The Frenchie and The Logical Error of Subjective Reality

I recently read an article in First Things about Heidegger by David Bentley Hart. It was a real good piece. Hart does what every good writer on Heidegger should do: make Heidegger comprehensible without losing his opaque and poetic incomprehensiveness.

The article touches lightly on Descartes. Heidegger, like Nietzsche, saw Descartes as the beginning of, or at least a major development in, the decline of Western thought – specifically, for Heidegger, Western thought’s discussion of Being/being. To be fair, Heidegger saw the foundational problem in Plato, in the Greek tendency to solidify and eternalize things not solid or eternal, and to create and sustain categories for things that are un-categorize-able.

But this whole conversation about Descartes got me re-thinking about the crazy, Catholic Frenchie. Descartes holds a significant place in my heart. Reading his Meditations on First Philosophy in my Introduction to Philosophy class was incredibly powerful and memorable. The initial framework for the text is narrative and easy to follow, and this made the ideas embedded within the narrative easy to follow. As a college freshman, Descartes’ hyperbolic doubt was both freeing and melancholic – and I don’t think you can ask for much more for a college freshman.

In more recent history, I still return to Descartes. As much as I reject the basic conclusion in Meditations, this is mainly because Descartes cannot rebuild what he destroys: his hyperbolic doubt is too powerful for his reworking of Anselm’s deontological argument for God. However, I often return to his initial premise – i.e. What is it that we can really know for sure? – and, although I reject Descartes’ path to surety, it is because of his failure to provide this surety that I am left with initial question: Can we know anything for sure?

Now, I know ways of answering this, and I’m satisfied with these sorts of arguments. The major issue is Descartes and others’ use of “knowledge” and how we “know” things. Still, it remains obvious to me that, according to a painstakingly strict empirical mode of epistemology, I can’t really prove anything but my existence. I can’t reason my way, empirically, outside of my own brain. But I’m not concerned with this problem or my own reasons why it isn’t really a problem. Instead, I’m concerned with the improper logical leap people make after accepting a certain set of his principles.

Philosophical historians, rightfully so, point to Descartes as pivotal in the development of subjective thought. Quite simply, he begins by saying we can only prove our own individual existence, and only from this point can we prove anything else. Whether or not you accept this premise is unimportant to my commentary. Let’s say, for the sake of the argument, that you do accept it. Let’s hypothetically agree that the only thing we can prove is our existence via our thought, our doubt – or, more appropriately, everything additional we can prove comes after and hinges upon our proof that we in fact exist.

What I’ve recently come to take issue with is where people go from this point. Even if we assume our proof of everything else in the world begins with proof of our own subjective existence – and even if this makes all other proof in some way subjective – this does not mean that all of reality is somehow defined through human existence. Our lens might be chosen for us and relative (our lens = our individual perception), but this doesn’t mean that the world we see through the lens is in anyway affected by the subjectivity of the lens.

Let’s get specific. Why is reality or morality subjective simply because our perceptions of these things may be subjective? This isn’t good logic. Perhaps, on account of our subjectivity, we can’t get to the objectivity; but this in no way means it doesn’t exist; plus, who’s to say one can’t use subjectivity to arrive at objectivity? That’s for another post…

Let’s get specific again. Why is truth or un-truth based on what we can prove through our subjective reality? Take God, for example. Either God exists or He doesn’t, and His existence or non-existence has nothing at all to do with our own existence. Somehow we can come to the conclusion that if we can’t prove His existence, then He mustn’t exist. But why is the world outside in anyway contingent upon our own modes of experience and knowledge. If Descartes proved anything, he proved the supreme limits of empirical knowledge – so why then would we assume that anything we can’t prove empirically can’t exist? Isn’t this simply a silly, naïve view of reality? Isn’t this like the toddler who puts his hands over his eyes and then assumes no one can see him?

More and more, I see those who point to the subjectivity of our existence as the basic for believing all is subjective as either blind and naïve – like our college freshman – or simply egotistical. How egoistical? By reversing the logic. Perhaps our perceptions of reality come to us only through our own subjective existence; but this in no way implies that reality is in any way shaped like or by those perceptions. This is the egoism of modernism.

Christmas Jingles, Utilitarian Christianity, and Reality as It Is

I love traditional Christmas music and carols; however, I really dislike almost all pop-Christmas music. It always presents to me with the image of a solitary man at a bar on Christmas Day, smoking a lone cigarette and nursing a double whiskey, no ice. As the music on the jukebox is playing “Santa is Coming to Town,” he tries to forget all of the mistakes he made in life that led him to be spending Christmas alone at the only bar open for 10 miles; but for the life of him, he can’t forget.

Enough of that. The real introduction to my topic is the song referenced above: “Santa Clause is Coming to Town.” One of the verses ends with this: “He knows if you've been bad or good, / So be good for goodness sake!” I always hear the second line first and think, “Yeah, we should be good for goodness sake.” Then I internalize the first line. In the song, children are being asked to be good not for goodness sake, as the second line makes it seem, but because Santa can see when children are good and/or bad, and he gives presents accordingly.

This gets me thinking about a version of Christianity – or perhaps “an articulation of the faith” is a better phrase – that always seems to unsettle me. I’m not sure if it’s automatically a false version of the faith, or simply a version with a misplaced focus. It’s the version of Christianity that focuses on reward. “Do good, so that you’ll get to heaven.” “Love your neighbor, because it’ll get you a crown in heaven.” “Love your enemies, so you can enter heaven earlier.” And so on.

I call this the “Utilitarian Version of Christianity:” The rules and dictates of the faith are worthy to be followed because you’ll end up in a good place. The consequences of following Christianity are worthwhile.

When I read Camus’ issues with Christianity, this is what I always see as his stumbling block. He finds a lot of truth and beauty in the Christian religion – in particular, its ideas of love, brotherhood, unity – but he finds the flaw in the fact that Christianity offers a reward for cooperating with those things: Heaven; eternal happiness.

There is much of the Bible that presents the faith as such. The Gospels are replete with dictates that we should follow Christ or do X or not do X “in order to attain eternal life.” And St. Paul is often more extreme. He tells us to love and smile at our enemies in this world, and to be sure we’ll see them burning on hot coals in the next. (I think this is in “Romans” – but I’m not positive; it’s one of his epistles, though.)

As odd as it sounds, I think the old Christmas jingle “Santa Clause is Coming to Town” helps demonstrate this seeming paradox. The second line is trying to claim that we should be good for goodness sake: we should act right because it is right, not because of the risks/rewards. However, the song is about Santa coming to give gifts to the good children, and overlooking the bad ones. It’s all about him “watching” you and “knowing if you’ve been good or bad.” So ending the verse by asking the children to be good for goodness sake seems ridiculous.

But shouldn’t we be good for goodness sake? Isn’t that the real point? It’s the heart of the Christian faith God’s love for us, and secondarily our response to that love, directed at Him and others? Shouldn’t I love my enemies because they are creations of God Almighty; as fellow-humans, aren’t so intrinsically connected to my own humanity, in a bond that is a reflection of the Trinity?

I often find myself during the holidays arguing with different family members about faith and morality. Often, I’m presented with the question: “So why does the Church say not to do X? Because it’s enjoyable? They love saying you can’t do things that are enjoyable.” And I have to repeat the same thing: The Church says not to do X because X isn’t good for me. It isn’t arbitrary; the Church attempts, through revelation, to get at the heart of reality, and formulate a system that best works with reality. And so I don’t do X because it isn’t good for me; and it isn’t good for me because it isn’t in line with “Reality as It Is.”

The Christian faith isn’t about rewards, then; it is about aligning oneself to Reality as It Is. If Heaven is the ultimate goal, this is only because it is the ultimate or final step in Reality as It Is.

So I’m not sure if the earlier proclamations about the Faith are fine, misguided, or just wrong. Perhaps they’re simply one way of viewing a complex matter. Even so, I find them an ill-advised way.

The Illusion of Moral Freedom

“Moral freedom” is often a label, not for moral freedom, but for a different set of moral values.

In a confessional fit, I’ll admit I listen to quite a bit of NPR and WNYC radio. I listen to almost anything on, except for Jonathon Schwartz with music over the weekend – I find the music dull and his observations even duller.

I run across a number of secular humanists throughout the radio day. There’s always an intense focus put on human rights, human freedom, and human life. (Except, of course, for the rights, freedom, and life of the unborn, which is really quite illogical, according to their own standard of values; figure that out.) I’m nearly fine with this system of values, since for one, it is a system of values and not a postulation of relativistic amorality. But here is where I take fault: Most secular humanists love to disguise themselves a relativists; they dislike organized religion since it sets up objective rules and laws, that somehow disfigure the moral freedom we are all given by right of existence.

They’d love the storyline of a new book or movie that follows an alcoholic priest who gives up his religion and vocation when he finally accepts that he was molested by his parish priest as a child; and that he himself is gay. The climax of the novel would probably narrate the former-priest reflections after making love to his male partner. Secular humanists would see this story as revealing the individual’s ability to free itself from the strains of Tradition and restraint, and to bask in freedom from moral constraint.

These secularists love art exhibits that trash traditional religious values, since they claim all expression must be free from moral constraint. If you fight for something to be censored, you are labeled a cog in the totalitarian government, an enemy of democracy, and promoter of Big Brother.

However, except for those amoral purists, “moral freedom” simply is a label for a different set of moral values and rules.

Let’s see the secularist who supposedly believes in “moral freedom” defend an art exhibit that is blatantly anti-homosexual. This would be a real test of whether or not these avid secularists are really defending the freedom of speech and the freedom from morality, or whether or not they are simply promoting their own set of moral standards.

Genesis 1 vs. Genesis 2: Literalness Isn't the Only Form of Truth

I want to throw out a theological point that I often use when discussing evolution with Creationists – or people who, for whatever reason, think Catholics cannot believe in the basic tenets of evolution. However, I’m not completely surefooted in my theological presuppositions and logic, so I would love some commentary, from those founded in theology and those who are not. What I pose here is not actually a complete argument for the coexistence of Catholic theology/doctrine and evolution, but simply an initial line of reasoning I often begin with.

a) We have two different creations stories in Genesis 1 and 2. They are both extremely familiar to us, but for whatever reason, people often don’t recognize that they are distinctly different – at least, that has been my experience. (By the way, different doesn’t mean contradictory, as I will point out later.) In Genesis 1, the world is made in 6 days. Man and woman are created on the 6^th day; they seem to be created together – “God created man in the image of himself, in the image of God he created him, male and female he created them” (Genesis 1: 7) – but I suppose this is an inference. The major thing I want to point out is that man is created after the animals. Now onto Genesis 2: Here, man is created without woman. Then the garden is created, etc. What is significant to note, in terms of a literal reading, is that the animals are created after man: “Yahweh God said, 'It is not right that the man should be alone. I shall make him a helper.' 19 So from the soil Yahweh God fashioned all the wild animals and all the birds of heaven. These he brought to the man to see what he would call them; each one was to bear the name the man would give it” (Genesis 2: 18-19). If we are reading this strictly literally, the two stories actually contradict one another. I don’t think they actually contradict one another; but a literal reading forces one to recognize their incompatibility.

b) I take this apparent contradiction to show that the writers of Genesis were not concerned with its literalness – at least not literalness in the sense that our modern world, borrowing certain ideological points from the scientific method, often uses the term. The first creation story flows directly into the second. Did they not recognize that the two didn’t mash? I don’t think we have to answer that question. I think we can simply recognize that the truths expressed through both creation stories are truths indeed; but these truths are not literal truths. (I’ve already made the point that if they were literal truths, one would be a lie.)

c) I don’t think this recognition in any way lessens the truth or beauty of the Bible. I think it simply presents us with an important point, especially for those that want to understand their faith: The writers of the Old Testament wrote the Scriptures with a different set of narrative and logical principles in mind. It is our modern set of principles that can make a sort of either/or statement: “Either the creation story is literally true, or it is false.” The following statements – we are made in God’s image and likeness; God rested; God asks us to abide by certain rules; we were initially naked and without shame – are all truths from the Genesis stories, independently of whether or not the actual events of the story took place.

d) Literal truth is only one mode of truth, and I definitely don't think it's the highest mode. I don’t want to get hokey here – “the truth doesn't need to be true” or “truth is what you want it to be” – but a point needs to be made that the deepest truths of God as expressed by man, the ones that get closest to His Truth, are probably mystical truths – truths that aren’t literal in the sense of the scientific method.

So is this sort of reasoning logical and/or theological? Am I missing something about creation stories, or the writers of the Old Testament, or something else? I desire dialogue, especially if I’m wrong in whatever way.

My Rambling Thoughts On Aggressive Self-Defense

Here are some thoughts of mine in relation to the other night’s topic. I was trying for one cohesive argument; I then decided it would be more like a semi-organized amalgamation of a interconnected thoughts; by now, I’ve simply decided to make separate points. If you can find the pattern or the unity, let me know.

1. Playing God. Although there is something in me that appeals to this argument, I don’t think it holds water by itself. We “play God” in creating life, in transferring organs, reorganizing ecosystems, etc. The obvious difference in most of these cases is the continuation of life vs. its termination, as in the act of aggressive self-defense. Regardless of this distinction, it remains true that we “play God” in ways that we find perfectly moral. God allows humans to be actors on this earth. In fact, there are many things that we are required to do.

2. Another reason I don’t like this appeal is the fact that I can flip the argument right over. Who is to say that God doesn’t want us to defend to the point of taking a life? I could then ask, “Who are you to say that God didn’t put your child in your life to protect?” or something like that. I’m not saying this is a good argument. I’m simply saying the argument, either way, must be developed further.

3. Mother and Baby in Womb. Let me use an analogy – although perhaps it’s not quite an analogy, but a related situation. If I remember correctly, if a mother’s life is in mortal danger, and her life can only be saved by an act or medicine that will undoubtedly end the life of the baby in the womb, the family is permitted, morally, to allow the woman to take the medicine – as long as a major requirement is met. The action taken cannot directly kill the baby. Therefore, almost all forms of normal abortion are not permissible, even though they would be saving the mother. The baby can’t be directly killed. The baby’s death must be a by-product of saving the mother.

4. Essentially, the argument and requirements here are a version of thedouble-effect. What this creates is the following moral truism: Act A has Effect B and C. B is necessary for saving the life of an innocent person. C will, by all conscious reflection, result in another death as well. Without getting into too many more specifics, Act A may be permissible if Effect B is intended, and Effect C is not intended. Although you may find this silly, I do think you can perform an action that has two results – both of which you are pretty sure will ensue – and that you can intend one and not the other.

5. This gets us to the issue of intention. I think it was Matt C that kept saying, “It’s all about intention.” Well, in this case, even though the ending of a life is a pretty sure consequence, it doesn’t mean it’s intended.

6. But even as I reflect on how to relate the mother-baby issue to our normal self-defense situations, I see problems. In the first case, I cannot directly kill the baby. So does that mean I cannot directly kill an attacker? Or is the case different because the attacker is not innocent like the baby? By now I’ve confused myself.

7. All of the rules and regulations of just-warism, or aggressive self-defense, almost lead me to say, “Let’s just make it easy. Let’s just say that all aggressive, intentional killing is wrong.” However, a desire for simplicity is not a basis for ethics. I find myself always trying to explain distinctions and such about religion, the existence of God, and morality to my agnostic brother; and he usually responds by claiming that these distinctions are just bogus. But the fact is that we live in a complex world. No answers about natural things seem to be easy – laws of physics, etc. – so why would moral answers be simple?

8. The Catholic tradition of the moral permissibility of killing to defend. Now, I don’t think that simply because there is a Catholic tradition for something, that this something is necessarily correct. There was a Catholic tradition for selling indulgences. However, when a Catholic tradition is being questioned or rejected, it is a serious matter. On a personal level, I don’t feel as if I have the ability or right to make definitive claims about heavy moral matters that are in opposition to the Catholic tradition. I can entertain arguments about such, even express my confusion or disagreement. But this is different than putting my own reasoning, my own ego, ahead of the Truth as it is preached by the Church that has been established by Christ.

9. I know that I am called to think open-mindedly and to bring my own personal self into matters, even if they are weighty matters. But I still don’t accept that I can argue something that is not in line with Catholic tradition, without there being some sort of opposing tradition.* I don’t trust my own mind. Although I make daily attempts to come to know the Lord – although I have experienced His presence in my life – I understand that recognizing the beauty of Truth takes more than simple logical reflection. This isn’t because human logic or reason is flawed, but because my sin, weakness, and position in a fallen world make it incredibly difficult for me to be sure I’m using my reason and logic well. For me, I know how my “objective, unbiased analysis” can be very much affected by my pride. But this is the beauty of Revelation. This is the beauty of the Catholic Church. We are able to reason wholeheartedly, to think and to question; but at the end of the day, we are able to submit ourselves to a body and a structure that we believe is established and supported by Christ – and that our willingness to submit our personalistic values and beliefs to this greater good is rewarded by an assurance that we are as close to Truth as we can be.

10. [*Of course, someone has to begin an opposing tradition. But as for me, I don’t trust myself to be this sort of person; and I wouldn’t trust someone unless they were a person of deep prayer life, a person who understood deeply the Trinitarian love. I like to think about John Henry Newman’s discussion about the development of doctrine. It’s not that Catholic doctrine is directly canceled or rejected, but that doctrine will look different to different cultures at different times. Truth doesn’t change; but the worlds in which it resides changes constantly.]

11. "The Catholic Church is the only thing which saves a man from the degrading slavery of being a child of his age"--G. K. Chesterton

Statement of the Issue:

...And for the support of this Declaration, with a firm reliance on the protection of divine Providence, we mutually pledge to each other our Lives, our Fortunes, and our sacred Honor.

Thus penned Jefferson, and signed the delegates of the Continental Congress in 1776, pitting grave resolve in the cause of liberty. This line struck me in relation to our discussion of "just wars" last night. In the depths of specificity and nuance, I think we may have at points left the ground of common experience which calls forth just war. This ground I believe to be the idea that one has a duty to protect one's family, clan, city-state, and country, with the understanding that family, clan, etc. are impossible without such a duty. Along these lines, Chesterton said, "The true soldier fights not because he hates what is in front of him, but because he hates what is behind him"; Ben Franklin (not necessarily our standard of moral rectitude, but a man capable of wisdom) said, "They who give up an essential liberty to obtain a little temporary safety deserve neither liberty nor safety"; and probably many other people have said many similar things. What I am observing is not a specific moral formula but a common thought that has a long tradition in humanistic history.

**Now, it could be argued that aggressive war also has a long tradition (God wills it!). However, it does seem that defensive war tradition is distinct in being accepted on its own merit, as opposed to requiring an outside motivation and legitimization (such as the will of God, realpolitik, or the requirements of a particular social system).**

It is from this tradition that this discussion begins. The claim of pacifism then enters the dialogue: the moral values from which we draw in order to defend defensive war (defending the innocent) are in fact grounded in the truth of human dignity. Thus when defense against evil resorts to killing human beings, it attacks its own moral foundations. The old tradition was a disordered legitimizing: like aggressive war, it held certain goals to be worth causing the destruction of human life. Even though those goals were the protection of innocent human life, and even though the ultimate and indirect cause is the aggressor's, the defender's decision to use force to the point of death is a breach of the fundamental moral value.

But is this the final word? Is this indeed the certain end of the conversation?

Beyond Five Senses and Three Dimensions: Part #3 in the Series “Science and Beyond Science”

Imagine for a moment that we had no eyes: human beings – if we’d be still be human beings – had only four major senses. If this were the case, would we be able to imagine the sense of sight? I think the answer to this is emphatically negative. Imagine humanity crawling around the globe, ever employed and directed by our sense of touch and sound; imagine what we wouldn’t know about the world today, in terms of astronomy, physics, etc. Could we ever extrapolate knowledge about the planets? Even the things we encountered would be encountered in a markedly different fashion. For example, a sunrise would probably not have the same effect. While the warmth of the sun’s rising would be pleasant, the beauty and magnificence of the rising star, recognized through vision, would be lost. In this line of thinking, let me not forget or overlook the positives of such a position. Perhaps without our sense of sight, we would recognize the beauty of things in a different way, a way lost to a species that operates primarily through its ocular powers. However, I think the point remains: There would be much missing, or at least diminished, in our study if we functioned with only four senses.

This being said, is there perhaps a sixth sense? I’m not, of course, referring to the normal use of the term sixth sense, as in some sort of special mental power of recognition. That aside, could we even imagine what this sixth sense might be, or how it might sense – or what it might let us “see” new things, or the same things in a new way? Just as the four-sensing species could not imagine the sense of sight, we cannot imagine a sixth sense. However, is it silly of me to imagine that a sixth sense is a possibility? Or perhaps a multitude of other senses? Or an infinite amount? If we find a four-sensing species silly to argue against our protestations that there really does exist a fifth sense, aren’t our protestations the same?

In line with the earlier logic, if there does exist a sixth sense – or a 1,000; or an infinite – isn’t there much missing in our recognition of reality? Isn’t there the distinct possibility that there exists reality that we cannot grasp through our five senses? I’m not talking about psychic reality, or invisible monkeys floating in dark matter; no, I’m simply talking about physical matter that needs a different sense to be established. Just as much of our knowledge, if not all, of the planets comes from using our sense of sight, and so this knowledge would be completely absent if we didn’t have this ocular sense, couldn’t there be other matter out there, analogous to our planet-knowledge, that needs a sixth sense? It doesn’t have to be in space; it could be right around us.

This topic is related to the topic of a fourth dimension. (I’m not talking about time as the fourth dimension, since time is part of the third.) Imagine being a two-dimensional creature – or, at the very least, you can only sense in two dimensions. Imagine a picture of person on a table in front of you. If you were able to talk to this person and tell them there was a third dimension, that of volume, they may ask for you to point to it. They understand the difference between two and three dimensions, but they can point to that extra, third dimension. The two-dimensional figure could point north, south, east, and west on the painting, but they necessarily can’t point outside of it, what I might imagine would look like “up” to someone sitting at the table upon which the painting it. The point I’m driving at, amidst my confusing visual, is that a two-dimensional person could not imagine the third dimension; at least he could not imagine what it would look like, or how he would sense within one. Now, might there be a fourth dimension? Using the analogy of the person stuck in a two-dimensional world, aren’t we, in a three-dimensional world, necessarily cut off from imagining the world in these four dimensions?

That being said, why are we prone to claiming the world really only exists in three? Or do physicists not make this assumption? Either way, what is it about reality that we can’t see or understand because of our three-dimensional limitations?

Narrative as the Center of Man’s Relation to the World: “Are Perceptions More Important than Physical Reality?” or “Why We Like Narrative Literature”

These are beginning thoughts concerning something I’ve been contemplating for four or five years. It is sort of a defense of studying literature; but it is simply more concerned with why I, and many others, love stories. Although I’ve thought about this for a while, I only took an hour or so to compose this. I intend to tweak things out in time.

As an English teacher, as well as a lover of narratives in general, I accept that I speak from a bias. Although I will approach the material as objectively as possible, I will not detach my love for narratives from my analysis. There are two reasons for this. First, not to get real philosophic (yet), but I believe truth is not captured or experienced objectively; I believe truth is experienced subjectively. Truth is lived. So I shouldn’t try to detach my passion from my analysis, since I believe my passion can lead me, with reason as a guide, to truth. Second, my passion for narrative literature, as it is a common trait in humanity, is, in a sense, the entire point of my piece. That leads me to the questions that form the underpinning of my rambling essay.

Why is that we love story-telling? From cave art, to the oral tradition, to Greek tragedy, to the Elizabethan stage, to the invention and production of the novel, and, importantly in modern days, to film – why is man led to retell his experience in terms of narrative; and why do these narratives of history find themselves, artfully, retold and restructured through the medium of fiction? What is the reason for our preoccupation with this art form? Because this set of questions is open to a grave amount of speculation that may be neither provable nor helpful in any sense of the word, I offer a second set of questions: What does this fascination with narrative fiction reveal to us about being human? In what way does humanity’s endless interest in narrative literature help us understand history, written texts, spoken texts, and man’s current predicament amidst existence here on earth?

To borrow phraseology from a couple of Dutch literary theorists who said that the self is the center of man’s narrative gravity, I claim that narrative is the center of man’s relation to and experience with the world. I think our brains interpret the data we experience narratively. I think this is how we make sense of the world around us. There is something about the very nature of narrative itself that is human.

Let’s take a look at a few examples. I could go back to older mythologies, but I am more familiar with Greek mythology. These stories and tales create a cohesive (although that may be an overstatement) perspective on reality and world. Lacking scientific study for things like the seasons, the Greeks interpreted data narratively. Why is there winter? Easy. Persephone, daughter of the Greek Olympian Demeter (goddess of the earth and vegetation), was abducted by Hades. After much haggling, Hades agreed to give Persephone back, as long as he is allowed to keep her for a 1/3 of every year. Thus, during the 1/3 of the year that Persephone plays the queen of the Underworld, Demeter weeps for her daughter and refuses to allow vegetation and life forms to grow on the earth.

Let me take an example from Christianity. We often refer to our faith as the story of salvation, or the salvation story. In fact, all of our perception of God and Christ takes the form of a story. God created the universe. Man sinned. God came to earth, died for man’s sins, and invited man to join Him in the heavenly realms. Life is the battle between reveling in the fallen nature of humanity and accepting the salvation won for us on the Cross. The end of the story is Heaven.

OK, so what’s the point in all of this? How does this affect anything? Well, I believe this changes quite a lot of how we view the world – or it can at least help us envision the world through a different lens. How? I know my bias is coming out, but here’s my point: the study of literature is essential to understanding human experience. Why? Simply because it reveals to us, the readers, how different human beings, throughout different generations and cultures, interpreted the world around them. Because humans essentially translate experience narratively, narratives of the times can give us an honest existential view of human experience.

We do not experience our lives as historical sets of data; instead, we view it as a story. The beginning and end are somewhat obvious in terms of a plot line, but the conflicts, climaxes, and characters vary day-by-day, and year-by-year. To understand a historical experience, one must go beyond the data – although this going beyond doesn’t imply disregarding the historical data and factors involved – but one must go beyond the data and understand the experience as a narrative.

Although narratives are further from literal truth than other sorts of analysis, they are a lot closer to lived truth, to truth as it is experienced on a human level. For example, if I were to study the brain activity of a person in love, I could figure out, on a literal level, what the physical properties of love are: I could understand the chemical processes and transferences that occur when one is in love – what areas of the brain reveal heavy activity, and what neurons fire where and when. However, although this is essentially more literal than a play that expresses how one feels in love (take a Shakespeare, for example), the play gets us a lot closer to the human experience of love than the scientific study. Now, I’m not claiming that the previous scientific study is irrelevant, unimportant, or doesn’t tell us something about love; however, I am claiming that the play, even though further from literal truth, gets us closer to lived truth – and this is because human experience is first and foremost narrative.

I’m not saying, “Let’s look at a narrative from WWI, and we’ll understand the historical reasons behind the war.” Or, “Let’s look at a narrative from WWI, and we’ll understand how people were back then.” Let’s remember that literary narratives are essentially fictional; also, a single person composes them. Both of these realities shed light on what studying literature primarily is not concerned with: studying characters or plots and comparing them to reality, or something of that nature. Instead, the study of literature should essentially be a study of the structure of the narrative, a diving into the different forms and constructions that people use to express their experience. This doesn’t mean we don’t concern ourselves with the historical experience that produces the narrative; this would, falsely, cut off the source of the inspiration. However, we should be more concerned with how different individuals, from different times and beliefs, formulate experience narratively.

And, in studying this, we are essentially studying what it means to be human – at least a part of it. If humans necessarily, or at least often, experience the world around them in a narrative fashion, understanding that narrative helps us understand humanity. So is the study of literature more important to humanity than the study of science? I’m neither biased nor blind enough to agree with this statement. However, the study of science gives us an incomplete picture of reality and truth, especially as they pertain to human experience.

Let me use some examples from Dostoevsky (all praise be his name on high). In his Notes from the Underground, the first part of the novella is concerned mainly with a philosophic problem. We can call the problem by different names: the problem of authenticity, identity, morality, or whatnot. However, the problem is not solved through philosophic debate. Getting to the heart of truth is not simply objectively, impassionedly studying a set of premises and conclusions, and circling the logical truism. No. Truth is lived, and truth is lived out narratively. Therefore, Dostoevsky gives us the second portion of the novella: a narrative. Now, I don’t want to oversimplify the matter and say that the second portion of the novel is an answer to the first; perhaps it’s simply a playing out of the ideas expressed in the first part. Either way, Dostoevsky intentionally gets beyond the philosophical problem he outlines, and dives into a more authentic approach to discussing philosophy and truth: through story-telling.

There is a similar pattern in The Brothers Karamazov. Ivan outlines some pretty intense arguments against God, free will, and much else – or at least problems with these ideas – in the chapters entitled “Rebellion” and “The Grand Inquisitor.” Alyosha does not do a great job with his philosophic rebuttals. In a certain way, Ivan wins. However, and I don’t intend to give anything away to anyone who hasn’t read the novel yet, but I think that it is the narrative that answers the problems Ivan describes. Could Dostoevsky have given us a more logical answer to the issues at hand? Could Alyosha have responded more critically and academically to Ivan? Perhaps. But perhaps Dostoevsky thinks that no, Alyosha could not have actually argued his way out of Ivan’s intellectual and religious dilemmas. Whatever the answer, Dostoevsky did in fact choose to provide an answer, or at least a perspective that offers potential answers, through the narrative. Of course, this reading implies that the novel answers the religious problems it presents. I think it does, but not in a simplistic sort of way. Unlike my reading of Notes, I am more confident that the actual narrative is the answer to Ivan’s problems.

For those who concern themselves with things like literary theory (to be blunt: what is it we’re doing when we study literature?), this idea is probably closest to the old and simple approach to literature: close reading. Sticking, for the most part, closely to the text helps us best understand the patterns and structures used to create the text; and studying these patterns and structures help us understand the human act of creating narratives – and since creating narratives is a universal human drive or ability, this study helps us understand humanity on a lived, existential level. Of course, the text is connected to its place of creation, both geographically and temporally; so understanding these levels help us understand the text. But we don’t abandon or forget the text in our analysis of the culture that produced it. For one, we would be in danger of distancing ourselves from the patterns and structures that shape the nature of the narrative; and second, we may be, implicitly, denying the fact that a certain part of human nature, what is means to be human, is universal, from culture to culture, from narrative to narrative.

Let me end very specifically. What sometimes annoys me in people’s study of literature (especially as it is portrayed on TV or in the movies) is how they analyze the characters as if they are real. People apply psychoanalysis to them, or at least attempt to uncover their real motives. Now, while a certain amount of that is OK, it is only OK in the context of understanding its limitations. The character in a movie or novel is not real; therefore, studying him as if he were is futile and misplaced. It is better to understand why a character such as he was created; or understanding how the character is influenced by the other powers in the novel, and how he influences these powers; etc. And all of this is not to understand how people actually act or react in real life, but simply to understand a perspective on how people perceive these things. These perceptions, as they are expressed through narratives, help us understand how humanity perceives the universe. And perhaps understanding how humans perceive the universe is, in fact, more important than what exactly the universe actually is.