“Fog everywhere” and Other Confusions

Charles Dickens gives us wonderful sociopolitical insight in his serial Bleak House, with his imagery of impenetrable fog in the second paragraph of chapter 1:

Fog everywhere. Fog up the river, where it flows among green aits and meadows; fog down the river, where it rolls deified among the tiers of shipping and the waterside pollutions of a great (and dirty) city. Fog on the Essex marshes, fog on the Kentish heights. Fog creeping into the cabooses of collierbrigs; fog lying out on the yards and hovering in the rigging of great ships; fog drooping on the gunwales of barges and small boats. Fog in the eyes and throats of ancient Greenwich pensioners, wheezing by the firesides of their wards; fog in the stem and bowl of the afternoon pipe of the wrathful skipper, down in his close cabin; fog cruelly pinching the toes and fingers of his shivering little ’prentice boy on deck. Chance people on the bridges peeping over the parapets into a nether sky of fog, with fog all round them, as if they were up in a balloon and hanging in the misty clouds.

Charles Dickens, Bleak House. Bradbury & Evans, 1852-1853.

Think of the TrumpEpstein cover-up and the machinations of the U.S. government to attempt to conceal everything in a similar fog. We discussed another dimension of our ignorance with Friedrich Nietzsche’s assertion that we “are unknown to ourselves”.

Let’s consider a third level of our confusion and how we attempt to extricate ourselves by expressing the world around us through mathematics. For example, the square root of -1 is i. ii is approximately 0.208. To a student encountering this concept for the first time, it can be inscrutable that an imaginary number to the power of itself results in a real number. To quote Wikipedia:

In electrical engineeringsignal processing, and similar fields, signals that vary periodically over time are often described as a combination of sinusoidal functions (see Fourier analysis), and these are more conveniently expressed as the sum of exponential functions with imaginary exponents, using Euler’s formula.

Wikipedia, Euler’s formula [with added links]

The esteemed physicist Roger Penrose has said on multiple occasions that he believes the realm of imaginary numbers or complex analysis will be more informative in physics than real numbers. (See his classic book, The Road to Reality: A Complete Guide to the Laws of the Universe.)

Let’s conclude with our inevitable mortality as living beings as another source of perplexity and confusion. As we grow older, half of our mind is fixated on the enjoyment we get from life, while the other half is focused on the anxiety that it is not forever. We attempt to sidestep this anxiety by clinging to the escapist thought that “Besides, it’s always the others who die.

Is Reality Fundamentally Analyzable or Opaque?

Imagine your childhood. You’re looking out a window in the early afternoon. You see the clouds in the sky, the passers-by and traffic down the street. You have no trouble differentiating a police car from an ambulance. A summary of this can be expressed in the philosophical quote, “your version of the world shows up for you, like a friend at the bus stop.”

All of this suffers from an invasion from two sides: clarity and opacity. Consider the last sentence of the preface from Frederich Nietzsche’s On the Genealogy of Morality (below):

Preface

I

We are unknown to ourselves, we knowers, we ourselves, to ourselves, and there is a good reason for this. We have never looked for ourselves, — so how are we ever supposed to find ourselves? How right is the saying: ‘Where your treasure is, there will your heart be also’;1 our treasure is where the hives of our knowledge are. As born winged-insects and intellectual honey-gatherers we are constantly making for them, concerned at heart with only one thing — to ‘bring something home’. As far as the rest of life is concerned, the so-called ‘experiences’, — who of us ever has enough seriousness for them? or enough time? I fear we have never really been ‘with it’ in such matters: our heart is simply not in it — and not even our ear! On the contrary, like somebody divinely absent-minded and sunk in his own thoughts who, the twelve strokes of midday having just boomed into his ears, wakes with a start and wonders ‘What hour struck?’, sometimes we, too, afterwards rub our ears and ask, astonished, taken aback, ‘What did we actually experience then?’ or even, ‘Who are we, in fact?’ and afterwards, as I said, we count all twelve reverberating strokes of our experience, of our life, of our being — oh! and lose count … We remain strange to ourselves out of necessity, we do not understand ourselves, we must confusedly mistake who we are, the motto2 ‘everyone is furthest from himself’ applies to us for ever, — we are not ‘knowers’ when it comes to ourselves…

  1. Gospel according to Matthew 6.21.
  2. ‘Jeder ist sich selbst der Fernste’ is a reversal of the common German saying, ‘Jeder ist sich selbst der Nächste’ ‘Everyone is closest to himself’ i.e. ‘Charity begins at home’, cf. also Terence, Andria IV. 1.12.
Nietzsche, Frederich, On the Genealogy of Morality, Translated by Carol Diethe, Cambridge University Press, 1994, pp. 3-4.

Go back to our initial example of the childhood window. On one hand, our version of the world shows up for us. On the other, since “we are not ‘knowers’ when it comes to ourselves”, we show up as an opaque version of ourselves. As he states at the beginning of the preface, we are unknown to ourselves. If asked, you would most likely not remember the point at which you could differentiate the police car from an ambulance. Imagine meeting a friend during that same period, and instead of thinking of the enjoyable conversation you will have, but the concern that all of these things are impermanent.

The Danish thinker Søren Kierkegaard teaches us that the reason we are opaque to ourselves is that the self is a synthesis waiting to be made. This synthesis would connect the momentary pleasures of time with friends and the impermanence of these things.

Consider the opacity built into science. Science claims that ultimately, there is a logical, mathematical way of understanding what you see while looking out the window. Contrast this with the Dutch historian Pieter Geyl’s assertion that history is an “argument without end.” It could be that scientific inquiry is also a quest without end.

What is the great takeaway from all of this? On Kierkegaard’s side, we face the opacity wall and on the materialist side, we still have the opacity of what we have yet to understand. With each discovery, we continue to see more that we do not yet understand.

Songs and Tweaking Our Understanding, Part 2

Let’s look at three songs: “Cabaret” (from the musical of the same title), “Is That All There Is?” and “More Than a Woman” by the Bee Gees.

In “Cabaret” the character Sally Bowles sings, “Start by admitting from cradle to tomb / It isn’t that long a stay / Life is a cabaret, old chum…” She asserts that life is so short that one shouldn’t take it seriously and should be treated as boisterous fun.

Earlier, she sang:

I used to have this girlfriend known as Elsie
With whom I shared four sordid rooms in Chelsea
She wasn’t what you’d call a blushing flower
As a matter of fact, she rented by the hour

The day she died the neighbors came to snicker:
“Well, that’s what comes from too much pills and liquor
But when I saw her laid out like a queen
She was the happiest corpse I’d ever seen

Does the idea of a happy corpse ring true? As a corollary of this, is it plausible that a smile survives hours after death?

While “Cabaret” compares life to the titular cabaret, there are many other songs with simplified comparisons of life, none of which cover the full breadth of human experience. The French philosopher Maurice Merleau-Ponty wrote that the world is inexhaustible, and to extend this, so too is life.

In “Is That All There Is?” each question has several levels. When confronted with the fire that claims her childhood home, the disappointment of the circus and finally the loss of her love, the song echoes “Cabaret” with the chorus:

Is that all there is?
If that’s all there is my friends, then let’s keep dancing
Let’s break out the booze and have a ball

Much like the way “Cabaret” repeats “Life is a cabaret, old chum / Come to the cabaret”.

In “More Than a Woman” by the Bee Gees, they sing, “We can take forever, just a minute at a time”. Can we visualize this in the concrete terms of the song? In Western tradition, we often associate the search for forever with young love. What does it mean to fuse the momentary and the forever?

The Bee Gees song gives us an entry to the changing sense of time experienced by a living person, as contrasted to the objective time of a fossil carbon-dated by a paleontologist.

Songs and Tweaking Our Understanding

In any public place, you’re likely to be surrounded by faces reflecting an unshakeable puzzlement of people who have sleepwalked through life. Songs capture this perplexity. Take “Hier encore” by Charles Aznavour, which has subsequently been translated into a myriad of languages and covered by many artists.

Yesterday, when I was young
The taste of life was sweet as rain upon my tongue
I teased at life as if it were a foolish game
The way the evening breeze may tease a candle flame
The thousand dreams I dreamed, the splendid things I planned
I always built, alas, on weak and shifting sand
I lived by night and shunned the naked light of day
And only now I see how the years ran away

Yesterday, when I was young
So many drinking songs were waiting to be sung
So many wayward pleasures lay in store for me
And so much pain my dazzled eyes refused to see
I ran so fast that time and youth at last ran out
I never stopped to think what life was all about
And every conversation I can now recall
Concerned itself with me, me and nothing else at all

Yesterday, the moon was blue
And every crazy day brought something new to do
I used my magic age as if it were a wand
And never saw the waste and emptiness beyond
The game of love I played with arrogance and pride
And every flame I lit too quickly, quickly died
The friends I made all seemed somehow to drift away
And only I am left on stage to end the play

There are so many songs in me that won’t be sung
I feel the bitter taste of tears upon my tongue
The time has come for me to pay for yesterday
When I was young
Young, young…

Notice that “Yesterday, when I was young” is a poetic conceit discussing his youth. Orbiting this thought is a song by Crosby, Stills & Nash, the first of which is “Wasted on the Way”, regretting the singers’ wasted lives. Another is “We May Never Pass This Way (Again)” by Seals & Crofts. These songs tweak our understanding by reminding us in a painful, yet melodious way, that we are all swept along by life’s pressures and events.

Imagine that one is aware of this trend early enough to avoid it and attempts to sidestep this fate. However, there’s a danger on the other side of mindless snarling rebellion, in the vein of Billy Idol’s “Rebel Yell”.

Finally, there are musical styles such as Portuguese fado, characterized by mournful tunes and lyrics that straddle the loss of one’s true love and the loss of Portuguese influence in the world, such as Latin America supplanting Portugal as the center of Portuguese culture. In all of these, the “once upon a time” is at the level of youth, one’s romance and eventually life, which “never comes again”.

Perhaps the most sobering line in popular music is “all we are is dust in the wind” (from “Dust in the Wind” by Kansas). One might benefit from a moment of quiet reflection on this lyric.

Is There a Scheme of Things Underlying Everything?

In The Thibaults (the novel sequence for which Roger Martin du Gard won the 1937 Nobel Prize in Literature), a fundamental motif is the question of whether the universe is coherent. Roughly speaking, there are three competing schools of coherence—science, religion and art. Antoine Thibault discusses with the Abbé (French title for abbot):

Antoine did not seem to hear him. “Just think,” he exclaimed, “what it means to a youngster, when he’s turned loose, by gradual stages, on mathematics, physics, chemistry! Suddenly he discovers that he has all space, the universe, for his playground. And after that, religion strikes him as not only cramped, but false, illogical. Untrustworthy.”

Roger Martin du Gard, The Thibaults, translated by Philip Thody & Ellen Kennedy, Bantam Modern Classic Edition, Viking Press, 1968. page 762.

The climax of this debate appears when Antoine says:

“…I talked just now about Universal Order and a Scheme of Things; but that was merely to talk like everyone else. Actually it seems to me that we’ve as many reasons to question the existence of a Scheme of Things as to take it for granted. From his actual viewpoint the human animal I am observes an immense tangle of conflicting forces. But do these forces obey a universal law outside themselves, distinct from them? Or do they, rather, obey—so to speak—internal laws, each atom being a law unto itself, that compels it to work out a kind of ‘personal’ destiny? I see these forces obeying laws which do not control them from outside, but join up with them, which do nothing more than in some way stimulate them.…And anyhow, what a jumble it is, the course of natural phenomena! I’d just as soon believe that causes spring from each other ad infinitum, each cause being the effect of another cause, and each effect the cause of other effects. Why should one want to assume at all costs a Scheme of Things?…”

Roger Martin du Gard, The Thibaults, translated by Philip Thody & Ellen Kennedy, Bantam Modern Classic Edition, Viking Press, 1968. page 768.

The topic of an underlying scheme of things is close to the central question of Western civilization. In Plato’s Republic, we have the allegory of the dark cave occupied by humanity. It looks at shadows dancing on the wall, projected by a fire. Liberating humanity requires leaving the cave and climbing to the surface of the earth, glimpsing the sun for the first time. From here, with the help of philosophy, humanity flies off and encounters the Logos and the Eidos. Mathematical truth crowns this journey.

Aristotle, Plato’s star pupil and later rival, takes this quest and focuses on the biological. The Athenian tradition invents theory, a pillar of Western tradition, culminating in modern science. Jerusalem’s competing tradition, the Judeo-Christian worldview, derives its scheme of things from divinity before biology and mathematics. Thus, the novel’s debate is ultimately the struggle between Athens and Jerusalem.

Poetry and Tweaking Our Understanding

Consider the poemDover Beach” by Matthew Arnold. In the last stanza, Arnold describes a world that remains very familiar to us, even over 150 years later. The “ignorant armies” of the final line describe today’s warfare just as aptly as the conflicts of his time.

The sea is calm tonight.
The tide is full, the moon lies fair
Upon the straits; on the French coast the light
Gleams and is gone; the cliffs of England stand,
Glimmering and vast, out in the tranquil bay.
Come to the window, sweet is the night-air!
Only, from the long line of spray
Where the sea meets the moon-blanched land,
Listen! you hear the grating roar
Of pebbles which the waves draw back, and fling,
At their return, up the high strand,
Begin, and cease, and then again begin,
With tremulous cadence slow, and bring
The eternal note of sadness in.

Sophocles long ago
Heard it on the Ægean, and it brought
Into his mind the turbid ebb and flow
Of human misery; we
Find also in the sound a thought,
Hearing it by this distant northern sea.

The Sea of Faith
Was once, too, at the full, and round earth’s shore
Lay like the folds of a bright girdle furled.
But now I only hear
Its melancholy, long, withdrawing roar,
Retreating, to the breath
Of the night-wind, down the vast edges drear
And naked shingles of the world.

Ah, love, let us be true
To one another! for the world, which seems
To lie before us like a land of dreams,
So various, so beautiful, so new,
Hath really neither joy, nor love, nor light,
Nor certitude, nor peace, nor help for pain;
And we are here as on a darkling plain
Swept with confused alarms of struggle and flight,
Where ignorant armies clash by night.

Matthew Arnold, “Dover Beach

We can tweak our understanding using poetic tools. In a later poem by Rilke, he begins with an invocation to god before abandoning religious overtones, despairing at the root of modern restlessness.

After the summer’s yield, Lord, it is time
to let your shadow lengthen on the sundials
and in the pastures let the rough winds fly.

As for the final fruits, coax them to roundness.
Direct on them two days of warmer light
to hale them golden toward their term, and harry
the last few drops of sweetness through the wine.

Whoever’s homeless now, will build no shelter;
who lives alone will live indefinitely so,
waking up to read a little, draft long letters,
and, along the city’s avenues,
fitfully wander, when the wild leaves loosen.

Rainer Maria Rilke, “Day in Autumn” (translated by Mary Kinzie)

The first stanza of Bob Dylan’s “The Times They Are A-Changin’” shares the same tone as Matthew Arnold’s “Dover Beach”. The overall intuition of these authors was that the world is coming unstuck and unravelling, leaving the individual metaphorically homeless.

Come gather ’round, people, wherever you roam
And admit that the waters around you have grown
And accept it that soon you’ll be drenched to the bone
If your time to you is worth saving
And you better start swimmin’ or you’ll sink like a stone
For the times, they are a-changin’

Come writers and critics who prophesize with your pen
And keep your eyes wide, the chance won’t come again
And don’t speak too soon, for the wheel’s still in spin
And there’s no tellin’ who that it’s namin’
For the loser now will be later to win
For the times, they are a-changin’

Come senators, congressmen, please heed the call
Don’t stand in the doorway, don’t block up the hall
For he that gets hurt will be he who has stalled
The battle outside ragin’
Will soon shake your windows and rattle your walls
For the times, they are a-changin’

Come mothers and fathers throughout the land
And don’t criticize what you can’t understand
Your sons and your daughters are beyond your command
Your old road is rapidly agin’
Please get out of the new one if you can’t lend your hand
For the times, they are a-changin’

The line, it is drawn, the curse, it is cast
The slow one now will later be fast
As the present now will later be past
The order is rapidly fadin’
And the first one now will later be last
For the times, they are a-changin’

Bob Dylan, “The Times They Are A-Changin’

Rilke’s metaphorical homelessness is also reflected in Dylan’s “Like a Rolling Stone”, which he expands with “with no direction home.” Rilke wrote about creeping homelessness, where there may or may not be an actual physical home. French philosopher Simone Weil echoes this in her L’Enracinement, prélude à une déclaration des devoirs envers l’être humain (English: The Need for Roots: Prelude to a Declaration of Duties Towards Mankind). There is a need for roots, and in our current world, these roots are often unattainable.

The movie Triumph of the Spirit depicts the life of Salamo Arouch, a Greek-Israeli boxer who survives Auschwitz by fighting in exchange for rations and protection for his family. His German “handler” Rauscher loses his mind and is shown in drunken maudlin hysteria, realizing that the war is lost, stumbling around killing people while reciting Rilke’s poem.

See also: Is Poetry Sometimes Informative in a Special Way? (which also discusses Matthew Arnold’s “Dover Beach”)

Poly-Awareness and the Year 1900

On the way to the year 1900, we encounter the comment, “In 1890 the stock exchanges of London, Paris, Berlin and New York controlled the economic progress of the whole world.” This marriage of geography and the financial world is very striking, culminating with:

The year 1900 was a wonderful one, when men were proud to be middle-class, and to be Europeans. The fate of the whole world was decided around green baize-covered tables in London, Paris or Berlin. Rubber trees from the Amazons were shipped to Malaya, the vast coal seams of the Upper Hwang-Ho were being exploited at the expense of the wretched labourers, and in the north of the Upper Vaal a mining city sprang up in a few short weeks. Mobilized by steam, the planet’s riches were being shifted ‘from one side of the world to the other’, to quote Le Bateau Ivre, on orders flashed by telegraph in two or three minutes. Decisions reached by boards of directors in London, Paris or Berlin affected the lives of millions of human beings who did not suspect that their right to happiness depended on quotations scribbled on blackboards in three noisy exchanges built like temples, in which raged the battles of unbridled financial ambition. Not a single detail escaped the notice of Europe’s financial capitals: they fixed the price of a tram ticket in Rio de Janeiro, and the working hours of a coolie in Hong Kong. So much power had never before been concentrated in so few hands within so small an area of the globe. It was the age of triumph of the European middle classes.

Charles Morazé, The Triumph of the Middle Classes: A Political and Social History of Europe in the Nineteenth CenturyAnchor Books, 1968, page ix.

Morazé adds the following sentence, “The Europe of 1900 knew nothing of the world catastrophes which were to come.” At the core of this is the rise of modern science and technology. Max Planck published the first paper that gave us quantum mechanics. David Hilbert, at the 1900 Paris conference of the International Congress of Mathematicians, presented a collection of 23 problems (later known as Hilbert’s problems). Mathematicians, including Grigori Perelman (famous for his contributions to Riemannian geometry), are still attempting to solve these problems.

Henry Adams, attending the Exposition Universelle (1900), observed the dynamo and wrote the chapter “The Dynamo and the Virgin” in his book The Education of Henry Adams. He thinks of the dynamos as a moral force, much as the early Christians felt the Cross.

Remember that in the world of 1900, in the background to all of this, we have the Boxer Rebellion in China, part of the Chinese century of humiliation (which angers them to this day).

The quest for meta-intelligent understanding (i.e., poly-awareness) involves comparing then and now and how they are connected.

History of Global Antagonisms: China

The famous Yale historian, Paul Kennedy, is well-known for two major works, The Rise and Fall of the Great Powers and The Rise of the Anglo-German Antagonism: 1860–1914. The former starts with a very powerful line:

Rome fell. Scarsdale will fall.”

This gives us the theme of anxiety over national destiny and trajectory, which currently preoccupies the American mind.

In the second book, this antagonism question involves real and imaginary threats, and all of these anxieties and antagonisms are related. The masterpiece series, Downton Abbey, depicts a scene that takes place in the garden, where the Lord announces that they are at war with Germany, and his audience is perplexed, thinking, “How can we be at war? Germany is our biggest trading partner.” This teaches us that wars and the antagonisms that precede them are not solely based on rational factors like trade volumes.

Let us turn our attention to China. We are all aware, however vaguely, of the Chinese Exclusion Act of 1882. In the recent PBS television series, American Masters, the episode “Tyrus” (season 31, episode 7, aired September 8, 2017) has the artist Tyrus Wong recounting the story of his father, with whom he immigrated to California in 1920 at the age of 9. It is hard for us to believe that, as people of Chinese descent, they were forbidden from owning property outside of Chinatown. He describes his struggle with the hassles of overt racism. He did not gain his American citizenship until 1946, after the act was repealed. He came to fame with Disney’s Bambi, where he was the film’s lead artist.

This anti-China xenophobia was just as virulent in Europe, going back to the 19th century. Germany’s Kaiser Wilhelm II popularized the phrase “yellow peril” to demonize the Chinese and encourage the European empires to invade, conquer and colonize China. Another instance of this sentiment in its European guise was the writing of Theodor Fontane. His classic novel, Effi Briest, can be thematically compared to other novels on 19th-century marriage from a female perspective, such as Anna Karenina and Madame Bovary, which are also adultery tragedies. In the novel, there are discussions of people from all ethnicities crowding into German cities and towns.

“…But all the people who live in the little shipping and trading towns along the coast are immigrants from far away, who care little about the Kashubian hinterland because there’s nothing there for them, their concerns are elsewhere. What concerns them is where their trade is, and since they trade with the whole world and are in communication with the whole world, you find people among them from all corners of the globe. Which goes for Kessin too, backwater though it is.”

“But this is delightful, Geert. You keep calling it a backwater, but now, if you haven’t been exaggerating, I find that it’s a completely new world. All sorts of exotic things. Isn’t that right? That’s what you meant, isn’t it?”

He nodded.

“A whole world, I say, with perhaps a Negro or a Turk, or perhaps even a Chinaman.”

“A Chinaman too. What a good guess. We may still have one, we certainly did have; he’s dead now, buried in a little plot with a railing round it next to the churchyard. If you’re not afraid I’ll show you his grave sometime. It’s in the dunes with just some marram grass round it and a little immortelle here and there, and the sound of the sea all the time. It’s very beautiful and very eerie.”

“Yes, eerie — I would like to know more about it. Or maybe rather not, I invariably start imagining things and then I have dreams, and I don’t want to see a Chinaman approaching my bed tonight when I hope I’ll be sleeping soundly.”

“Well, he won’t.”

“Well, he won’t. Listen to that. How odd it sounds, as if it were somehow possible. You’re trying to make Kessin interesting for me, but you’re rather overdoing it. Are there many foreigners like that in Kessin?”

“A great many. The whole town consists of foreigners like that, people whose parents or grandparents lived somewhere else altogether.”

“How very peculiar. Tell me more, please. But nothing sinister. A Chinaman, I think, is always a bit sinister.”

Theodor Fontane, Effi Briest, Penguin Books, translated from the German by Hugh Rorrison and Helen Chambers, 1967, page 33.

Notice the quote, “…I don’t want to see a Chinaman approaching my bed tonight when I hope I’ll be sleeping soundly.” This character echoes similar sentiments several more times above.

This “othering” of the Chinese in the novel continues:

Innstetten laughed. “We’re seventy miles further north than Hohen-Cremmen here and you have to wait a while for the first polar bear. I think you’re feeling the strain of the long journey, what with the St. Privat panorama and the story of the Chinaman and everything?”

“You didn’t tell me any story.”

“No, I just referred to him. But the mere mention of a Chinaman is a story in itself…”

Theodor Fontane, Effi Briest, Penguin Books, translated from the German by Hugh Rorrison and Helen Chambers, 1967, page 35.

“What was it all about?”

“Oh, some nonsense: an old ship’s captain with a granddaughter or a niece who disappeared one fine day, and then a Chinaman, who may have been her lover, and in the hallway there was a little shark and a crocodile, both suspended on strings and always in motion. Makes a marvellous story, but not now. There are all kinds of other things flitting through my mind.”

Theodor Fontane, Effi Briest, Penguin Books, translated from the German by Hugh Rorrison and Helen Chambers, 1967, page 177.

All of this global antagonism-watching and paranoia is disconcertingly related to our current situation. Donald Trump and the Republicans are essentially entrepreneurs of hatred. As is widely misattributed to Mark Twain, “history doesn’t repeat itself, but it often rhymes.”

Being at Home in the World/Universe

The French philosopher Maurice Merleau-Ponty provided an introduction to the problem of being at home when he wrote:

“The world is not what I think, but what I live through. I am open to the world, I have no doubt that I am in communication with it, but I do not possess it; it is inexhaustible. ‘There is a world’, or rather: “There is the world’; I can never completely account for this ever-reiterated assertion in my life.”

Joseph J. Kockelmans (Editor), Phenomenology: The Philosophy of Edmund Husserl and Its Interpretation, Anchor Books Edition, 1967, page 369.

Remy C. Kwant, in his essay “Merleau-Ponty and Phenomenology”, commented:

For, according to him, the original lies buried in a dimension of darkness in such a way that it cannot be brought to light. Our existence is interwoven with the world, is a dialogue with the world. This dialogue reaches its most profound point there where the first and most original meaning arises, a meaning that is pre-conscious and pre-personal. Whatever is in our consciousness, whatever comes to light, becomes lucid, originates also in this darkness. As we have seen, man is able to obtain a measure of knowledge regarding this dark depth. He is able to divine something about the mysterious dialogue between the body-subject and the world. However, according to Merleau-Ponty, an absolute illumination of the phenomenal field is in principle impossible. All man can do is to erect some pointers in a darkness which resists full illumination.

Joseph J. Kockelmans (Editor), Phenomenology: The Philosophy of Edmund Husserl and Its Interpretation, Anchor Books Edition, 1967, page 390-391.

We sense that the interaction between ourselves and the world at every level may not be explainable. Therefore, we seek emotional or psychological shelter. The three levels of shelter are:

  1. hearth and home
  2. a sense of belonging
  3. gods

Think of the song, “A House Is Not a Home”, sung by Dionne Warwick. “A chair is still a chair / Even though there’s no one sitting thereBut a room is not a house
/ And a house is not a home
” depicts the human longing for shelter via hearth and home. The French philosopher Bruno Latour referred to this as a “parliament of things.”

Consider “Gimme Shelter” by The Rolling Stones, as well as the novel (and later film) The Sheltering Sky by Paul Bowles. Both of these cover the deep issue of shelter.

Heidegger’s essay “Building Dwelling Thinking” (German: Bauen Wohnen Denken) states:

In what follows we shall try to think about dwelling and building. This thinking about building does not presume to discover architectural ideas, let alone to give rules for building. This venture in thought does not view building as an art or as a technique of construction; rather it traces building back into that domain to which everything that is belongs. We ask:

  1.   What is it to dwell?
  2.   How does building belong to dwelling?
I

We attain to dwelling, so it seems, only by means of building. The latter, building, has the former, dwelling, as its goal. Still, not every building is a dwelling. Bridges and hangars, stadiums and power stations are buildings but not dwellings; railway stations and highways, dams and market halls are built, but they are not dwelling places. Even so, these buildings are in the domain of our dwelling. That domain extends over these buildings and yet is not limited to the dwelling place. The truck driver is at home on the highway, but he does not have his shelter there; the working woman is at home in the spinning mill, but does not have her dwelling place there; the chief engineer is at home in the power station, but he does not dwell there. These buildings house man. He inhabits them and yet does not dwell in them, when to dwell means merely that we take shelter in them. In today’s housing shortage even this much is reassuring and to the good; residential buildings do indeed provide shelter; today’s houses may even be well planned, easy to keep, attractively cheap, open to air, light, and sun, but—do the houses in themselves hold any guarantee that dwelling occurs in them? Yet those buildings that are not dwelling places remain in turn determined by dwelling insofar as they serve man’s dwelling. Thus dwelling would in any case be the end that presides over all building. Dwelling and building are related as end and means. However, as long as this is all we have in mind, we take dwelling and building as two separate activities, an idea that has something correct in it. Yet at the same time by the means-end schema we block our view of the essential relations. For building is not merely a means and a way toward dwelling—to build is in itself already to dwell. Who tells us this? Who gives us a standard at all by which we can take the measure of the nature of dwelling and building?

Martin Heidegger, Poetry, Language, Thought, (translated by Albert Hofstadter), Harper & Row, 1975, pages 145-146.

Stuart Kauffman comes at this from a different angle:

Who are we? Where did we come from? Why are we here? Did Neanderthal, Homo habilis, or Homo erectus ask? Around which fire in the past 3 million years of hominid evolution did these questions first arise? Who knows.

Somewhere along our path, paradise has been lost, lost to the Western mind, and in the spreading world civilization, lost to our collective mind. John Milton must have been the last superb poet of Western civilization who could have sought to justify the ways of God to man in those early years foreshadowing the modern era. Paradise has been lost, not to sin, but to science. Once, a scant few centuries ago, we of the West believed ourselves the chosen of God, made in his image, keeping his word in a creation wrought by his love for us. Now, only 400 years later, we find ourselves on a tiny planet, on the edge of a humdrum galaxy among billions like it scattered across vast megaparsecs, around the curvature of space-time back to the Big Bang. We are but accidents, we’re told. Purpose and value are ours alone to make. Without Satan and God, the universe now appears the neutral home of matter, dark and light, and is utterly indifferent. We bustle, but are no longer at home in the ancient sense.

Stuart Kauffman, At Home in the Universe: The Search for the Laws of Self-Organization and Complexity, Oxford University Press, 1995, page 4.

Kauffman comes to grips with this problem with the final line above. He continues:


In this new view of life, organisms are not merely tinkered-together contraptions, bricolage, in Jacob’s phrase. Evolution is not merely “chance caught on the wing,” in Monod’s evocative image. The history of life captures the natural order, on which selection is privileged to act. If this idea is true, many features of organisms are not merely historical accidents, but also reflections of the profound order that evolution has further molded. If true, we are at home in the universe in ways not imagined since Darwin stood natural theology on is head with his blind watchmaker.

Stuart Kauffman, At Home in the Universe: The Search for the Laws of Self-Organization and Complexity, Oxford University Press, 1995, pages 25-26.

Kauffman wants to complete the Darwinian revolution by adding self-organization and complexity to natural selection. In his vision, this will begin to produce a holistic picture of who we are. This will perhaps allow us to feel “We are all at home in the universe, poised to sanctify by our best, brief, only stay.” [page 30.]

Zooming out from this, we can see a meta-intelligent sense in which science believes it can convert mysteries into problems using math. In contrast to this, philosophers believe the opposite, that the problems are becoming more mysterious.