Tuesday, February 28, 2017
How important was Platonism to Augustine? Professor Thomas Williams illustrates by letting us examine Augustine’s Confessions (397). Indeed, with St. Augustine’s ‘autobiography’, he places his interaction with Platonism in the middle of the book, thus signifying that it was a foundational moment of importance to Augustine. But, the surprising thing is, though with age Augustine would distance himself from Platonism, he would never really fully cast off the Platonist tradition, as even how he reads scripture is heavily imbued with Platonist ideas, a general outlook or approach.
Williams decides to illustrate the sort of general approach with Platonism which Augustine held in the form of a story. The story is as follows.
Imagine you are a high school senior. You are dating Pat and they are perfect for you: there is no one more compatible with you than Pat, and you know it. But, you graduate and go off to college while Pat stays in your home town. So there you are, involved in all the hustle and bustle of college while still trying to keep in touch with Pat; and yet, it is just not the same. Your friends see that you are missing something, so they try and set you up with someone else. At first, you say no since no one else could possibly live up to Pat’s perfection. But it gets harder and harder to think about Pat—your course work, club meetings, and studying take up so much time and energy that even when you do have time to think about Pat, your friends are all trying to set you up. Eventually, you decide to accept the date just to shut them up—besides, maybe a real date with a real person is actually better than nostalgic thoughts. So your date with Chris goes well; in fact, they remind you a lot about Pat. Of course, Pat is superior in all ways to Chris, except for one: Pat is far away in your home town while Chris is right here, in front of you. So you start spending more and more time with Chris. Soon you start to forget about Pat; even though that the only reason that you like Chris is because they are a pale imitation of Pat. But since you’ve lost all connection with your one true love, you’re happy with this one inferior version of the real thing.
Okay, so that is the story, so here is what it means according to Professor Williams.
Your home town is what is perfect, unchanging, and accessible only by the mind (in Platonic jargon, the ‘intelligible realm’). The hometown is your true homeland, the only place where you could have perfect rest and peace. Pat, meanwhile, represents, whatever it is, what will give you that perfect peace and rest. College is the world of the imperfect, changing, busy; the world which can only be apprehended by the senses (the ‘sensible realm’ in Platonic language). Chris represents those aspects of the imperfect world in which we try and peruse so as to evoke some kind of rest in the imperfect world.
There are three different ways to understand this story. One way is to use this story as making a point in metaphysics (or, the fundamental structure of reality).
To Plato, so-called ‘sensible things’ are imperfect replicas of the eternal, unchanging, and utterly perfect divine-like blueprints of reality—‘the forms’. There are principals, in other words, in which all things flowed from ‘the one,’ that which is the original inspiration for all that comes after—the ultimate origin. But the one is not a creator, it does not care for what comes forth from it; the One merely emanates in the same way that heat emerges from a lightbulb. Matter, therefore, is the furthest from the one since it lacks the same sort of ‘heat’ which emanates from the one.
Tied to the metaphysical use of the story, was an epistemological use of the story.
Epistemology is the branch of philosophy which deals with knowledge. Because sensible things participate in and resemble the intelligible forms, they can remind us of the forms. But because they are deficient, they can also blind us to the forms. Platonists, meanwhile, tended to believe that most people are stuck in the space of the sounds and senses, the pain and pleasure of the body, with a result that most people end up knowing nothing worth knowing (that which exists in the intelligible realm). It is hard to get Pat on the phone, in other words, when you are constantly hanging out with your college friends. Though these imperfect, sensible copies, can goad us to look for the perfect, One, originals. So the sensible can blind us but also bring us back to the intelligible realm through the sort of sensational blip they cause us to experience when we realize their faults. Provided, there is always the chance that you will realize that one day Chris simply is not right for you, and you will have to disentangle yourself from Chris—and your college friends—and find Pat once more.
The third way to examine the story is from the moral perspective.
What blinds us to our true intelligible homeland is, to the Platonist, the sensible. It is important to separate the soul from the body; the body, in some strands of Platonist thought, is seen as a kind of evil, one which needs to be transcended in order for our soul to return to its real home. But, even so, part of the soul—the lower part—remains behind to engage with the body is sunk in sensation and emotion, and so we are forced to misperceive reality; we can’t choose the good because we can’t see the good, we can’t see the good because sensation and passion get in the way. Only if we escape this ignorance can we return to the one, only if we escape being dominated by our bodies can we escape gnorance.
So in order to return to the one, we must have two key requirements: (1) we have to have the right knowledge; that which we obtain by thinking ourselves out of the body as much as possible; (2) We must liberate ourselves from the passions and emotions of feeling pleasure and pain. We do this via moral purification and self-denial. WE have to deny the body which denies us access to the One.
All of the above is the grand picture which Williams ascribes to what Augustine saw in Platonist thought. To which, Augustine saw it compelling enough to continue with the basic outlook enunciated above for the rest of his life, even when Christianity dominated his worldview. Of course, Augustine is a Christian, and his faith requires him to modify Platonist thought in significant ways.
In each of the three subsets of philosophy discussed—metaphysics, epistemology, and morality—Augustine addressed the following.
First, Augustine wholly buys the idea that the sensible is second rate copies of the intelligible. Augustine, however, regards the Forms are ideas in the mind of God, not as Plato himself regarded them (independently living things). So Augustine accepts the story about participation but he does not accept the story about emanation; unlike the One, Augustine’s God is intimately concerned with material reality since it was designed and shaped according to his will. Augustine, in other words, does not agree with other Platonists who argue that every step away from the One represents a fall. So instead of emanation we have creation, where the whole universe is lit up by god’s own creation. So, instead of the matter representing evil, it represents good (though still below God in terms of good). God has an investment in the material order and a demonstration in his perfection. So we can see how this effects the moral picture, in that, the body is no longer a shadowy, pseudo-reality which can only get in the way of our true happiness. The body is a divine creation because God deliberately put them there; the body is not bad because it exists, but only in that it has a tendency to monopolize our attention and pervert our imagination. Morally speaking, the goal is not to deny the body, but to discipline the body.
Another way in which Augustine’s delineation of Platonism fused into Christianity expresses itself: he must insist on a distance between metaphysical separation and moral depravity. Metaphysical separation from the One is not a fall because it is, in fact, in accordance with God’s will. Moral depravity, on the other hand, does represent a fall; moral depravity is a revolt against God’s ordering of things, the deliberate choice to prefer the lower to the higher. Or, in choosing the lower for its own sake than for God’s sake.
Augustine’s adaptation of the epistemological picture, meanwhile, shifts the emphasis on the dialectic between the sensible and intelligible. Though he mostly agrees with Plato—that sensible things can simultaneously blind us to the intelligible while also providing the first step to returning to the One—he makes some alternations. In the Confessions, for instance, he is far more interested in the reminding aspect than the blinding aspect; in withdrawing our mind from the imperfect reality of sensible things and gradually coming to know the perfection of God, the One, who sustains them.
But, of all of the changes that Augustine makes to Platonist thought, the most important is that of the incarnation. This has deep implications for every aspect of Augustine’s thought.
In terms of the metaphysical picture, Augustine must reject the crucial Platonist notion that the perfect, intelligible reality can never be realized in the imperfect, sensible world. Because the doctrine of the incarnation states that God—the perfect—took on a body, that which is supposedly imperfect—perfection was fully expressed within the material order. AS a result, we now have another mode of access to the truth—we do not have to engage with mystical meditation that the Platonists required since we can now look at the historical Jesus.
What sort of shift does this make in Platonic thought? Well, in thinking ourselves up wards to the one, the intelligible reality which that reveals, is an abstraction (Good, Truth, etc.). Since the historical Jesus was a person, that Truth and Goodness is no longer an abstraction, but a person, someone represented in the material order; morally, our perfection does not come from purifying the body and denying the mind, but from entering into a relationship with a person. All of this shows, of course, that Augustine’s platonic inheritance is an extremely complicated matter (as Augustine confirms when he places it at the center of his Confessions), on which wholly revises the Platonic outlook.
Saturday, February 25, 2017
Are we at Kay’s knighting yet? Nope. Something else happens, in the great fantasy narrative device tradition of not getting on with the fucking plot. (Don’t worry, though, it is actually part of the plot disguised as nonsense.)
“’He’s dead,’ cried Sir Pellinore tragically. ‘He’s dead, poor fellah, and can’t hunt anymore’” (195).
Turns out that our beloved monarch Uther Pendragon has died. Too bad we can’t feel anything for him since we never actually saw him do, like, anything.
“’it is solemn, isn’t it?’ said King Pellinore. ‘What? Uther the Conqueror, 1066 to 1216.’”
I did the math here and this birthdate—which I am aware does not match up with the historical Uther since he would have lived a century or so earlier—would make Uther one-hundred fifty years old (!). God, this is an odd alternate imagining of the Arthurian legend.
Don’t worry, though, it gets even odder.
So the whole castle gets into its mourning phase and everyone is wondering what will know happen since Uther left no heir or next of kin or appointed a successor. I guess he was able to live longer than Dumbledore but not understand the minutia of running a kingdom. At any rate…
“’I think it’s a scandal,’ replied Sir Grummore. ‘God knows what the dear old country is coming to. Due to these lollards and communists, no doubt’” (196).
So, is this one of those alternate histories where political tendencies which had not yet the material conditions for their emergence live alongside those which were historical appropriate… or is this an instance of their existing something called ‘communists’ which means something wholly different in their understanding than it does in our own understanding? Because otherwise, I am sure White’s on drugs (or was an eccentric kind of reactionary).
“’But you can’t tell nowadays, what with all these Saxon agitators’ [said Sir Grummore]” (197).
So are the defeated Anglo-Saxon outlaws, as we saw in the forest much earlier in the book, the communist agitators? What would make, what in our own reality is the English, commie agitators?
So then the group finds out that in order to designate a successor, there is this anvil on a stone which has a sword stuck through it, and this seems all too fantastical for Sir Grummore (sir Grumpy).
“’Some red propaganda, no doubt’”
Careful with all that negativity, Sir Grumpy, it might just come back and bite ya in the arse.
Soon after the antics of a disbelieving royalty, Kay implores Sir Ector to travel to London to witness the tournament of sword pulling; he argues that it falls on the appropriate time of his knighting and would be a great chance to network with people. But Kay plays a little dirty in trying to force Ector’s hand by remarking that if they do not go, then all of the other royal houses will think them vulgar. So though Sir Ector has never been to London, a faraway city, he reluctantly agrees to Kay’s desire.
“At this moment the Wart came in with Merlyn, and everybody was too excited to notice that, if he had not been grown up now, he would have been on the verge of tears” (199).
Poor kid. Losing Merlyn, his best friend, and no one even bothers to notice him when he enters with a flamboyant wizard (a wizard which Dumbledore is clearly based off of).
So it is the moment where Merlyn says he must leave. Of course, Sir Ector begs him to stay and teach whoever is left in the castle, now that his two pupils—Kay and Wart—have embarked upon their journey. But Merlyn is insistent that he must take a leave and attend to matters in other parts of the country. So he does a bit of magic and is off.
“’Good-bye, Wart,’ cried two faint voices outside the solar window.
‘Good-bye,’ said the Wart for the last time—and the poor fellow went quickly out of the room” (200).
I wonder when Merlyn will next show up in the story. Will he be as whimsical? Questions!
Wednesday, February 22, 2017
|Sometimes it is super-obvious what image you should use.|
Today marks the beginning of another series of lectures from the Great Courses catalog. This time we will be tackling Reason & Faith: Philosophy in the Middle Ages as narrated by professor Thomas Williams. The course focuses on how religious minds of the medieval period reacted to and contributed toward an understanding of philosophy as a means of understanding the world. Forming the whole of twenty-four (24) lectures, if you have difficulty in discerning what set of notes is associated with each lecture series, since I have multiple lecture notes all headed under the ‘Notes’ label, please also take note of each post’s accompanying labels in which I have the name of the course as a label.
After a brief introduction to why prof. Williams decided to specialize in medieval philosophy, he moves onto describing several different modus operand for medieval philosophers; his first point is the Constructive use of philosophy: medieval thinkers would use this form of reasoning when attempting to build proofs for the nature of God, argue for the immortality of the soul, or in any defense of Christian precepts—this often was based on Aristotelian constructions on physicality and presence; the second way medieval philosophers used philosophic reasoning Williams calls the ‘Taxonomic’ use of philosophy: here, this involved using philosophic doctrines about the scope and nature of human knowledge to distinguish between Christian doctrines which can be distinguished by reason alone and those which can be known only by faith; the third philosophic usage was the ‘Defensive’ use, which, of course, focused on defending Christian beliefs against secular objections but also attempts to prove aspects of Christian dogma as self-contradictory.
Christian thinkers during the Middle Ages were keenly aware of any and all difficulties in reconciling religion with reason but, as Williams remarks, they didn’t find refuge in claims of divine mystery and the unknowability of God; rather, they set out to methodically and pensively reconcile the human condition with their articles of faith. To this end, they even were not afraid to associate with pagan and non-Christian material, re-appropriating it for use in Christian providence.
Medieval philosophy, however, was hardly monolithic. Over the thousand-year period which comprises the medieval period, it would change and be practiced by varying hands in a multitude of ways. Some of these changes are, but not limited to: Plato dominating over Aristotle, the desire to construct grand visions of reality as a whole, the favoring of highly technical solutions to narrowly defined problems.
In terms of the course’s focus, the emphasizes will be on Christian doctrines as, although there was important work being done in the Islamic and Jewish traditions, each developed in a parallel fashion, so it is hard to do a comparative analysis. Professor Williams, focusing on European philosophy proper, decides as such to focus on Christianity due to its predominance in the European heartland.
To this end, Saint Augustine illustrates a number of features of early medieval philosophy. Heavily influenced by Platonism, which was the dominant philosophic outlook in his lifetime and well into the 12th century, Augustine would have, likely, considered the Reason part of ‘reason and faith’ to mean Platonism. Augustine took from Platonism a general outlook; he was concerned more with elaborating a vision than articulating exact reasons in support of a thesis (a typical approach of early medieval philosophy). About a century later, Boethius, would operate in much of the same tradition, though technically minded and providing more argumentative support for Augustinian theses. After Boethius’s death in 525 or 526, there was little philosophic thought for a long while as the main intellectual push then was in the writing of history and theology. When philosophy made a comeback in the 11th century, there was a shift away from the holistic, visionary articulation of philosophy to the formulation of developing careful argument: logic, in other words, would come to predominate how to protect Christian doctrine. Ansem, who defended Augustinian views, used a series of concise and careful arguments, wholly different from Augustinian him self’s preferred mode of thought.
During the 12th century Peter Abalard conceived a project of reformulating Christian doctrine in a rationally coherent way. In the late 12th and early 13th centuries, the focus on careful argument received another boost with the introduction of Aristotle’s complete works. In the late 14th century, the Aristotelian tradition would lose its predominance: some returned to Platonism, quasi-mystical formulations, or rejected the idea that philosophic argument, by itself, could establish much of anything. The unified conversation was broke up.
Sunday, February 19, 2017
AS the ceremony for Kay’s initiation draws nearer, Wart becomes increasingly down. Sir Ector tries to rouse him from his sulking. Wart tries to argue, unconvincingly, that he is not sulking and that Kay is a good person, but we can totally tell that he is upset that his BFF no longer wants to hang out and get fucked up, ya know?
So he goes to Merlyn. Because if anyone knows how to have fun, it is eccentric wizards who used to live in forests.
“’The best thing for being sad,’ replied Merlyn, beginning to puff and blow, ‘is to learn something. That is the only thing that never fails’” (183).
Merlyn’s advice is pretty hackneyed but I can actually see his point: whenever I have been really sad, I have found that immersing myself in something tends to take the edge off, only because you are forcing your mind to focus on something else; for instance, one time, when I was a playful youth, and needed to get my mind off of a romantic infatuation, I played a video game on the hardest difficulty setting. That took my minds off my desire, if only because keeping my avatar alive was so hard.
But Merlyn suggests that Wart visit his old friend Badger, who is the most learned of his animal friends.
But then Merlyn drops the ball.
“’there is one thing I ought to tell you. This is the last time I shall be able to turn you into anything. All the magic for that sort has been used up, and this will be the end of your education. When Kay has been knighted my labours will be over.’”
Merlyn really doesn’t know the proper way to cheer up sulky teens, but I guess he has to tell the truth at some point, so…
So Wart gets turned to a badger and promptly goes on an angry ‘I am animal let me kill you’ spree.
“’Hedge-pig,’ said the Wart, peering up at his victim with blurred, short-sighted eyes, ‘I am going to munch you up’” (184).
Don’t mess with teen angst! But he is an animal… an anthropomorphized animal, so yeah, don’t mess with teen angst, since it turns murderous. What is fun is that instead of some love-interest bringing out Wart’s homicidal-angst, it is a friend. So it is closer to homosocial.
But the hedgehog placates Wart with some songs and his innate inferiority (appealing to Wart’s supremacy, like the Japanese in that episode of South Park). Additionally, Wart believes that he saw the baby version of this hedgehog years ago in Merlyn’s cottage, so he is feeling sentimental. Plus, the songs are a bit melodramatic, so they appeal to Wart’s ‘woe is me’ status. Once Wart strokes his ago enough, however, he moves on to his date with Badger.
“’So Merlyn sent you to me,’ said the Badger, ‘to finish your education. Well, I can only teach you two things—to dig, and love your home. These are the true end of philosophy’” (186).
Is Badger and Anti-philosopher? Because that is a pretty sub-standard view of philosophy, even for bourgeois conservatives. Well, I guess you can have a philosophy of digging and home décor, but that doesn’t transfer too well to, you know, stuff like ontology and existentialism (unless you’re a postmodernist).
But, Badger shows Wart around his huge home. Wart muses on if it is like a college or a castle. Eventually, they settle in what appears to be Badger’s study and Badger reads to Wart the start of his doctoral dissertation; this is actually just White’s version of a creation myth which involves all the different embryos of all the different species asking God for different and unique attributes. That is, until one of the final eggs is asked and replies that they do not want any unique attributes and are pleased to make their way in the world with but the natural material which surrounds them. To this God is pleased and makes this embryo Man.
Then there is a debate about what animals wage war.
“’True warfare is what happens between bands of the same species. Out of the hundreds of thousands of species, I can only thing of seven which are belligerent. Even Man has a few varieties like Esquimaux and the gypsies and the Lapps and certain nomads in Arabia, who do not do it, because they claim no boundaries. True warfare is rarer in nature than cannibalism’” (194).
This is an idea which White keeps returning to—remember the part when Wart was among the geese and the pseudo-love interest remarked how geese have no territory and if man took to the skies in the same way that geese did, then they would have to give up war.
On one hand, it is a nice sentiment, since it brings to light the fact that territory does have to do with how war transpires (but is only one factor next to imperialism and racial mythologies). But, on the other hand, it is very idealistic since White can only ever lament on this fact in comparison to animals, thus rendering a speciesist form of reaction where animals are the pure and mankind is doomed to their innate nature. Besides, I am also hung up on the ‘a few varieties’ comment which makes these aboriginal tribes almost sound like they are not quite pure-humans, like they are human but come from a different bloodline than other facets of humanity; if this is the case, then it marks White as a racialist. I am willing to give him the benefit of the doubt here and simply take White that he means that aboriginals lack the social structure which leads to modern warfare as practices by the contemporary—imperialist and anti-imperialist—world, but I am still weary of what lies behind the curtain.
After this exchange, the chapter ends with Badger asking Wart if he liked the geese or ants more; this appears to be of deeper significance since both of these animals are opposed—ants with their warfare and geese with their non-territorial peace. Especially since, as Wart is keen on reminding us, he would like to be a knight and to go to war so as to win glory and whatnot (typical depressed beta male psychopathy). So that eh chapter ends with such an oblique and unanswered inference, is typical of White’s style, but also says that White obviously wrote these animal sections as something forming a cohesive whole, if only you take the time to deconstruct those meanings.
Thursday, February 16, 2017
During the middle ages, Arthurian literature was a way for the aristocratic elite to legitimate their rule. It posited a class of morally righteous, economically well off knight-errant who served a lord—a king whose lordship was directly tied to the land’s health. The fantastical inclusion of dragons, damsels in distress, and mysterious quests ordained by God, all served as the backdrop in which our upper-class heroes could ply their skills. In a way, it was a precursor to the Ideological State Apparatus (re: Althusser). After all, its purpose was to reinforce the image of an elite group of enforces who helped push the local law; of course, the violence of the text would be subsumed underneath the unreal.
But since I loathe all things which support the status quo, this—obviously—had to go with the advent of my adaptation. I had to find a way to turn King Arthur’s roundtable from an aristocratic championing of Christianity, to a secular commonplace account of human interaction. Besides, on the surface, knights up taking quests for a maiden’s hand does not lend much credibility to interpretation.
How I did this was easy. After all, at the end of the day, King Arthur’s court—whether it is an actual court or just a feasting hall—is a simple set-up: a leader and a group of people quest. It doesn’t take a lot of imagination to re-orient things onto a specific path, one merely needs to project specific desires and objectives onto the quests and the character motivations for the quest.
So my own projection was to turn the Roundtable into something of an icon instead of a place of paramount importance. Because the world of my adaptation is infused with magic granted to the environment by, literally, the bodies of dead gods, and interpretation has become a way to literally change the function and shape of the world around you, the natural question was how the interpreters would, you know, exist.
Ultimately I had decided that anyone could change the world, but that doing so would require specific training if one wanted to do it on a large scale. From here it was the obvious leap to have that training be done in terms of knightly training; the focus not on combat but on interpretation. Being me, I made this training to be non-elitist: while in our real world, training to be a knight was a significant expense only open to those with considerable money and connections, in the world of my adaptation, knightly-training, because it is such a vital public service in maintaining order in the world, against the chaotic decay of literalism, would be a public post open to anyone who wanted to serve their community.
Ergo, the roundtable itself is merely something of local importance due to the court’s natural proclivity as a public service. If it or its leaders have any renown outside of their village, it is only because they interpret so ably that word spreads of their deeds. So in this sense, the original idea of questing to gain fame has been transformed into something with less hero-worship since no danger is involved. Thankfully, the sexism of the original text has been eliminated.
Presto! King Arthur’s court, formerly a bastion of elitist snobbery, has become an agrarian-proletarian hotbed! Spicy!
Monday, February 13, 2017
Hay-making season again! Will there be any homoerotic moments between two young and naked lads? Nope, not this time! Why?
“Six other years passed by” (177).
Puberty—oh no!!!!! Gotta get those “no homo”s out and about.
On a more serious note, I do not think I have ever seen a major fantasy novel pass by six whole years, in a single sentence. I still don’t know Wart’s exact age, but I am thinking mid-to-late teens. Maybe… seventeen? Perhaps as young as fifteen.
So White spends some time describing all of the changes which happened in this time. So I will lists them as well!
(1) Cully lost his vertical stripes and has become grayer. No surprise there, though I am surprised that that bird is still alive; (2) Hob’s hair turned white; (3) the sergeant-at-arms developed a pot-belly; (4) Kay and Wart’s legs grew longer and they had many adventures; (5) Kay became sarcastic and overly hostile to everyone, picking fights which he really should not have picked (typically teen angst, then), while Wart “continued to be stupid, fond of Kay, and interested in birds” (178). Merlyn, meanwhile, looked younger every year, since he is moving backwards in time; (6) Oh, and Archy gets married, raising up an owl family, while every year William Twyti returns to do his annual hunt.
But not all is well.
“Proportionally as the day came nearer, the two boys drifted apart—for Kay did not care to associate with the Wart any longer on the same terms, because he would need to be more dignified as a knight, and could not afford to have his squire on intimate terms with him. The Wart, who would have to be the squire, followed him around disconsolately as long as he was allowed to do so, and then went off full miserably to amuse himself alone, as best he might” (179).
I want to make a teen angst joke but that would not be right since what Wart’s feeling is warranted and real, not some overly hyped up fantasy associated with adolescent emotional trouble.
Everyone reading this passage will know what Wart is feeling since it happens to just about everyone; the friends you had in elementary school change in middle school until you get to high school and the change happens all over again, until you graduate and lose all but the closest of compatriots. It is a sad affair. You realize that the real world is meant to keep people apart. Childhood is a fleeting place of peace, where relations are simplified, but adolescence and early adulthood, that is where reality comes crashing in. I feel quite strongly for Wart as we get sections like the following
“And the Wart looked around the busy kitchen, which was coloured by the flames till it looked like hell, with sorrowful affection.”
And so here is Wart’s emotional state over losing his best friend—he feels highly conflicted, as though he has been transported to a hell on earth. Dramatic? Yes, so it’s a bit angsty, but it also displays his loneliness and lack of companionship and how he feels about that.
So Wart is in this kitchen musing on his serving duties, when Merlyn pops up and talks to him. We then have about a full page of Merlyn describing the various rituals which Kay will need to complete before his final certification as a knight. Merlyn calls these rituals “a lot of fuss” (180). You go Merlyn! End Knightley privilege!
“’I should pray to God to let me encounter all the evil in the world in my own person, so that if I conquered there would be none left, if I were defeated, I would be the one to suffer for it’” (181).
It’s Wart who remarks on this and while it is clearly a piece of youthful idealism, it is also a suitable Jesus-metaphor. Praise him! (imagine me saying that in a Southern Preacher type of voice.)
Friday, February 10, 2017
|I want you to deconstruct this moment of decay. Now!|
Remember that post I wrote which I talked about how each Node was associated with a different critical theory? Well, I forgot to mention that each Node also is categorized by whether they are a ‘decay’ or ‘deconstruction’ Node. This doesn’t fundamentally alter how the Node is approached by the player (not really), but it does shift how the player interacts with the material.
So, a ‘decay’ Node is the more straightforward Node. There is a scenario, people to interact with, and artifacts; the player is able to do different things which each post by using their interpretive abilities. Once they feel they have absorbed all that they can from a Node, they then submit an interpretation of that Node—if they want to do so on the macro-scale—on the designated post.
The purpose of a decay Node is to acclimate players to investigation, i.e., close reading. This is where they are encouraged to build their own thesis to ‘ward off literalist decay’. Hence why I feel that it is the most straightforward Node, because in this Node is where they will engage most often with the sort of reading they are expected to do while an undergraduate.
A ‘deconstruction Node,’ something being based in Derridean notions of the term, is a little more convoluted but not by much. Here, the player encounters a situation, but it is one which has already fended off, at least temporarily, the forces of literalism; so ‘decay’ is not an issue here thanks to the intrepid abilities of the Green Knight (who’s the one who provided the interpretation which brought a level of stability to the locale). In a certain sense, the player’s mission here is to unwind the knot.
Deconstruction Nodes encourage the player to, yes, ultimately build a thesis on what they might want to change, what aspect of the existing interpretation may be altered or improved in some way, but it is more than that. These Nodes push the idea of finding the seams of existing interpretation: how did someone arrive at the interpretation that they did, what did they do with each aspect of the text, what were the short comings of their thesis, where do redundant and contradictory points emerge and overlap, in what sense does the ‘word-play’ of the situation deaden the interpretation making it open-ended (allowing decay to seep in), and so on.
All this being said, only those Nodes outside of the story are relevant to issues of ‘decay’ or ‘deconstruction’. I do plan on giving the player the ability to submit an interpretation of each piece of the main narrative, but this does not extend to each narrative slice having a specific categorization.
Why this is, is because for a lot of the narrative, the player already is engaging in a low-key deconstruction as they stomp about the major castle; they just don’t know its significance until later. Also, the main story falls under its own kind of interpretative framework in that the player’s options in theoretically altering the text, increase dramatically in comparison to the simple two tool-kit framework which is at their disposal for the optional Nodes. In the main story, the idea is to give the players a wide exposure so they may return to the Nodes and apply the theory from the story. As such, the main narrative having a ‘decay’ or ‘deconstruction’ tag would be counter-productive to what I am trying to accomplish when both are already present, merely in a greatly lessened format.
Tuesday, February 7, 2017
Augustine’s late life would continue to struggle against forms of heretical movements; after the Donatists—mostly a North African phenomena—Augustine would turn his attention to another sect called the Plagenianists a group debated throughout the whole of the Roman Empire; Augustine’s arguments reinforced mass-psychological and social complexes already at work in the social-material reality of the Holy Roman Empire.
Augustine argued against the idea that people themselves could attain spiritual enlightenment without the help of a church. He also fought against the idea that babies didn’t need to be baptized and thought that the Plagenianists overestimated the ability of free will, which would ultimately fall apart under the heavy burden of attaining a heavenly disposition.
Eventually, Augustine got his way when the pope and the emperor got together to ban Plagenists.
Ultimately, Augustine’s outlook would become bleaker as time went on and he would come to emphasize more and more on the need of humanity to rely on God. His masterwork, The City of God, written after the sack of Rome by Goths and contains the mature Augustine theology.
Part of why Augustine wrote this book was, because, after the sack of Rome, contemporary pagans used the event to argue that the reason that it happened was because paganism was outlawed; that Rome was sacked was because Christianity had somehow stolen the ability of the Romans to be a victorious empire. Augustine, obviously, was keen on debating such reasoning.
Augustine’s masterwork, though giving some lip-service to the admirable qualities of some pagan philosophers and the early Roman Empire, quickly moves on to a blistering attack on paganism and the Roman Empire in general; in the former, Augustine seized on those aspects of paganism which seemed most ridiculous—the defense of pagan empires left to gods, the irrationality of divine productivity in the human world, etc.—while emphasizing the ‘evil’ of paganism in that since pagan Gods do not lay down commandments, then their followers behavior is entrusted to chaos and henceforth evil in that humanity is allowed to wander morally. In terms of the latter, he ‘lays the smack down,’ to use a colloquialism, on the empire and reduces them to an elaborate system of thugs in their subjugation of neighbors. His attack on classical philosophy, meanwhile, centered on pagan thinkers setting for themselves an unobtainable goal—to achieve happiness by their own efforts, without God.
Saturday, February 4, 2017
Did you all enjoy the geese filled romp from the previous chapter? If you did, then good news! There is more of it! If you didn’t then, bad news… there is more of it.
Wart continues his mission of running with the wolves, in this case the wolves being geese, and is starting to warm up to Lyo-lyok, that goose who verbally spanked his ass when he prattled on about knightly violence.
“He grew to be fond of Lyo-lyok, in spite of her being a girl” (171).
Puberty! *gasp*! Wart better get his old socks and anachronistically misplaced handkerchiefs ready!
But then talk move to discussing geese life.
“She told him how every White front was an individual—not governed by laws or leaders, except when they came about spontaneously.”
Geese are anarcho-capitalists? Objectivist geese?
“At the same time, no goose claimed any exclusive territorial right in any part of the world—except its nest, and that was private property.”
Geese are moderate libertarians?
After this, we get a scene which alternates with another scene: namely, Wart’s pseudo-romantic love interest explains to him about geese culture and the role of elders—the geese admiralty, distinguished by the black stripes on their breasts—and that of some older goose getting captured by a human; once the goose gets captured he enforces discipline on his birdy compatriots. It is an amusing moment.
Oh, yeah, Wart also learns some geese songs which, as far as I can tell, only exist to give White an excuse to fill up pages with more Tolkien-esque nonsense. I suppose if I was a historian of bard songs or whatnot, I would have a higher knowing on if these geese songs were inspired by some historical precedent. Since I am not such a historian, however, I will leave it at that.
Wednesday, February 1, 2017
During my previous string of posts concerning my adaptation, I had posted something which delineated the difference between two concepts I called a “Super-imposed Adaptation” and a “Translated-adaptation”. Since quite a bit of time has passed since that last post, and because the adaptation in question has changed from one concept to the other, I thought it prudent to very quickly revisit what these two concepts mean.
In short, I had defined a translated-adaptation as something which was more of a spiritual successor than a direct adaptation; a translated-adaptation was something like the films Clueless or Easy A, where classic books are taken and ‘translated’ into contemporary scenarios which pay homage to the source material while rendering the plots into modern day situations.
A super-imposed-adaptation, meanwhile, was an adaptation which more closely adapted the text in question yet still made some surprising alterations. Super-imposed adaptation were creations which presented the idea of the text without a translation into the modern; but, the key here was that such adaptations differentiated themselves from mere ‘adaptations’ proper, by including fantastical elements. So contemporary examples of such super-imposed adaptations would be something like Pride and Prejudice and Zombies—the core idea of Austen’s text is there, but it is suffused under this veneer of zombie apocalypse.
Previously, I had pegged my adaptation as a translated-adaptation, since the original setting for my Gawain-click adventure was a post-apocalyptic sci-fi universe; the basic plot remained, but it was encoded as a surreal kind of postmodern tale.
Presently, though, with the reformulation of my project on to more conventional terms, I—and probably you—have realized that this version of the adaptation is a super-imposed adaptation. After all, I am imposing ideas into the story: the heavy focus on interpretation, Critical Theory as magick embedded into the land, and others, all make for dramatic departures from the normal Arthurian canon. Hence, it’s place as a super-imposed adaptation.
As I have repeatedly said, I feel this is the right move. It strikes a good balance between the text as it appears, conventional European fantasy, and avant-garde theory. In the end, I know that the blood, sweat, and tears which I am pouring into this creation will be worth it.
Since I have never before worked on a super-imposed adaptation, but have always wanted to since the publication of the many ‘spin-off’ adaptations of various classic works, I am having a great deal of fun with this project. Though I was excited about the possibilities which came with the translated-adaptation, as I said a little bit ago, I have not given up on the details of that world. In fact, I plan on using those details in creating an original novella or novel. So, all is well.
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