Saturday, February 25, 2017


Himalayan Blood Pheasant


After the hundredth 

I knew I’d hear

that question for the rest
of my life. I cried

myself to sleep. Many
times. Many times.

Then I woke up and asked,
Where am I from?

Whose words do you speak,
my Old Church Slavonic mouth?

Who do you long for,
my Sephardic thigh?

Feet, did you walk
all the way from Ur?

Arms, did you build
the pyramids?

Hands, did you glean
in foreign fields?

Who did you give birth to, hips,
licked by tongues of

firelight, steep bent shadows
kneeling down? Where

are we from? Let us ask
our mother, the Great She-Bear,

our father, the wolf.

~ Oriana

Where are we from? If you start going back in time, then everyone is from somewhere else. We are all immigrants — recent or removed in time. Constant migration has been the law — and constant change. If we go back far enough in time, then we are one with the animals. And if really far enough, then our atoms are scattered in the stars. 

Journalism is printing what someone else does not want printed: Everything else is public relations. ~ George Orwell 

Oriana: I’m glad we have Orwell to provide some words of wisdom for our troubled times. Who knew we'd be turning to Orwell! We who'd lived through 1984 triumphantly shrugging our shoulders . . .


 Lion is a gripping, unforgettable movie that I strongly recommend. At the same time, I don’t think that what it presents is mainly “an uplifting tale of human resilience.” It is that too, but I’d call it a near-tragedy with a happy ending. Multiple tragedies, in fact. You may walk out of the theater feeling uplifted, but I can almost guarantee that you will also feel unnerved.

Let me enumerate the tragedies and near-tragedies in the movie.

1. a narrow escape from becoming a child sex slave. Little Saroo picks up subtle clues that there’s something insincere about the “kindness of strangeness” who want to sell him to pedophiles; his marvelous survival instinct tells him to run for his life. But this reminds us that many children are not so lucky. It’s simply too horrible to imagine their fate.

2. strong hints at sex abuse and physical abuse at the orphanage — another lucky escape. By the way, the orphanage sequence made me realize that due to the Victorian mores Dickens could not write about sex abuse at orphanages (or anywhere else) — but we need to fill in the blanks. Of course plenty of it was going on.

3. the brain-damaged adoptive brother blights the lives of the adoptive parents, especially the idealistic mother. This is a much needed reminder that some adoptions work out badly, even tragically. The media have begun to publicize this phenomenon. Here is Newsweek: “Many parents share deeply personal details about how they’ve been unable to bond with their adopted children. How they had no idea of the severity of their child’s disabilities when they took him or her home from an orphanage. How no one told them the child had fetal alcohol syndrome or other medical problems.

They relate stories about children who kill animals, harm siblings, set fires. Many seek help from therapists, adoption agencies, or state agencies, but nothing works. They don’t know what to do—they are financially depleted, their marriages are rocky or broken. These children have turned their lives upside down. One man recently wrote: “I just want my life back.”  One woman with an 11-year-old adopted son from Guatemala, whose post on the message board was cited in the Reuters article, wrote: “I am totally ashamed to say it but we truly do hate this boy!”

4. the compulsive search for his hometown almost destroys Saroo’s life, and hurts people close to him

The way I understand the adult Saroo’s crazy behavior — his quitting his job and neglecting his health, alienating his wonderfully supportive girlfriend and parents — is that he develops an obsessive-compulsive disorder because basically he can’t succeed. On the face of it, it’s an impossible task. It still seems rather improbable that he did find his native village. But he must have known the odds were solidly against him, and he could spend his whole life just doing Google Earth — which is beginning to happen. And the compulsion is clearly devouring him, the way gambling might.

The longer he does it without success, the more compulsive and emotionally disturbed he becomes — another tragedy in the making for his adoptive parents. In the last moment it is averted, but — as Saroo’s girlfriend warns him: “You could spend your whole life trying to find the place, and never find it.” And that would be a terrible waste of life.

(For me this portrayal of compulsive behavior is actually the brilliant part of the movie. The first part, in India, is everyone’s favorite, and it is magical. You come to love the beautiful brave child. But during his search for hometown the adult Saroo gradually becomes less and less lovable, and we get to see how close he comes to becoming a wreck.)


There is of course a happy ending, but the movie is constantly at the edge of tragedy. And even the happy ending is mixed with tragedy. The lost child’s desperate scream of “Guddu!” — the name of his older brother who was supposed to come back for him — is repeated so many times in the crucial early scenes of the movie that in a sense it haunts the movie. When the adult Saroo starts searching for his native village, it’s as if he resumed calling “Guddu!” again, with growing desperation. Then during the reunion we learn that Guddu didn’t come back for his little brother because he got killed that night, hit by a train. Saroo kept on calling.

But that’s not the only unheard cry in Lion. Saroo knows that Guddu is looking for him, frantically calling his little brother’s name. He imagines Guddu wandering about, calling “Saroo! Saroo!” The adult Saroo actually says, “My real brother has been calling my name every day.” This becomes an even more ghostly cry once we learn about Guddu’s death.

This reminded me of a story I read in my Russian high school class, about a soldier who is sustained by imaginary conversations with his wife and children. Every night he talks with them in his head. When he returns from the war, he learns that his family perished in a bombing raid. He is stunned: “So all those years, every night I was talking with the dead!” He’s completely shaken by that.

We can shrug it off and conclude that both Saroo and the Russian soldier were lucky not to know. The memory of people they loved sustained them, never mind the mistaken certainty that those people still existed. It was ignorance rather than a pathological delusion. It was unquestioning hope. The redeeming factor is that the love the person gave us has shaped us and helped us. Saroo’s memory of his big brother’s loyalty and caring never completely faded. We receive so much love . . . and need to keep giving it.

We know from the start that there’ll be a happy ending — otherwise, let’s face it, the pain would be so overwhelming that there’d be no movie. Especially the first part in India teeters constantly on the verge of a horror story, but we know the adorable little boy is extraordinary — smart and strong beyond his age, his survival instinct infallible. He’ll be saved — somehow. But we need to see just how close this movie comes to presenting precisely an enormity of pain. Saroo’s unheard cry and his dead brother’s imagined cry will resound in the viewer’s mind for a long time.

Yet unless we hear that cry for what it is — a desperate cry for help — Lion will remain merely a superior type of a “weepie.” The novels of Dickens led to a moral awakening and social change, such as laws against child labor. So much needs to be done — post-adoption services, for instance, for adoptive parents who end up with a damaged child. More support when it comes to child care in general, and protection from abuse. These are our children, and everything depends on the quality of nurturing they receive.

Yet Lion is definitely uplifting — though, to me, because  of my personal experience with compulsive behavior, not as an example of persistence. Even persistence can become pathological, and yes, there are plenty of cases where it’s best to give up. No, it’s rather an example of how the actions of a single good person can make a difference.

Social problems can be overwhelming — can “better access to mental health services” really be meaningful if the huge underlying issue is poverty? And yet . . . this movie shows us that just one person, for instance the woman who works for the adoption agency, braving the hostility of the orphanage staff, can save a child, and another, and another.

There is a saying in the Talmud: “Who saves one life saves the whole world.” It’s not a crazy hyperbole. We are all part of the great story of humanity. Every act of goodness counts. Even one person willing to sit by you and hold your hand can turn hell if not into heaven, then into an endurable reality, since now you’re not alone. You’re connected. Through one person, you’re connected to all that is good in humanity.

“Envying another man's happiness is madness; you wouldn't know what to do with it if you had it.” ~ AndrĂ© Gide

Andy Warhol by Alice Neel, 1970. He's wearing a supportive corset after being shot by a member of his entourage, Valerie Solanas, in 1968. Solanas was later diagnosed with schizophrenia. Andy spent months in a hospital and never recovered completely. The scars are surgical — his surgeons opened his chest and massaged his heart to help restart it. His assailant was out after serving a 3-year sentence (part of it in a mental hospital), and Andy began to suffer from a debilitating anxiety that she would seek to kill him again. 

Andy Warhol's grave. I think he'd love the “hands in prayer” — except the image should be replicated at least 20 times. A fan's homage with a soup can is perfection.

The cross is Eastern Orthodox. Warhol’s parents came from Slovakia but were part of the small Lemko ethnic group which identifies more with Ukraine — so this is a *Byzantine* Catholic Cemetery.



~ Come on, read my future for me.

~ You haven't got any.

~ What do you mean?

~ Your future is all used up.

So speaks a fortune-telling madam, played by Marlene Dietrich, to the drunken sheriff of a border town, played by Orson Welles, in "Touch of Evil."

Her words have a sad resonance, because Welles was never again to direct in Hollywood after making this dark, atmospheric story of crime and corruption.” (Roger Ebert, review of Touch of Evil)

Oriana: I do feel post-future. I used to describe myself as "posthumous," but people were put off by it, so let me settle on “post-future.” At long last (a very long last), I really take it a day at a time. I'm in recovery from my past addiction to the future.

Marlene Dietrich and Fred Astaire 


~ “When I first entered the netherworld of corruption and violence in 1993 for a first-time, nonviolent LSD conspiracy, the first two books I read when I hit prison were Norman Mailer’s The Executioner’s Song and Jack Henry Abbott’s In the Belly of the Beast. I was already a big fan of Mailer from reading The Naked and The Dead in my teens, but as a skinny, 22-year-old, white kid from the suburbs, with multiple decades to serve, I decided that reading Abbott’s book was paramount to my survival.

Being completely ignorant on prison life, besides what I’d seen in the movies, I knew that getting up to speed was crucial to my well being. Abbott’s book became a kind of prison Cliff's Notes for me. A guide on how to act, what to say, and how to conduct myself in any given situation on the inside.

During the writing of the The Executioner’s Song —a book about condemned killer Gary Gilmore, Mailer took Abbott—a New York state prisoner and self proclaimed “state raised convict” who’d served much of his life in prison for manslaughter, bank robbery and forgery charges—under his wing and groomed him as a writer. With Mailer’s guidance and support, Abbott not only became a prison celebrity, but was released in 1981 on parole, despite being prone to violence and having spent years of his sentence in solitary confinement.

Tragically, Abbott committed another murder within six weeks of his release. Mailer was devastated that his protege had reverted to form and ruined his promise of becoming New York City’s next literary darling.

As an aspiring prison author the relationship between Mailer and Abbott intrigued me, as did the fact that I saw my literary pursuits as a route to recognition in the world. A way to redeem myself and make a future for myself so to speak. In a new book, Jack and Norman: A State Raised Convict and the Legacy of Norman Mailer’s The Executioner’s Song, out Feb 21, Jerome Loving tackles the story of the master, his apprentice, and the terrible conclusion to their story. The Daily Beast chatted with him about what drew him to write the book, how prison dehumanizes people, and how artistic talent shouldn’t trump personal conduct.

Q: How does Abbott’s book, on what he went through in the dehumanizing industrial prison complex, relate to what is going on today in our nation concerning mass incarceration?
It may show that early and long incarceration irreparably damages a person. Probably the worst use of prison is reform school, or whatever they’re calling it these days. In Jack Abbott’s case, his anger—which grew exponentially over the years of his incarceration—turned into what I call “prison paranoia.” I learned from Abbott that prisoners are generally polite to one another because they are so close-quartered that even an assumed slight could result in bodily injury or death. When Abbott went from essentially solitary to the city in 1981, he was disturbed at how impolite New Yorkers could be on the street. He was easily threatened and soon took to wearing a concealed dagger, which he ultimately used to kill a waiter who had refused him the right of a restroom in an all-night restaurant.

How did Mailer feel when he went out on a limb to help get Abbott out and set him up with a literary career and then Abbott fucked it all up?
He was devastated, deeply disappointed and saddened that it had led to the death of an innocent person. Yet, as I said, he still maintained his faith that literary talent trumped personal behavior and sought to get Jack a shorter sentence.

Does this example show that literary or artistic talent shouldn't trump personal conduct? Why or why not?

Yes, I’m afraid it does in Jack’s case. There is a long history to this question. Was it right, for example, for American authors to honor the poet Ezra Pound, an anti-Semite who was accused of broadcasting for the fascists during World War II? The question of the morality of the death penalty aside, should California in 1960 have executed Caryl Chessman, who as a condemned man became a best-selling author? Abbott might possibly have made it if he had gone to the right halfway house instead of the one in the then crime-ridden Lower East Side.

In the Belly of the Beast was published in 1981 and we are still dealing with a lot of the problems with the corrections industry that he outlined in his book. Why has the shady and dehumanizing world of prison been allowed to keep operating as it has been?
That question may be beyond whatever expertise I have here. In my book, I quote from Hawthorne’s The Scarlet Letter, a classic about the utopia the Puritans envisioned in the New World: “In the chapter entitled ‘The Prison Door,’ he wrote, ‘The rust on the ponderous iron-work of its oaken door looked more antique than any thing else in the new world. Like all that pertains to crime, it seemed never to have known a youthful era.’ This historical novel is full of the same irony that haunts the American penal system, whose prisons are still called ‘penitentiaries.’”

In other words, it’s not “taxes and death,” but human misbehavior and death that we as a society can’t get away from. I happen to live in a state (Texas) where the prisons are gulags. Fewer than a quarter of its prisons are even air-conditioned. In a recent court case, a prisoner is reported to have died of temperatures approaching 150 degrees.  

Prisons are a relatively new phenomenon, existing only since 1800. Before that the punishments were stocks, maiming, torture and death. The first American prison, as I say in chapter 3 of my book, took the word “penitent” literally and limited its sentences to two years. During that time the prisoner saw nobody but guards and was expected to become “sorry” for his crime.” ~



Prisoners become very thin-skinned about the slightest insults to their "honor." It's a deadly "honor culture" where the inmate is to take ruthless revenge for any breach of "respect." So then yes, imagine this abnormally thin-skinned person among the "impolite" New Yorkers . . . and yet it's indeed plausible that a half-way house with the right kind of counseling and training could have prevented the tragedy described here. Btw, Abbott died in prisoner, a likely suicide.


'When Fascism came into power, most people were unprepared. They were unable to believe that man could exhibit such propensities for evil, such lust for power, such disregard for the rights of the weak, or such yearning for submission. Only a few had been aware of the rumbling of the volcano preceding the outbreak.’ ~ Erich Fromm
Oriana: Armed with the knowledge of history, we can say, “Not this time.” Perhaps that’s not enough to stop organized greed and hatred, but at least we won’t go down like sheep. 


~ “Seeing everything natural as an object, inert, senseless and detached from us, arose as part of the dualist vision of a split between body and soul. It was designed to glorify God by removing all competing spiritual forces from the realm of nature. It therefore showed matter itself as dead, a mere set of billiard-ball particles bouncing mechanically off each other, always best represented by the imagery of machines. For that age, life and all the ideals relevant to humanity lay elsewhere, in our real home — in the zone of spirit. (That, of course, was why Newton, to the disgust of later scholars, was far more interested in theology than he was in physics.)

But the survival of this approach today, when physicists have told us that matter does not actually consist of billiard balls, when we all supposedly believe that we are parts of the natural biosphere, not colonists from spiritual realms — when indeed many of us deny that such realms even exist — seems rather surprising.

Why do we still think like this? Why can't we be more realistic? McGilchrist's explanation of such oddities in terms of our divided [left and right brain hemispheres] nature is clear, penetrating, lively, thorough and fascinating. Though neurologists may well not welcome it because it asks them new questions, the rest of us will surely find it splendidly thought-provoking.” ~

Newton' s Tomb at Westminster Abbey


There is some trend to reanimate nature — hence perhaps various kinds of neo-pagan revival, e.g. in Iceland. Some people want both ritual and closeness to nature.

But the article engaged me most when it provided an explanation for Newton’s preference for theology over physics. “For [Newton’s] age, life and all the ideals relevant to humanity lay elsewhere, in our real home — in the zone of spirit.” What was earthly life compared to eternity? What was the earth compared to heaven? Obviously life and the earth were disvalued by such imaginary comparisons.

Though some scholars see Newton as a deist who rejected an interventionist god, what actually seemed to interest Newton most was prophecies. He thought the world might end in 2060. Other possible dates (arrived at by calculation) were 2034 and 2016. Rome, the seat of the papacy and thus Anti-Christ, would sink into the sea due to volcanic explosion. 



All journeys have secret destinations of which the traveler is unaware. ~ Martin Buber

Blackstone Canal, MA; Claire Delavigne  


~ "If there be no God — there can be no soul — if there is no Soul then Jesus — You also are not true.” ~ Mother Teresa, 1959, in a letter

"Jesus has a very special love for you. As for me, the silence and the emptiness is so great that I look and do not see, listen and do not hear," she wrote to the Rev. Michael van der Peet in September 1979.

(Oriana: I really identify with that. The silence and emptiness, no matter how attentive I was to what might be even the slightest evidence of god’s existence, finally revealed this: I’d been praying to empty air.)

"I spoke as if my very heart was in love with God -- tender, personal love," she wrote to one adviser. "If you were (there), you would have said, 'What hypocrisy.’"

Mother Teresa’s letters nonetheless stand in marked contrast to her public image as a selfless and tireless minister for the poor who was driven by faith.

"I've never read a saint's life where the saint has such an intense spiritual darkness. No one knew she was that tormented," the Rev. James Martin, an editor at Jesuit magazine America and the author of "My Life with the Saints," told Time.

"Please pray specially for me that I may not spoil His work and that Our Lord may show Himself — for there is such terrible darkness within me, as if everything was dead," she wrote in 1953. "It has been like this more or less from the time I started 'the work.'"

Then in 1956: "Such deep longing for God — and ... repulsed — empty — no faith — no love — no zeal. (Saving) souls holds no attraction — Heaven means nothing — pray for me please that I keep smiling at Him in spite of everything."

And then in 1959: "If there be no God — there can be no soul — if there is no Soul then Jesus — You also are not true.”

At times she also found it hard to pray.

"I utter words of community prayers — and try my utmost to get out of every word the sweetness it has to give — but my prayer of union is not there any longer — I no longer pray." 

St. John of the Cross

From another source:

~ "She says in a letter, 'I came to India with the desire to love Jesus as he has never been loved before,'" [her editor] said. "She was a woman passionately in love with Jesus."

Yet no sooner did Teresa start her work in the slums of Calcutta than she began to feel the intense absence of Jesus — a state that lasted until her death, according to her letters.

In a letter estimated to be from 1961, Teresa wrote: "Darkness is such that I really do not see — neither with my mind nor with my reason — the place of God in my soul is blank — There is no God in me — when the pain of longing is so great — I just long and long for God. … The torture and pain I can't explain.”

Catholic saints typically experience a "dark night of the soul" in the words of 16th-century priest St. John of the Cross, Martin said, but never as long as the "whole working life" Teresa experienced.


Possibly some readers are puzzled by Teresa’s view that her great longing to have faith has been “repulsed.” The fact that she could not feel the presence of god or see any evidence of his existence led Mother Teresa to conclude not that god didn’t in fact exist; rather, he existed and deliberately rejected her. This peculiar conclusion stems from the teachings of the church: faith is a gift that could be granted or withheld by god.

This used to puzzle me: why would god give the gift of faith (and thus the chance to escape eternal damnation) only to some but not to the majority of people (by “faith” the church meant of course the Roman Catholic doctrine)? Furthermore, the most ardent believers seemed to be uneducated elderly women. The poorly educated in general were more likely to have been given the “gift of faith.” 


A preface is always bad and a translator’s preface positively immoral. But, sometimes, like immorality, a necessary thing. The only preface of a work is the reader’s brain. ~ Fernando Pessoa

A swamp sunset; Haley Hyatt


Yes, you read that correctly: they recovered MORE SLOWLY. This is almost as startling as the results of the famous 2006 STEP prayer study, in which those patients who knew they were being prayed for experienced significantly more post-surgery complications. But perhaps we shouldn’t be surprised. We have several studies by now that show that cultivating fantasies of already having accomplished the goal tends to lessen your efforts to achieve the goal. I think it’s related to the phenomenon well-known to writers: “talking out the book” may prevent them from ever writing the book. The drive to write is gone.

What also caught my attention is one of the readers’ comments:

“Positive thinking demands ego, demands your mental hard drive. Not that you shouldn't think -- please, reality test things. But letting go of thinking and willing and pushing can have something to do with activating intuitive thinking, which can be much more powerful and useful.”

Here is an excerpt from the New Yorker article:

~ “Since publishing “The Secret,” in 2006, the Australian author Rhonda Byrne has been writing self-help manifestos based on the idea that people who think positive thoughts are rewarded with happiness, wealth, influence, wisdom, and success.

There’s no denying that many people have found comfort in Byrne’s ideas. Like religion, they offer an appealing, non-technical solution to life’s biggest problems while demanding nothing more of their adherents than faith. (Indeed, “The Secret” features verses from Matthew and Mark, promoting the idea that people receive in life what they seek in prayer.) But while many people give religion a pass because it claims to focus on questions that can’t be answered with science, the same is not true of success. Though Byrne presents her ideas without evidence, we can measure their worth with data.

According to a great deal of research, positive fantasies may lessen your chances of succeeding. In one experiment, the social psychologists Gabriele Oettingen and Doris Mayer asked eighty-three German students to rate the extent to which they “experienced positive thoughts, images, or fantasies on the subject of transition into work life, graduating from university, looking for and finding a job.” Two years later, they approached the same students and asked about their post-college job experiences. Those who harbored positive fantasies put in fewer job applications, received fewer job offers, and ultimately earned lower salaries. The same was true in other contexts, too. Students who fantasized were less likely to ask their romantic crushes on a date and more likely to struggle academically. Hip-surgery patients also recovered more slowly when they dwelled on positive fantasies of walking without pain.

Heather Barry Kappes, a management professor at the London School of Economics, has published similar research with Oettingen. I asked Kappes why fantasies hamper progress, and she told me that they dull the will to succeed: “Imagining a positive outcome conveys the sense that you’re approaching your goals, which takes the edge off the need to achieve.” Oettingen and Kappes asked two groups of undergraduates to imagine the coming week. One group fantasized that the week would go as well as possible, whereas the other group conjured a more neutral version of the week. One week later, when the students returned to the lab, the positive fantasizers felt that they had accomplished less over the previous week.” ~

Since I know it may be difficult to accept the idea that “positive thinking” could have bad effects, here is an excerpt from another source:

~ “One of the experiments tested whether water-deprived participants would experience an energy drain from visualizing a glass of icy cold water (a simple but elegant study design) and found that indeed, in even something so basic, the brain responds as if the goal has been reached.

From a "proof is in the pudding" standpoint, the research showed that participants told to visualize attaining goals throughout the course of the week ended up attaining far fewer goals than a control group told they could mull over the week's challenges any way they liked. The positive visualizers also self-reported feeling less energetic than the control group, and physiological tests supported their claim.

So if not crafting positive fantasies of success, what might be a better use of our time and imagination?  Kappes and Oettingen suggest we try critical visualization, in which realistic obstacles, setbacks, and other decidedly not-so-positive factors are considered. Even failure itself, in all its rawness, should be thrown in and dabbled with as a possible outcome. As odd as it sounds, this research suggests that even random daydreaming is less deflating than positive fantasizing.” ~


The critical statement seems to be “the brain responds as if the goal has been reached.” Mission accomplished — so energy need not be expended actually doing anything.

This is similar to the formation of false memories. Imagining one’s Ph.D. dissertation as already written could be the worst way to motivate yourself to get started.

Maybe we should let go of these visualizations, affirmations, and other attempts to manipulate the self and the future — and instead open up to the surprises that well up from the unconscious. My guiding principle is simply trusting the unconscious. You don’t have to teach a child how to play, or a dog how to sniff. Likewise, you don’t need to try to “guide” your fantasies. Stop “pushing.” If you like to fantasize, just let it happen.

ending on beauty:

“O, grief hath changed me since you saw me last,
And careful hours with Time's deformed hand
Have written strange defeatures in my face.
But tell me yet, dost thou not know my voice?”

~ William Shakespeare, The Comedy of Errors

“Defeatures” seems a wonderful combination of “defeats” and “features.” “Seems” is the critical word here — and yet the moment I noticed the word, I felt utter delight. Another example of how the content of poetry can be sad, and yet it’s not distressing — our pleasure in the art prevails. 

Sunday, February 19, 2017


Woman Peeling Apples, Pieter de Hooch, 1663. We never cease to be charmed by those quiet interiors. By the way, the mother is giving the peel to the little girl to eat — good-tasting, and good for health. 


When you consider the radiance, that it does not withhold
itself but pours its abundance without selection into every
nook and cranny not overhung or hidden; when you consider

that birds’ bones make no awful noise against the light but
lie low in the light as in a high testimony; when you consider
the radiance, that it will look into the guiltiest

swervings of the weaving heart and bear itself upon them,
not flinching into disguise or darkening; when you consider
the abundance of such resource as illuminates the glow-blue

bodies and gold-skeined wings of flies swarming the dumped
guts of a natural slaughter or the coil of shit and in no
way winces from its storms of generosity; when you consider

that air or vacuum, snow or shale, squid or wolf, rose or lichen,
each is accepted into as much light as it will take, then
the heart moves roomier, the man stands and looks about, the

leaf does not increase itself above the grass, and the dark
work of the deepest cells is of a tune with May bushes
and fear lit by the breadth of such calmly turns to praise.

~ A.R. (Archibald Randolph) Ammons

Not really my favorite — I like those poems where Ammons talks to the mountain or the wind. This one is somewhat too abstract and didactic, not personal or intimate enough to engage me — but it’s one of those poems that ends up in anthologies. I do like the repetition of the unpromising phrase “when you consider,” and I very much like this passage:

. . . when you consider

that birds’ bones make no awful noise against the light but
lie low in the light as in a high testimony; when you consider
the radiance, that it will look into the guiltiest

swervings of the weaving heart and bear itself upon them,
not flinching into disguise or darkening

~ yes, these are the lines that leave no doubt: this man has music within him, and a very good mind (it takes brains to be a good poet; brains and music).


from the Paris Review


You said you wanted to eliminate Western culture from your poetry. Why?


Well, I sort of disagree with it.


With the Cartesian mind, or with what? The philosophical tradition of the West? The Roman sense of justice?


If I get back to the pre-Socratics, I feel that I’m in the kind of world that I would enjoy being in, but nothing since then. Especially in the last two thousand years, dominated by Christianity and the Catholic church and other religious organizations. I feel more nearly myself aligned with Oriental culture.


I’ve always been curious about why you’ve traveled so little. I think you spent a year in Italy.


Three months. We had the traveling fellowship of the American Academy of Arts and Letters, which was for a year, but we came back after three months. I lost twenty pounds and I couldn’t wait to get home.


You didn’t care for the experience of being an expatriate?


I hated it. I’m not interested in all that cultural crap. It was just a waste of time for me.


Maybe this is part of what you were talking about before when you spoke of your rejection of Western culture, by which I take it you mean more specifically a rejection of Europe or of European cultural domination.




But it occurred to me that one reason you have traveled very little is . . .


There’s no place to go.


There’s no place to go?


Yeah, that’s a good reason not to travel. Well, I’m interested in the Orient, but I’m really not interested in going there. I’m not interested in Europe. I have no interest whatsoever in going there. Every now and then I go to Owego and sometimes I go to Syracuse, sometimes to Geneva, Binghamton—all over the place.


Geneva, New York, rather than Geneva, Switzerland.


Geneva, New York, right.


It occurred to me that another reason might be that you’d already done a considerable journey in going from your origins on the coastal plain of North Carolina to the hills and lakes of central New York state. A critic could spin a parable about the northward progression of your life—from a state that was part of the Confederacy to a university town in . . .


In the Emersonian tradition. In fact there is an essay about how I came to the north and took over the Emersonian tradition.


I thought you had decided to become influenced by Emerson only after Bloom told you that you’d been.


That’s basically correct, except that I did have a course on Emerson and Thoreau at Wake Forest. The professor was basically a preacher, however, who treated the hour as an occasion for sermonizing. But yes—it’s a marriage of the South to the North.


What is?


The movement of my life.


Are you conscious of being a southerner here?


I don’t hear my own voice, but of course everyone else does and I’m sure they’re all conscious of the fact that I’m southern, but I am mostly not conscious of it. In the first years, I was tremendously nostalgic, constantly longing for the South—for one’s life, for one’s origin, for one’s kindred. Now I feel more at home here than I would in the South. But I don’t feel at home—I’ll never feel at home—anywhere.


poet gossip: Emerging from a local eatery, A.R. Ammons allegedly said to Denise Levertov, “What are those yellow flowers?” She: “Archie, you're supposed to be a nature poet; those

are daffodils!


~ “Why the world didn’t turn out quite the world Orwell imagined is the subject of Ira Katznelson’s fascinating and slightly dark “Fear Itself.” The semi-darkness has to do with what Katznelson thinks happened to the New Deal revolution after the death of Roosevelt, his account of how a belief in the common good gave way to a central government dominated by interest-group politics and obsessed with national security. 

Roosevelt is one of the most enigmatic figures in American politics. When he first took the oath of office, on March 4, 1933, he was considered by people to be a lightweight. Roosevelt was neither self-reflective nor a deep thinker. “His knowledge of political and constitutional history and theory was distinctly limited,” his one-time aide and speechwriter Raymond Mooley wrote. “During all the time I was associated with him I never knew him to read a serious book.”

There was steel within, of course, but Roosevelt’s usual manner was casual and blithe. He seems to have meant exactly what he said when he was asked once what his philosophy was: “Philosophy? Philosophy? I am a Christian and a Democrat — that’s all.”

Voters trusted Roosevelt to lead the country through eight years of economic desolation, followed by a two-front war, because of his personality. He warned in his first Inaugural Address: “the only thing we have to fear is fear itself—nameless, unreasoning, unjustified terror which paralyzes needed efforts to convert retreat into advance,” and he seemed fearless himself. Oliver Wendell Holmes’s judgment is often quoted: “A second-class intellect, but a first-class temperament.” Roosevelt was buoyant, good-humored, and a great optimist. In the crisis, optimism was what people needed.

But it was a different talent that enabled Roosevelt to accomplish what he did as Chief Executive — to remain in office for more than twelve years and to preside over the repurposing of government, the salvation of capitalism, and the destruction of fascism. He loved politics. “His mental processes,” as Moley put it,
were essentially political.”

This understates the case a little. Roosevelt wasn’t merely a political pragmatist, someone who is less interested in the ideological provenance of a policy than in its effectiveness — although he was. He was creative. He saw that government was being underutilized, and he tried out ideas that no President had thought to try out before and found a way to put them into practice. He was an experimentalist.

In a period of depression and totalitarianism, the New Deal proved that liberal democracy still worked. Didn’t the Crash and the Great Depression, and the frighteningly successful job that Mussolini, Stalin, and Hitler were doing the advance the industrial and military strength of their countries, prove that capitalism and democracy were inefficient, uncoordinated, and obsolete, and that something different — bureaucratic collectivism, the managerial state, or simply enlightened dictatorship — was not only inevitable but possibly morally necessary?

The promise of Roosevelt was the promise that, despite what looked like the tide of history, democracy would survive. This was not a promise only to Americans. It was read as a promise to the world. 

Making liberal democracy work in the years of the Depression and the war meant compromising with elected officials who were illiberal and undemocratic. Roosevelt understood politics, and stayed away from the issue of segregation.” ~ 

[the rest of the review focuses on the problems of dealing with the South and the post-war breakdown of the Democratic Party]

from “How the Deal Went Down” by Louis Menand, The New Yorker, March 4, 2013


Oh glory days when pundits would complain that FDR was not a “deep thinker”! 

For a serious look at what the world would look like if FDR happened to lose to the 1930s America First nationalists, read the visionary and absolutely terrifying The Man in the High Castle by P.K. Dick and The Plot Against America by Philip Roth.


Soon after posting, I discovered a thought-provoking article on trust versus the perception of competence. FDR excelled in inspiring trust. In terms of competence, he was always improvising. There was no long-term plan, nor did he understand fiscal policy. If we believe the sources, he was indeed not a deep thinker. But he had incredible strength of character (a man crippled by polio!), and that famous warmth.

Re: FDR’s self-definition as a Christian. He was certainly no fundamentalist. Back in FDR’s days being a Christian meant trying to be a good person who follows the teachings of Christ especially about helping the poor. It was about compassion. Today we have a travesty.

But especially back then, saying you’re a Christian, implying you were a good person, helped inspire trust.

Here is a bit of the short article on trust and competence:

~ “In her new book, "Presence," Harvard professor Amy Cuddy says that people quickly answer two questions when they first meet you:

    Can I trust this person?
    Can I respect this person?

Psychologists refer to these dimensions as warmth and competence, respectively, and ideally you want to be perceived as having both.

Cuddy says that most people, especially in a professional context, believe that competence is the more important factor. After all, they want to prove that they are smart and talented enough to handle your business.

But in fact, warmth, or trustworthiness, is the most important factor in how people evaluate you.

While competence is highly valued, Cuddy says that it is evaluated only after trust is established.

~ “A warm, trustworthy person who is also strong elicits admiration, but only after you've established trust does your strength become a gift rather than a threat.” ~

Satan is feeling neglected these days. Too much competition. 

~ “People are compelling when they are a little bit out of reach. Not too inaccessible, but somewhat. A woman who has to take herself away each day to work on something creative is very attractive. A person who has nothing to do but you is boring. Something ought to get between lovers — a little threatening, but not too much so.” ~ (from Facebook; not mine, but my view exactly)


~ “The Combat Myth is a supernatural battle between order and chaos (or good and evil) that we see in mythologies of civilizations throughout the Ancient Near East, culminating with Judaism. Yahweh isn’t a remarkable god, different from the made-up gods in surrounding cultures. Instead, his story is just one stage in a long line of mythology. If the Akkadian god Anzu or the Babylonian god Marduk are obvious myths, Yahweh is the same.

While the Mesopotamian myths are unfamiliar to most of us, we see a hint in Greek mythology. Zeus wasn’t always the chief god of the Greek pantheon but took that role from his father Cronos. And Cronos succeeded his own father, Uranus. Though there are important differences, this succession is common to the Combat Myth.

1. Akkadian myth: Ninurta defeats Anzu

The Akkadian Empire followed Sumer as the primary Mesopotamian civilization. This myth developed about a thousand years before the Yahweh story in the Old Testament.

In the Akkadian pantheon, Enlil was the king of the gods. Kingship was invested in the god who possessed the Tablet of Destinies, which showed all that has happened and all that will happen.

The griffin-like Anzu, assistant to Enlil, steals the Tablet and flies away. Chaos threatens the order of the gods. Kingship will go to the god who restores order, but none steps up to respond to the challenge. Finally, Ninurta, an unimportant god to that point, volunteers.

Besides being able to fly, Anzu has two useful powers. One is that he can make all his feathers fly out and then come back, which distracts his opponents. The other is that he can disassemble things (such as arrows shot at him) into their component parts. And, of course, he has the Tablet, which is handy for seeing what an opponent is about to do.

The first battle is a stalemate. Anzu is able to disassemble Ninurta’s arrows. But Ninurta enters the second battle with a new stratagem. He shoots an arrow disguised as a feather at just the right moment so that it’s lost in Anzu’s cloud of feathers. Anzu pulls the feathers back in and is killed by the arrow. Order is restored, and Ninurta ascends to become the king of the gods.

Anzu, the Accadian chaos monster

The Combat Myth

From this, let’s distill out the Combat Myth. It begins with a chaotic threat to the council of the gods. None of the gods from the older generation is willing to face the challenge, but one young god steps up. He defeats the monster and becomes the new chief god. This structure is constant, though the details are customized in subsequent civilizations.

Two features are not shared by all examples. In some, we see the hero god dying and being reborn in the process. Also, our human world is sometimes created from the carcass of the slain chaos monster.

2. Babylonian myth: Marduk defeats Tiamat

This story comes from the Enuma Elish, the Babylonian creation epic. In the beginning were Tiamat, the female serpent or dragon who was salt water, and Absu, the male god who was the fresh water.

(I’ve written more about how the Genesis story parallels the Mesopotamian myth of a saltwater dome above the primordial earth and a fresh water ocean underneath.)

Tiamat and Absu create a generation of younger gods who become too noisy for Absu’s liking. He plans to kill them all, but they learn of his plan and kill him first. Tiamat is furious.

Marduk the storm god steps up to respond. He kills Tiamat, forms the universe from her body, and installs himself as king of the gods.

3. Ugaritic myth: Baal defeats Yam and then Mot

This myth comes from Ugarit, just north of Israel. It’s dated to roughly 1300 BCE. This is the environment from which Judaism emerged.

Our historical record is fragmentary, but El is the chief god, and Baal (“Lord”) volunteers to fight the chaos threat. (Yes, these are the same El and Baal mentioned in the Old Testament.) He uses a supernatural club to kill Yam (“Sea”), the serpent-like sea god. Some variations give Yam seven heads and use Lotan and Leviathan as synonyms.

Next, Baal fights Mot (“Death”), another threat to order. Baal dies in this battle but is brought back to life to finally overcome Mot.

4. Israelite myth: Yahweh defeats Leviathan

Early Judaism had the same council of the gods as in Ugaritic mythology. (I’ve written more on Israelite polytheism.) Yahweh is a son of El (also called Elyon) and was just one of many in the council of the gods.

    When Elyon divided the nations, when he separated the sons of Adam, he established the borders of the nations according to the number of the sons of the gods. Yahweh’s portion was his people, [Israel] his allotted inheritance. (Deuteronomy 32:8–9)

Yahweh was assigned Israel, and other gods in the council were given their own tribes to rule.

We see the Bible’s version of the Combat Myth in Psalms 89:5–12. First, Yahweh has taken his place as king of the council of the gods.

    The heavens praise your wonders, Yahweh, your faithfulness too, in the assembly of the holy ones. For who in the skies above can compare with Yahweh? Who is like Yahweh among the heavenly beings? In the council of the holy ones God is greatly feared; he is more awesome than all who surround him.

Yahweh has slain the chaos monster Rahab (yet another name for the sea monster).

    You rule over the surging sea; when its waves mount up, you still them. You crushed Rahab like one of the slain; with your strong arm you scattered your enemies.

Finally, Yahweh created the earth.

    The heavens are yours, and yours also the earth; you founded the world and all that is in it.

We read a similar retelling in Psalms 74, where Yahweh is credited with creation. But first, he defeated the monster(s):

    It was you who split open the sea [Yam] by your power; you broke the heads of the monster in the waters. It was you who crushed the heads of Leviathan and gave it as food to the creatures of the desert. (Ps. 74:13–14)

We see this multi-headed dragon both looking back as Lotan in Ugaritic mythology and looking forward as the sea dragon in Revelation 13.

With Yahweh as just one more step in the evolution of the Combat Myth, little besides wishful thinking supports the idea that he alone is for real.” ~


If not for having learned about other mythologies, I don't know if I would have been intellectually ripe for leaving the church in my teens. Not that I knew anything as sophisticated as the evolution of the Combat Myth. For me the Greek mythology was THE mythology, though names like Gilgamesh and Osiris were just beginning to mean something too (not yet in detail). But just classical mythology was enough for finally grasping it's all mythology, all made up -- all the gods.

Yahweh, detail of tapestry designed by Pieter Coecke van der Aeist; Palazzo Pitti. To me, the red-gold robe has a Chinese feel.


How did modern freedom in the West come about? Samuel Moyn, in his review of Larry Siedentop’s Inventing the Individual: The Origins of Western Liberalism, gives us this summary: “There was a time before the individual: the ancient world, in which individuals were wholly subordinated to family structures. No matter that admirers from the Renaissance and Enlightenment appealed to the classical past in order to attack Christian oppression, Siedentop says: they ignored the fact that no ancient society embraced the value of individual freedom. “They failed to notice,” Siedentop comments mordantly, “that the ancient family began as a veritable church.” 

Neither Jesus nor Paul—the revolutionary whose influence Siedentop credits most—was committed to political change or institutional reform in this world, which both thought was ending soon. Their depreciation of worldly accomplishment sundered their commitment to the moral value of human beings—including those Jesus calls “the least of these”—from any truly political vision. If the founders of Christianity made individuals matter, and matter equally, it was not for the sake of a new set of beliefs about the social order, let alone a new liberal politics.

Siedentop notes
Paul’s “imagery of casting off the shackles of slavery, a potent image in a world where slavery remained such a basic institution.” But he fails to mention that Paul relied on that image only in describing what Christianity would achieve for the soul after death. In his letter to the Ephesians, Paul counseled followers to dutifully accept the shackles of the body in this life. “The offer of dignity through belief in Christ did not openly challenge patriarchy or servitude,” Siedentop later acknowledges, but it didn’t challenge patriarchy or servitude implicitly either.

There is a major difficulty for anyone, including Siedentop, who tells a Christian story of liberalism’s origins. They must explain how, against its original purposes, the Gospel’s message was brought down to earth, applied right now to radically new aims and institutions that Jesus and Paul would not have accepted. The reversal is stark: from a refusal of the relevance of Christian moral beliefs’ to politics to a revolution in this-worldly assumptions about the subordination of individuals to hierarchy. You need an argument to show how this happened. Siedentop doesn’t really have one. He just knows the reversal occurred.

Siedentop plausibly suggests that hopes of imminent redemption had to be given up in exchange for indefinite expectation, which came about thanks to figures such as St. Augustine. But when he comes to the problem of institutionalization, Siedentop constantly substitutes conclusion for explanation. “A moral revolution was under way,” he writes. “The rhetoric of the Christian people was undermining a whole conception of society.” Sure, but how? “By the end of the tenth century Christian moral intuitions were giving rise to a new sensibility.” That this occurred is the problem demanding a solution, not the solution itself.

At best Siedentop’s narrative repeats the shortcomings of the introduction to Democracy in America, where Tocqueville makes vague allusions to the slow work of Christianity in equalizing men, neglecting the vast chasm that separated the moral equality of Christians from the political equality of modern doctrine. So Inventing the Individual mostly amounts to an argument that, after Jesus’s message, it just took a while for liberalism to complete its metamorphosis and come out of its Christian shell. At least Tocqueville could rely on the claim that God’s providence unfolds in mysterious ways. We cannot.

. . . The richest entry comes from Gauchet, the French thinker who also founded his career on the revival of nineteenth-century liberalism and, in The Disenchantment of the World (1985), specifically took up how and why Christianity birthed individualism.

For Gauchet, the secret lies in monotheism’s unique approach to God’s transcendence, which made the divine so otherworldly that man became more autonomous in consequence. Christianity in particular severed the monotheistic promise from terrestrial fulfillment in the Promised Land and inscribed it “in the soul’s inner recesses,” a step that, as Gauchet puts it, “[intensified] divine exteriority in relation to creation.”

The same revolution that alienated individuals in relation to the world inadvertently prepared their independence from the divine and deprived politics of any sacred meaning. Siedentop observes that, as a matter of the history of language, the “individual” emerged more or less simultaneously with the “state.” Gauchet insists this is no accident, since the early modern kings who founded the absolutist state completed the long-term transition whereby secular political authority no longer incarnates the divine—that only Jesus could do—but represents the will of individuals. The social contract was thus born as authority in politics ultimately needed to come from the ground up, rather than heaven down.” ~ Samuel Moyn


Ludwig Richter, in his comment on “Did Christianity create liberalism?” in the Boston Review, writes about the “spirit versus the letter” essence of Christianity:

~ “It seems to me that an obvious distinction between Christianity and even other monotheistic religions such as Judaism and Islam is that Christianity aims to substitute the "Holy Spirit" for the letter of the law. Judaism and Islam are religions where there was never intended to be a distinction between political and religious authority. They come with detailed codes of law and behavior meant to govern all aspects of life. Christianity, from the outset, called for a kind of internalization of the law, a substitution of inner virtue and pious belief for public obedience to laws and norms. Traditional Judaism and Islam are much more indifferent to what one believes  “in one's heart,” so long as one abides by the religious law.

It is that abdication from any attempt to comprehensive legislation of the outer realm that distinguishes Christianity and makes possible the later separation of Church and State and the existence of the State as an autonomous body. The groundwork for liberalism can, then, later be laid by thinkers such as Hobbes, who imagine the State as a bulwark against, inter alia, religious wars. People can believe what they want, but the State has supreme authority over their bodily lives. It is not such a long step from here to the idea that the State is indifferent to individual's private beliefs and can tolerate a diversity of belief systems so long as those individuals are good, law-abiding citizens.” ~


I think best illumination comes from Richter’s comment: Christianity did not attempt to create the kind of religious law that governed every detail of life (Calvin went a long way in that direction, but his experiment didn’t last.) Observance (“the law”) simply wasn’t the essence of Christianity. Following the spirit was more important (at least theoretically). Unfortunately, stirring up fear of an external enemy (never mind “Love thy enemy”) seems to always work against the essence of Christianity.

Of course modern Judaism (Conservative and Reform) is not obsessed with observance and is classified with liberal religions, up there with liberal Protestantism.

And it could be argued that the roots of Jesus' liberalism are of course Judaic. He represented one of the more liberal sects at the time, opposing the oppressive Sabbath rules, for instance ("Sabbath was created for man, not man for the Sabbath"). 

This was a very illuminating article precisely because it did not provide any clear answer — rather, it reminded the reader of the principle that nothing is all good or all bad. Usually we take it for granted that religion is a major obstacle to progress. The recent devolution of Islam toward its more repressive traditions seems to confirm this attitude. But one can find sparks of progressive attitudes even in Islam. The case of Christianity is far more good-mixed-with-bad because there is no denying the progressive, quasi-socialist Christian rhetoric that can’t be separated from the teachings of Christ.

True, neither Jesus nor Paul nor the early Christians were interested in changing society so as to eliminate poverty, for instance. They were apocalypticists: the world was supposed to end soon, so investing in it was pure foolishness. You weren’t even supposed to get married (it wasn’t forbidden, just not advisable), or file a law suit — because the end could come literally at any moment. Frankly, there was no time even for family obligations: “let the dead bury the dead.” 

And the least you could do is sell your possessions and give the money to the poor.

The Second Coming was to take place in Paul’s lifetime. As Paul writes: “For the Lord himself will descend from heaven with a shout of command, with the voice of an archangel and the trumpet of God. The dead in Christ will rise first; then we, who are left alive, will be snatched up with them on clouds to meet the Lord in the air; and so we shall always be with the Lord” (1 Thessalonians 4:16-17).

Note “we, who are left alive.” Paul didn’t think he’d die first (what a bummer, to die and lie in decomposing in the earth!)

And yet — you were supposed to feed the hungry and clothe the naked, visit the sick and those in prisons, and “love thy neighbor” in general. The pacifist message was also undeniable. Never mind that those ideals would be constantly betrayed. The fact that they existed was very powerful. It was a constant command to be a caring person. And that, I think — the endlessly repeated message of compassion — carried in it the impulse toward building a more caring social system.

This was not explicit. Jesus did not say “Let us build socialism.” God alone would create the new earth and the new heaven. Nevertheless, the gospels left no doubt that your task in life was not to amass wealth, or win wars, or otherwise “be a success.” Your duty was to help others. You were to be a caring, loving person and not a selfish, greedy pig. Loving and caring —  how soft these words are, seemingly powerless. But — never underestimate the power of an ideal.

The irony is that today’s right-wing gun-carrying American Jesus bears no resemblance to any past Jesus (an ever-evolving mythical figure), and it’s the secular humanitarians who are allied with Pope Francis. But it’s precisely those rich ironies that make life so interesting.
I like this portrait of St Augustine with the flaming back of his head (in lieu of the halo, I suppose) and the flaming heart in his hand -- perhaps to symbolize Augustine's radical (and arguably dangerous) statement, "Love God and do as you will." The painter is Philippe de Champaigne, 1650.


Don’t be so humble. You’re not that great. ~ Golda Meir

Young Golda Meir -- who knew she was such a hot babe?


~ “I just knew I didn’t believe the nonsense anymore, so “non-believer” initially was what I was. It took years before I actually conceptualized and realized that my faith was now in reason, science, family, love, music, art, empathy, etc. I never did feel or think that I’d “lost” my faith. To me it was that I had escaped the brainwashing of a cult and found an entirely new life. I did realize how indoctrination had stunted my intellectual development and that I was playing catch up.” ~ Dean A. Aughinbaugh (Mason Lane), author of “Justifiable Homicide? Growing Up a Baptist Fundamentalist” (he was actually an ordained minister; when he announced his non-belief individually to members of his congregation, they refused to believe him)

fortunately medieval cathedrals can (and these days usually are) be visited between services


Embodiment refers to the idea that we humans have bodies, and that these bodies matter for how we behave and how we think. It may seem odd that such a blindingly obvious truism should get religion scholars all in a tizzy, but the fact is that most of Western culture has assumed that bodies are unimportant appendages to the mind since, well, Aristotle – who argued that the most exalted philosophy was completely disconnected from bodily or practical concerns, such as how to build a bridge or heal people. For Aristotle and most of the Western intellectual tradition since his time, bodily things have been associated with women, slaves, and the lowly. What really matters, what’s really important, are abstract, purely intellectual endeavors – unencumbered by the flesh.

This attitude – Yay intellect! Boo to bodies! – is alive and well in today’s supposedly enlightened culture, where it practically serves as the rallying motto for thousands of researchers and excitable pundits in the cognitive sciences, AI research, and the tech industries. In cognitive science and artificial intelligence research, for instance, symbolic or computational models of intelligence have typically dominated. These models assume that intelligence can be reduced to the pure algorithmic manipulation of abstract symbols, such as words and numbers.

In this representation-based paradigm, intelligence doesn’t need a body at all in order to exist, but could be stored in a completely abstract space – such as the inside of a computer program. As Hilary Putnam put it, we could all be brains in vats!

Here’s the thing, though: symbolic approaches to artificial intelligence don’t work. Symbol-based artificial intelligence programs simply can’t learn, recognize patterns, or coordinate motion very well, for instance. Because of these failures, it’s become increasingly apparent to keen-minded AI researchers that it’s time to think beyond reducing intelligence and consciousness to symbolic algorithms.

EMBODIED COGNITION is one alternative to “the-brain-is-a-computer” models of intelligence. For embodied cognition theorists like neuroscientist Antonio Damasio, our mental processes fundamentally depend on physical processes and context. These claims are supported by experimental research that shows, for example, that it’s harder to recognize negative words when the facial muscles responsible for smiles are engaged (and more difficult to recognize positive words when we’re frowning). 

Damasio argues that emotional bodily states are fundamental ingredients of decision-making, and therefore central to the structure of intelligence. (His insights draw on philosopher and psychologist William James, who famously argued that changing our bodily postures — standing up straight, for example — affects our cognition.)

Embodied cognition models insist that what goes on in our muscles, our guts, and on the surface of our skin actually matters for our thinking. And the evidence is increasingly behind them. A brain in a vat would lack physical sensations. This means, for example, that it wouldn’t be able to feel fear – because fear is the tensing of the stomach muscles, the dilating of pupils, the flushing of the skin. If you’re not feeling physically tense, you’re not feeling afraid. Emotion, then, isn’t just a symbol. It’s an experience. And because emotion is absolutely indispensable to human information processing, it’s not clear that we could even call a brain in a vat “intelligent” at all, no matter how many neurons it had. This is why AI researcher and roboticist Rodney Brooks argues that only robots with fully-functional bodies could ever be intelligent: because bodies are what it takes to be conscious.

A splendidly written recent article in the New York Times Magazine offers a perfect example of why embodied learning is necessary. The process by which taxi drivers in London learn the entirety of the London street grid and all its landmarks through actually traveling the streets is so intense that their hippocampi grow to be bigger than other people’s. The ordeal is called gaining “the Knowledge.” And as GPS systems and other automatized, algorithm-based tools for navigating a city as cumbersome as London proliferate, cab drivers who have attained the Knowledge are showing why first-person, embodied knowledge is so important: they can actually maintain and synthesize more information that is relevant to particular scenarios. You want to get from Piccadilly to an obscure pub in the East End without hitting any traffic lights, and avoiding rush-hour traffic? GPS can’t help you there. But London cabbies can. They use their gut knowledge of the entirety of the city to quantifiably outperform GPS systems in real-life situations.

Religious experience is something that comes from what bodies do [e.g. bowing and kneeling and other submissive body postures, making the sign of the cross]. And that goes for a tremendous amount of human life besides. If you want to understand religion, or culture, or London, you need to understand humans. And if you want to understand humans, you need to understand bodies. Our increasingly disembodied, tech-driven lives aren’t making that any easier.

Oana Farcas: Study of Francis Bacon in his studio, 2011

Everyone has talent. What is rare is the courage to follow that talent to the dark places it leads. ~ Erica Jong

Dali: A Mad Tea Party, 1969

ending on beauty:

Laughter restores the universe to its original state of indifference and strangeness. If it has a meaning, it’s a divine one, not a human one. ~ Octavio Paz

 Natural Bridge Cave, Calaveras County, California