is a deciding factor how you live your life day to day?  That is, who decided that if you like country music, then you are a “conservative” and that if you are interested in other cultures, or you have respect for other cultures, then you are a “liberal?”  This is so silly. 

Does anyone think?  Is anyone present to the reality of the world?  Or put another way, is anyone living in the present moment?

And dialogue?  Ha!  Dream on!  Both conservatives and liberals are too proud and too stubborn to admit that they actually might agree on some aspects in how America should be run.  If I mention the word dialogue or justice or the importance of art expression in our lives, I will be pronounced a “lefty.”  So be it, then.  Then, I am a “lefty.”  And if I speak of tradition and ethical values, then I will be pronounced an arch-conservative, the backward looking person.  So be it, then.  Then, I am an arch-conservative.

I think that we are dealing with here is not so much a difference between a liberal and conservative but with a difference between cosmopolitanism and provincialism.  The question is what is America?  Is America an anti-intellectual nation?  The real “class warfare” in America has nothing to do with economics (although it does play a part).  It is between intellectuals and the “people.” 

Intellectuals have not been exactly a welcoming bunch.  Let’s face it: they talk a lot, they spin theories, they are the elite and the hoi polloi is somewhere down there.  The masses distrust the ways of the intellect.  Just do it!  Don’t think!  Don’t ask too many questions.  The masses don’t need all that fancy talk.

I think that intellectuals have been smeared.  Or rather, those who call themselves “intellectuals,” the elite, are really ideologues and semantic theorists.  Academics certainly fall into that category.  These ideologues make discourse impossible, they confuse the reality of the world with unreal theories, and are not willing to see life from an other’s perspective.  As a result, those of us, who love learning, in other words, who have love of wisdom and praise imagination, are dismissed.  This would certainly be an instance of anti-intellectualism.

We are experiencing a strong level of division, of political polarization and both “liberals” and “conservatives” are guilty of it.  If we’re going to have a dialogue, then we have to begin to listen, first.  And certainly stop ad hominem attacks.  I don’t think we need more polarization.  I am certainly tired of it.  

Don't move beyond the norm - that is the song.  It is the song of collectivism and conformism.  These are forms of totalitarianism, and this, I find to be a far bigger problem than either forms of the Right and the Left.  The danger is in blind following and lack of critical thought.  We have to move beyond the group think, and finally begin to view the person wholistically, as opposed to a set of vacuous, vague, and mind numbing labels.

Children at Work

On November 3, an article out of the Acton Institute was published bearing a rather strange title: "Bring back child labor: Work is a gift our kids can handle."  Referring to an article by Jeffrey Tucker, "Let the Kids Work," the writer, Joseph Sunde, attempts to expand a theory as to why kids need to work as opposed to be lazy and ignorant.

It's those words "child labor," which are naturally grating. We think of the children at the turn of the 20th century working in factories and coal mines and God knows where else.  Conditions were deplorable for adults, let alone for children.  Although I do not think that Sunde necessarily advocates "child labor" in its historical meaning sense, it is still a very bad title.

Both Tucker and Sunde seem to acknowledge the harsh and inhuman conditions, but the acknowledgement is quickly squashed by a nostalgia for the time they haven't even lived through.  Tucker writes:

"But I also think about their inner lives. They are working in the adult world, surrounded by cool bustling things and new technology. They are on the streets, in the factories, in the mines, with adults and with peers, learning and doing. They are being valued for what they do, which is to say being valued as people. They are earning money."

It is clear from this that Tucker equates value of a human being with earning money.  How do we really know they were valued?  In what way?  Learning and doing?  Exactly what?  

Commenting on Tucker's words, Sunde writes:

"They [photographs of children laborers] also represent the faces of those who are actively building enterprises and cities, using their gifts to serve their communities, and setting the foundation of a flourishing nation, in turn."  

How can we possibly say that "gifts" of these children are being used when they haven't even developed properly, both intellectually and physically?  And who IS benefiting from their labor?  

It gets better.  Here's Tucker again:

"All those photos dig deep into the past and conjure up weird dystopian scenarios, none of which have anything to do with today. If kids were allowed to work and compulsory school attendance was abolished, the jobs of choice would be at Chick-Fil-A and WalMart. And they would be fantastic jobs too, instilling in young people a work ethic, which is the inner drive to succeed, and an awareness of attitudes that make enterprise work for all. It would give them skills and discipline that build character, and help them become part of a professional network."

First of all, kids are allowed to work.  They are free to work wherever they choose to apply.  Second of all, what professional network?  Working for Wal-Mart only sets you up for a career at another Wal-Mart.  That is the truth.   Tucker lives in another time dimension entirely because today, it is very difficult to move from one job to the next.  Employers, for the most part, expect that one gives their entire life to a mediocre job. 


Sunde briefly mentions words connected to the meaning of work, namely, "dignity, meaning, freedom, virtue, creativity, character, and neighbor love."  But they are, unfortunately just that - words devoid of meaning.  He calls for a revolution of sorts:  "Let us not just teach our children to play hard and study well, shuffling them through a long line of hobbies and electives and educational activities. A long day’s work and a load of sweat have plenty to teach as well."

I can hear the Soviet labor song right now in the distance amidst the sounds of tools.

The problem here is that both Sunde and Tucker romanticize manual labor.  The children have to know why they are doing what they are doing, even if it's yard work.  They need a bigger connection to the work itself, and reasoning.  Otherwise such an endeavor promotes collectivist and conformist psychological state. In other words, they will only learn that they should "put their nose to the grindstone" and any creativity and actual human flourishing will be outside of the realm of possibility.  They will become followers.

It also depends what kind of child we are talking about. Some children in their development do not benefit from manual labor at all, and it builds false work ethic. I agree that there needs to be a change in how children are reared, and they need some more grit.

Although I think that the intent is liberty and freedom, both Sunde and Tucker exhibit collectivist tendencies in their arguments.  Their brand of capitalism is actually very collectivist and conformist.  On one hand, they want to create a Randian universe of work, on the other hand, they are practically talking about compelling children to do manual labor.  This is a huge intellectual conflict.

Their arguments are also oddly anti-intellectual.  The truth is that every act of labor is different.  Yes, the problem with schools is leftist indoctrination.  But, to fix that, we should not just hand the kid a shovel!  

We have to be careful not to regress.  Society needs to change and certainly whiny kids need to stop whining.  The obsessive emphasis on "feelings" must stop.  But let us not go into Stone Age!  Children are children, and they should be given responsibilities according to their age.  These propositions of Tucker and Sunde are "one size fits all," and surely children are not like that. If we affirm uniqueness of each individual, then we really can't impose a cookie cutter solution to that individual's development.  There is no virtue in that.

The Funny Cure

Viktor Frankl, famous psychologist who developed logotherapy, wrote in his book Man’s Search for Meaning: “The neurotic who learns how to laugh at himself may be on the way to self-management, even cure.” (I do think that in this instance the quote is attributed to psychologist Gordon Allport). In either case, Frankl thought that humor was highly significant in a patient’s recovery from mental illness to mental health.

 

World is full of darkness, and who knew that better than Frankl, a concentration camp survivor. But he also knew and believed that we have an amazing capacity for healthy self-reflection through the act of doing something for others. In other words, finding meaning in life through an encounter. And that in order to deal with our traumas, with deep pain and suffering, we also have to laugh. Not laugh at the suffering of others, of course. And not even laugh at our own past - Frankl never did such a thing. But laugh at obsessions, depressions, and neuroses that shackle us and prevent us precisely from that significant encounter with the other.

 

Humor can certainly sometimes be a way of avoiding the real self. But it can also eliminate the mask we have been wearing and suddenly, we may stop hiding. There is a certain level of freedom that comes with humor. Laughing, even from a physical standpoint, is good for the body. We feel awakened, in harmony with the world and at the same time oblivious to the surroundings. Humor is a way of being and a way of dealing with torments.

 

I grew up in a culture where darkness and laughter are sometimes indistinguishable. Bosnian humor is a dark humor - always showing absurdities of life through some sort of funny lens. It is usually indirect and has its own logic, similarly to a lot of Jewish humor. 

 

For example, I remember when I was a little kid, we had some company over. One of the kids was standing in front of our television and one of the guests was trying to watch something. Instead of telling him to move, he just said: “Your papa is not a glass maker.” (I hope it’s as funny in English as it is in Bosnian). It was a way for him to reprimand the child without ever reprimanding him or commanding him. The child understood, and I laughed. I wonder, though, if the child’s father really was a glass maker? Maybe then he would say: "Your papa is a bad glass maker!"

 

But enough of talking about humor! Go read something funny, or might I recommend, perhaps watching Mel Brooks’ Young Frankenstein? Perhaps you’d also care for some warm milk or Ovaltine? :)

When Humility Bites You in the Ass

           You could say that I was mad.  Yes, I know, it’s hard to believe that since I am perfection personified but that day I was just angry.  I had million things to do – classes, laundry, dishes, saving the world, you know, the usual. 

           

           I was on edge.  Anxiety was kicking in big time.  I tried very hard to behave like my cat who radiates wisdom and calmness through her nonchalant alertness.  But it was not working.  The harder I tried, the more problems I faced.  Suddenly, it felt like I was running into myself, not aware of my extremities.

            In the midst of the apocalyptic raptures of my mind, I had enough sense to realize that it is lunch time.  The clock told me so, as did my stomach.  The repeated growling was like a chime – time to eat, time to eat, time to eat. 

            To save time, I went to the local grocery store.  I was determined to accomplish two tasks: 1) to get the necessary ingredients for dinner, which inevitably sneaks up on you and then in absolute hunger you scramble around the house wondering what to eat and you didn’t have any plans and you’re eating pretzels to curb the hungry beast, and 2) to buy something prepared, like a sandwich so you can have that quick lunch.

            The grocery store is not far but you still have to drive out there.  Keep in mind, that there are those “million” things which I have to do, and so I am determined to get this done pretty quickly.  I enter the grocery store, and like some terminator-like machine, I zero in on different departments – meat, vegetables, prepared foods.    

            As I expected, I am fast.  I go to the check-out lane, and there is this kid that looks like an adolescent, pimpled version of Elvis Costello.  He seems ok.  I try not to be judgmental.  I don’t want to be one of those old foggies who criticize young whipper snappers.  You know, I am only thirty-four, so it would be quite unbecoming and mostly weird.

            The Elvis Costello-Boy packs everything in one bag. 

            “You got everything in one bag!”, I exclaim.  I am not sure whether I am trying to praise him for his good bagging effort or if I am trying to check (through half-hearted praise) whether he really got everything in there.

            “Yes, I did,” says Elvis Costello.

            As he hands me the bill, I ask him one more time, “so, everything’s in?”  He assures me that everything’s a-ok.  Dear Reader, you must know by now where this is going.  You can just picture me in slow motion, taking the receipt, happily getting into my car, coming home, getting the groceries out, and then that back-and-forth camera close-up, a look of horror – my sandwich is not here!  MY SANDWICH IS NOT HERE!  MY GODDAM SANDWICH IS NOT HERE! 

            I was furious.  I mean, who wouldn’t be?  I could feel the weight of my body.  I didn’t want to go back to the store and deal with all that stuff but I did pay for the sandwich and I wasn’t about to eat pretzels covered in large portions of Nutella even if at the time it seemed that such a thing constitutes a meal. 

            And so I went back, with the receipt in hand.  I was putting on “the I am an annoyed customer and I will take my business elsewhere” face, but I must admit, pretty badly.  I walked in, walked up to the cash register, and Elvis Costello gives me a look of recognition.  I quickly said, “you forgot to put the sandwich in the bag.”

            He becomes quite apologetic, and I quickly tell him not to worry.  He is just a kid, after all.  I leave and there is still a small whiff of fury in the air.  A smelly cloud surrounding me.  At this point, I am a hungry bear and I need my food. 

            I am driving in a very aggressive way, stomping on breaks at the STOP sign.  “Get me home!” my interior voice is yelling.  Just then, as I stopped, a man is walking across the street.  I recognize him.  I have seen him before in our neighborhood.  He lives in a halfway house near us, which houses people with different types of mental retardation (is that the correct way to speak about that these days, or am I being totally politically incorrect?). 

            He walks in a stilted way, almost like an idiot savant.  He sees me and gives me the biggest wave ever, along with smile, and a very loud, enthusiastic “hello.”  I imagine he does that with everyone, but heck, I feel special at the moment.  Just as energetically, I wave back and smile from my car.

            As I pass him, I start to laugh, and I mean laugh.  A big, belly laughter.  I was laughing at the absurdity of my “sandwich saga” and my anxiety.  Suddenly, all anxiety, and most certainly fury, disappeared.  The only thing, which remained was laughter.  Unexplainable, not even aimed at anything or anyone.  I did think of God at that moment.  And then I laughed some more.

            And I did have that lunch soon afterwards.

Modern Pilgrimage

I.

Everywhere around me I notice struggling and exhausted masses in a sleepwalking state.  Without being aware of it, they wonder what does it all mean and why are we born.  These are, of course, perennial questions.  The problem, as I see it, is that they are not asked often enough.

I do not wish to engage into nostalgia - fantasies of better times.  Evil has existed before and it maintains its venomous presence in any age, in any era, common or uncommon.  As Ecclesiastes says: "There is nothing new under the sun."

Despite the continuity and similarities of human condition throughout history, any intelligent historian will tell us that there are particularities which distinguish one epoch from another.  Our current state of being is an age, which readily accepts the ridiculous fantasy that God does not exist.  The by-product, if you will, of that assertion is an acceptance of nihilism as a viable option for living - a plan, a lifestyle.

The culture of "no" or put another way, "the culture of death" is not hard to find.  We don't have to search ceaselessly in order to find it.  From specific cases such as chillingly calculating infanticides of Kermit Gosnell to bleak, soulless, and tinny echoes coming from the rooms of assisted suicides, and anything else in between - everywhere we look, we see a blatant disregard for the dignity of human life.

The meaninglessness of of existence, whose symptoms include dread, boredom, and anxiety, takes root in an individual's soul once he or she begins to see metaphysical suicide as a way of life.  Culture of death does not imply a transient and short lived opinion of single individual that quickly dissipates.  On the contrary, its power is stronger than that.  It means that the idea of culture of death has entered into the consciousness of an individual, and that he or she views life instantly and primarily through a nihilistic lens.  It is one thing to experience dread and thoughts of suicide.  It is another to find perverse joy in it.

The world is full of darkness.  In fact, most of life is difficult.  One either dreads getting up in the morning with nothing to look forward to or one prolongs the time in the outside world of destructive distractions so that the visibility and experience of solitude is reduced as much as possible.  Self-imposed amnesia sounds like a much better option.

II.

A friend recommended I see this film called The Way (2010).  I did not hear of it when it came out.  It's not a blockbuster, a money making venture.  On top of it, the film deals with religious themes without sentimentality and spirituality-on-demand.

The film is directed by Emilio Estevez and the lead is played by his father, Martin Sheen.  It tells a story of a man in his 60s, Tom Avery, who has been living a fairly comfortable life.  He is an accomplished eye doctor who likes to golf.  His days seem to blend into one another, and it is obvious that he is not interested in the small unpredictabilities of life.  Tom is also a bit of a curmudgeon.  His relationship with his son, Daniel (played in the film by Estevez) is tense mainly because Tom does not approve of Daniel's life choices (for example, choosing to not finish his PhD but instead to travel the world).

Tom is shaken out of his country club existence by one phone call, which interrupts his game of golf.  The call comes from France, a police captain who informs him that his son was caught in a heavy storm over the Pyrenees and that he died.  Unbeknownst to Tom, Daniel chose to make an 800 km trek to Santiago de Campostela.  The trek is known as Camino de Santiago (The Way of St. James) and the final point of the pilgrimage is the cathedral of Santiago de Campostela.

Tom goes to France with only one purpose - to collect Daniel's body.  But in the course of a day, he chooses to cremate the body and with his son's ashes to walk the camino.  On the road, he encounters many pilgrims and reluctantly forms a bond with some of them.  Joost is from Amsterdam and is walking the way because he is overweight; Sarah is from Canada and she claims that she walks because she wants to quit smoking but later we learn is that she was physically abused by her husband and that she had an abortion, which she now regrets; and Jack who is from Ireland, a writer aspiring to be James Joyce but is plagued with a writer's block.

Here they are - four pilgrims, all looking for something, trying to find their way - almost reminiscent of the travelers in The Wizard of Oz.  But of course, the trip is not about a wizard, but it is about a healing, which may never come.

Estevez wrote the script, and he also appears in the film in a series of flashbacks of Tom's memory, as well as visions Tom has of Daniel on the journey.  The film preserves the gravity of questions of one's existence.  Don't expect a heavy European outlook on evil or pain.  This is a distinctly American vision which always maintains the capacity to be idealistic.  But I would not call this a hindrance at all.

Sheen gives an excellent performance of a closed off man, who wears an armor but is afraid to go into the battle.  The film has no ideological message, and it is tough to categorize (which is always a positive aspect of any art form).  It does not judge one way or the other nor does it make demands from the audience to do such a thing.

Although the vision of God is rooted in the Christian tradition, particularly in the Roman Catholic tradition, one does not have to be Catholic to understand the meaning and message of the film - life is a journey.  At the beginning of the film, Tom firmly states that he has chosen a particular life.  Daniel replies that one does not choose life, one lives it.

III.

All of these elements in the film relate to the meaninglessness of existence I spoke of in the early part of this essay.  Our dissatisfactions and quickly accepted nihilism comes from the unwillingness to experience a glimpse of our own humility.  This does not mean a totalization of our very selves or others, nor does it mean self-annihilation.  On the contrary, it points to an assertion of the finite "I," a wondrous creation of "first person singular" which is part of reality bigger than ourselves.

In other words, I am a finite being capable to move toward the infinite.  This thought and remembrance of God, when put into action, is one way, one path toward the refusal to give in to the darkness.  It is the beginning of an effort to wake up in the morning, wiggle your toes, and say that today is a good day to not commit suicide, and as Peggy Lee sings, to "take a deep breath and throw away your pills."

A Lazy Summer Afternoon in Sarajevo

O Memory, damn you!  Sometimes I wish I was incapable of remembering anything at all.  Would that be such a terrible existence, I ask you?  I could walk the streets unencumbered by war and death.  I hate death.  How I hate that evil presence!  It taunts me every day.

Maybe if I could selectively remember life would be easier.  I know people who are very good at that. But then again, I could imagine that selective memory results in selective vocabulary too.  These types usually only say "thank you," "good day," "pass the gravy," and "isn't the weather marvelous?"  I realize that I've made them sound like a bunch of English aristocrats straight out of Evelyn Waugh's Brideshead Revisited - but wait, don't they have trouble with memories too?

Since I am not English, Roman-Catholic, aristocrat fictional character, I don't think that this selective memory approach will really work.  It just does not sound like a viable option.  There is always opting out of life completely, but no, s-u-i-c-i-d-e just isn't for me.  It's too messy and I like myself too much and there is also that whole "death thing" which just sends creepy crawlies up my spine and I have already established that death and I are not good companions.

The worst is when summer begins to arrive.  Nature wakes up and so do your senses.  And the senses begin to give you a large dose of truth and fiction.  Did I really remember that?  Or am I dreaming, sleepwalking and making stuff up as I move my feet on the pavement?  Ah - pavement -

- pavement - concrete jungle - heat - summer in Sarajevo - prewar - mid-day worst sun - empty neighborhood streets, no one in sight, except a grocery store owner peering through the door, thinking it might be good to get some business, it's been a slow day, but even he is far too hot to care about making money.  I am 9 years old.  I sneak out of the apartment and venture into park without telling my parents. I didn't drink any water and I will surely faint.

In the park I see a swing - not any swing, my favorite one, and it's empty now.  Nobody is foolish enough to go out in this oppressive heat.  The soil under it is dug out from forceful, dangling feet which kick it every time - back and forth, back and forth.  I go up and down, into the air, into the earth, repeat, obsessively, go higher, condominiums appear and disappear from my view.  I am getting dizzy: "you must stop," I tell myself, an interior parental voice of moderation, but my being is not listening.  "You must stop or else you'll die!"

I stop and ponder death and I experience a deep hatred for it.  I am sweating.  It's time to get back home.  I pass the grocery store owner who does not have a choice but to relax, he reads the newspaper.  He nods in recognition: "How's your father?"  "Good, good," words barely come out of my mouth.  My mouth desperately needs liquids.  I am an anxious girl and don't want to spend time talking to the store owner and my thoughts are moving rapidly in anticipation on my and someone else's utterance.  I want to get out of here.  I quickly point to an orange popsicle and leave the exact change on the ice cream freezer.

By the time I get home, the melted juice of the popsicle runs through my fingers - drip, drip, drip - turning into orange stickiness on my hand and elbow.  I need water to wash myself.  I go back home, entering into the condo building, being greeted and welcomed by the cold air.  I touch the walls and such pleasure it brings but I am still foggy from my swinging adventure that I barely make it into the apartment.  How much time has passed?  I don't know.  I sneak in.  My parents did not notice, or it is more likely that they pretended to not notice.  My mother is still doing the dishes in the kitchen, my father is at the dining room table doing crossword puzzle.

It is a lazy summer afternoon in Sarajevo - before the war.

Is Reform in Academia Possible?

I have written about Academia before and I continue to do so.  This is partly because I have been part of it for quite some time (as a student) and because I find the whole beast strange and perverse and at the same time possibly good.  As I said, I have been part of its world for a long time now, which is why I find myself unable to completely dismiss it.  And yet...

I am, at this point, nearing a completion of my PhD (if everything goes well, that is).  With this PhD in philosophy, that would make it my fifth degree.  And so, naturally, I began to reflect--why have I remained in the Academy for so long?  What have I been trying to accomplish?  Why didn't I just "get a job" and be done with it?  What made me go into it to begin with, and how in the world did I end up with five degrees, when I only really wanted one?

I didn't intend to keep amassing degrees.  As an undergrad, studying English, German and Art History at a Jesuit college, I had two plans in my mind: either to somehow get myself into film school, preferably NYU and become a director, or apply and get a PhD in English and teach at a college level.  I was quickly dissuaded by a college advisor from applying to NYU or any similar film schools.  "Too much risk," he said.  And he was probably right...but still.  

When I told him that I would like to apply to the University of Chicago, he said "Don't bother. Your GRE scores are terrible" (which they sure were!).  He added, "It will be a waste of your application fee."  I left his office crying, but I did end up applying to Chicago anyway. I got in, and ended up working with professor Wayne Booth, one of the eminent scholars in rhetoric, literature, and the founder of what is now known as "ethical criticism," a dialogic approach in interpreting literary works.  

So, after Chicago, I worked as a high school teacher, which lasted for a year.  In the meantime, I applied for a PhD in English.  Rejection soon followed, which ended up being the first in the long series of PhD rejections (whether in English, Philosophy, or Theology).  Here I am, finally in a PhD program, hoping to pass my qualifying exam in order to be able to actually work on my dissertation.  Much of importance hinges on this passing.  I try not to think about it--the existential effect, not to mention the money effect (all this student debt!)--but it is impossible.

What kind of world is the Academy?  What is it composed of in the end, and does it really offer anything substantial?  During one of the classes I attended, there was a discussion, which ranged from "what is redness?" to "can a thought think?"  I turned to one of my fellow grad students and said to her, "What the hell am I doing here?  Why am I trying to get a PhD?"  She said: "So that students can have a normal teacher!"  

When you are a student, whether an undergrad or grad, and if you are specifically working in the humanities, professors have a tendency to fill you full of false praise and hope that you are the best thing since sliced bread.  Ok, maybe some of that praise is true, but it doesn't do anything unless you are offered real, constructive criticism in how to improve and how to tend to your talent.  This lack of real, practical, and constructive attention is prevalent mainly because most professors are ideologues--mouthpieces for the ideologie du jour.  This is not to say that I have not met and had the privilege to be in the company of some truly intelligent people, whose aim is not to profane the works of literature or philosophy but who preserve its sacredness while being dynamic individuals themselves.  But by now, everyone who is willing to see the truth of the Academy, knows that the academic world is a cesspool of social rejects who find comfort in the separateness from reality, and who venomously impact our culture.

The logistical system of the Academy is a house of cards.  And yet this wimpy paper house is full of bureaucratic nonsense (is there such a thing as bureaucratic sense?).  The academics genuinely think they are free, but this is not true.  The system is a series of conformities, and if you are unwilling to conform (e.g. a particular way of doing philosophy), then you are quickly labeled an outcast.  None of the ideologues stand alone.  It is always strength in numbers, and the result is an academic fanaticism and tyranny.  The "paperwork" of the Academy may not be of great significance but the ideas are because they have consequences.

The consequences are seen in historical discontinuity and/or historical denial.  Both are means by which the forms of inquiry are impositions on the particularities that surround literary or historical or philosophical work.  The result is not only shoddy scholarship, but most of all, as I mentioned earlier, a negative impact on our culture.  

Can the Academy be reformed?  If it is reformed, then will it lose its academic status?  I seem to recall seeing a similar question posed by Camille Paglia, who has done a marvelous job in the great synthesis of ideas, particularly in her book Sexual Personae.  Is there such a thing as a "public intellectual?"  And what is learning?  We have to go back to the basics, it seems to me.  Why do we read?  Why do we want to know and where does this desire come from?  Seeking pleasure in books and being edified by what we find in them is a thing of beauty.  Academics have done a great job in sucking the life out of literature and art and philosophy.  The beauty of books and learning must be restored, and I fear that it will not be done in universities.  

The basic question, which has not only been lost in the Academy for decades now, but also in our post-whatever world, is "what does it mean to be human?"  This is an ever evolving, ever revealing question.  So many possibilities.  The possibilities of human life and the question of ethics, aesthetics, and politics (as is the subtitle of my blog) will not be revealed if truth, goodness, and beauty are continuously suppressed.  

  

Democritizing Talents

Retreat.  Retreat.  Retreat.  Be less.  Become less.  Become nothing, or at least become lower than you truly are.

You don’t need to be in an explicitly totalitarian system in order to receive this message.  Collectivist thoughts spoken out loud with an aim of extinguishing individuality can be found anywhere.  They just happen to become more pronounced when collectivism turns into an outward political system, with an effort to maintain control over people.

I learned how to read and write when I was three or four years old.  With a little help from my father, I would open up my picture books and copy letters and words that I saw, over and over again, until I got better at it.  I have always loved to read and so I continued.  Book after book.  I read my first Dostoyevsky when I was ten years old.  I also began to teach myself English by simply watching television.  I began to pick up other languages too, comparing their structure and similarities in grammar and expression.  I didn’t do this to impress anyone, or with an expectation that I will get something in return.  I simply did it because I enjoyed it. 

There was and is always something autodidactic about how I have approached learning for myself.  There were a few teachers (not that many to be honest with you) that I can think of that have contributed to my learning process, but on the whole, when I wanted to learn something, I sought the best ways to learn it and I did.  I followed the threads in history and literature if I wanted to see the continuity of an idea, and this early practice made my current efforts at research quite easy. 

Teaching yourself also can be daunting.  Sometimes you fail.  Sometimes you think that you are ready to read something, some text which has eluded you for quite some time, and you pick it up, and you realize that you need to leave it alone and perhaps come back to it later.  But teaching yourself can also mean that you are gaining discipline in your daily activities and that you are not waiting for anyone else to make a schedule for you. 

As it was to be expected, my hard work of learning often times went either unrecognized or worse—it was frowned upon.  I am not about to make a victim out of myself and have a pity party but being scolded for knowing a lot is to say the least, unpleasant.  Implicitly (or perhaps even explicitly), you are told to decrease yourself in order for someone else to increase.  The degrees of decrease and increase I am speaking of are only to do with intellectual abilitites.

Why such efforts at totalizing the other person’s gifts even exist?  Making everyone the same in talents is the worst kind of “equality.”  Gifts which have been given to us, gifts which can express themselves in art, or writing, or any other effort of the intellect are not democratic.  Art is not democratic. 

I don’t believe in hoarding of knowledge.  If I learn something, then it seems to me that the most logical thing to do is to share it with others.  But to make myself less than I am so someone else can feel better about themselves, so that they can increase their self-esteem (whatever the heck that is!), I refuse to bend.  I refuse to be totalized into a mediocre blob.

We are all strong and weak in one area or the other.  When I am weak, I would like to be helped, lifted by the strong.  When I am strong, then I will offer my hand to someone who is having moments of difficulties.  This is only logical.  But we cannot impose a tyranny of mediocrity.  Mediocrity breeds sameness and sameness extinguishes passion for life.  A little bit of competition is good for the mind.  If we are challenged, we are pushed to the area of our being that we would otherwise not discover. 

Having knowledge, of course, has nothing to do with being good.  And so, whatever our intellectual strengths are (which should be cultivated), we have to be careful not to become a Nietzschean “Superman,” who is above the law and deems himself morally superior to others because of this accumulation of knowledge. 

It’s funny when you go through your memories, whether past or somewhat recent ones, and you realize how many times you were called “too ambitious,” or “too passionate,” or “too intense” and that you need to “tone it down.”  Yeah, well, thanks for the tip, folks, but I think I’m going to go about this my way.