When the anti-traditionalists love tradition

 

One of the several interesting moments in Joanna Hanink's piece 'A New Path for Classics' (which originally appeared under the title 'If Classics Doesn't Change, Let it Burn') comes when the Brown University Classics professor shifts from her critique of the field to 'a new generation of classicists' who, she says,  are turning away from the triumphalist “Western civ” model' and 'becoming better in tune with the world’s shifting realities.' 'The nation of Greece,' she goes on 

has recently been looking to allies beyond Europe. It is forging new economic and cultural links with China in a partnership based, at least rhetorically, on the idea that nations with ancient pedigrees understand each other. The same general premise also underpins the Ancient Civilizations Forum, a cultural initiative with nine member countries in regions that were “cradles of ancient civilizations.” The forum casts the antiquity as a potential source of soft power for modern nations.

There are a few points that might be raised here, from the wisdom of democratic nations cozying up to a communist dictatorship, to 'the idea that nations with ancient pedigrees understand each other.' What I want to highlight in this post, though, is the strangeness of Hanink appealing to 'nations with ancient pedigrees' at all. After all, in the rest of her article she several times casts doubt on 'the claim that ancient Greece and Rome were the “foundation of Western civilization," a 'fairytale Western origin story' that, she declares, she has 'no more patience for.' She also links approvingly to Kwame Anthony Appiah's essay 'There is no Such Thing as Western Civilization.' 

Now, admittedly, it could be the case that the narratives of continuity in Chinese history are correct (though the role of the Chinese state in constructing such narratives should give us pause), and every possible story about Western Civilization is simply false. But there is, I would submit, something quite strange, even less than perfectly consistent, about the position that some narratives of cultural continuity have to be insistently deconstructed while others can be routinely greenlighted. 

Appiah's idea that the Western tradition doesn't really exist is really only one step on from a general scepticism towards tradition that has had a place in the academy for quite some time now. The work that, as far as I can tell, planted the seed for this particular intellectual sub-tradition was Hobsbawm and Ranger's 1983 volume The Invention of Tradition, which discussed examples of traditions being more or less made up out of whole cloth, or at least reified to an extent that the actual historical facts didn't quite support. 

Hobsbawm and Ranger were no fools, and the phenomenon they pointed to was a real one. Traditions, from the Christmas Day address of the British monarch (inaugurated in in 1932) to the Superbowl (1966) are often more recent than we think. There's no doubt that some claims about tradition are more or less (sometimes entirely) mendacious, and that they often serve present-day interests and structures of power. 

But there's a risk of going too far the other way - a risk that, it seems to me, is especially perilous in contexts where the idea we're reacting to is associated with a political Other. Though some traditions - even many - may be invented, or at least patched up, we probably shouldn't conclude from this that all traditions are just made up, and there's no such thing as long-term cultural continuity at all.

One problem with arriving at this kind of conclusion is that talking about traditions and cultural lineages - even ones that reach back into ancient times - can often turn out to be very useful. Unsurprisingly, progressive historians and classicists sometimes find them useful too, as Hanink seems to in her talk of 'nations with ancient pedigrees.' And there are other examples.

Classicists who are in favour of transferring the Elgin Marbles to Greece, for example, usually do so partly on the basis that contemporary Greeks are, in some sense, the heirs (even the compatriots) of Pericles and of the classical city-states. Feminist classicists like Mary Beard are often partial to tracing a 'long tradition' of misogyny back to Greece and Rome. Somewhat further afield, Christianity is seen as having imposed repressive norms to do with gender and sexuality on cultures - in Polynesia, for example - that, it's claimed, had a tradition of more openness and flexibility in these areas of life.

My purpose here, again, isn't to contest any of these claims, or even to discuss them in any depth. At first glance, they all seem to have some plausibility. My purpose here is just to point out that strangeness. If it's true - or even plausible - that there's a tradition of misogyny that can be traced back to ancient Greece, isn't it equally plausible that we can trace a tradition of democracy back to ancient Greece as well? And yet my sense is that the idea of Athens as the cradle of democracy is less popular among American classicists than it used be. 

I noted above that it could be that narratives of Chinese (or Greek) cultural continuity are simply more accurate than notions of 'Western Civilization.' It could be argued, for a start, that 'Western Civilisation' is a more amorphous concept than Chinese Civilization, or Greece. In fact, something along these lines often is argued; although usually this is done by simply stressing the unhandlable multi-facetedness of Western Civilization, not by bolstering a sense of the continuities in national histories. (That, in itself, somewhat gives the game away.)

My own sense is that while we shouldn't uncritically accept stories about tradition (especially ones that stretch over huge spans of time - stories about apostolic succession and dharma transmission both come to mind), we also can't simply assume that all claims about tradition are false. Most of us recognize, I think, that some sort of long-term handing down of ideas and life ways is possible. (Indeed, I would go so far as to describe it as a fairly obvious feature of human society.) 

Whether particular claims about particular traditions are true is something that is best worked out on a case-by-case basis; and I would be the first to admit that there are, for example, simplistic narratives of Western Civilization and the transmission of democracy that don't stack up when set against the messy nuances of historical fact. 

My plea here, I suppose, is simply that we engage each other on a level playing field when it comes to teasing out which aspects of which narratives are sanctioned by the evidence, and which ones aren't. We can't, I think, make sweeping deconstructionist critiques of some narratives ( 'all narratives are constructed,' 'We must take care not to reify notions of "tradition,"' and so on) while exempting others from that style of skepticism. At least, we can't if we don't want those listening into our debates concluding that we're conducting ourselves in a less than perfectly consistent, and even-handed, manner. 

Classical Americana

 

Among the many claims about the field of Classics made in the New York Times' lengthy profile of Princeton Classics professor Dan-el Padilla Peralta was that “Classics as we know it today is a creation of the 18th and 19th centuries.” As has already been pointed out, it's a claim that only holds up if we allow the phrase 'Classics as we know it today' to do a lot of work. Classics as a modern academic field within a modern, research-intensive university system may well owe its origins to the emergence of the modern research university in 19th-century Germany. But Europeans have been turning back to classical cultures of the Greeks and the Romans pretty much since Rome fell.

So much is clear from more or less every stage of European history, from the Dark Ages, when monks kept the classical literary tradition alive by copying Greek and Latin manuscripts; through the Renaissance, when humanists like Politian translated and emulated classical writings; to the Enlightenment, when, as Rachel Poser, the author of the New York Times piece, puts it, “a sort of mania” for Greece and Rome took hold of the intellectual classes. The idea Europeans simply invented the classical tradition out of whole cloth in the Renaissance is, in other words, contradicted by virtually the entire history of European culture before then.

It might be objected at this point, as a last-gasp effort to save Poser from what seems like a fairly obvious clanger, that her focus was on the United States, not Europe. 'How these two old civilizations became central to American intellectual life,' she writes (with my added emphasis) 'is a story that begins not in antiquity, and not even in the Renaissance, but in the Enlightenment.' So perhaps her hypothesis isn't that a relationship with Greco-Roman culture became central to European culture only in the 18th and 19th centuries (after all, that's plainly wrong); but simply that Greece and Rome only became big in American culture during the Enlightenment. 

Now, that's obviously true, but it's true for what should have been a fairly obvious reason. Greco-Roman culture only becomes baked into American culture and institutions during the Enlightenment because that's when the United States developed into an independent nation. In other words, there was no United States of America before 1789, and there weren't even any permanent Anglo settlements in North America until 1607. Depending on where precisely you place the Enlightenment, that makes it inevitable that the Greek and Roman classics won't have a big presence in American life before then.

But still, wouldn't the kind of engagement with Greek and Roman history that is on show in the Federalist Papers have been impossible without the Enlightenment? When colonial Americans did wrestle with the Greco-Romans, didn't they always do so in an Enlightenment vein? Well, no. According to Eric Adler, Greek and Latin formed a large part of the curricula of the colonial colleges. And they were taught in a way that reflected two traditions, humanism and scholasticism, that stretch back well before the Enlightenment. 

They were, in fact, taught largely in a Christian vein. This brings us to a fact about Western cultural history that's so obvious that we are, it would seem, no longer capable of seeing it. The Europeans that settled North America in the Early Modern period were, almost to a man, Christians; and Christianity is a religion with roots in the ancient Mediterranean world. When the British settled North America, their religious and educational elites brought the study of Greek and Latin with them in large part because many of their holy texts (the Gospels; influential translations like the Septuagint and Jerome's Vulgate; the works of the Church Fathers) were written in those languages.

We can, as it happens, actually test the thesis that, had Europeans come to the Americas before the Enlightenment, they would have brought an interest in the Greco-Roman classics with them. We can do this because, as you might be aware, Europeans (mainly Spanish and Portuguese) did actually arrive in the Americas well before anyone's starting-point for the Enlightenment. And, sure enough, if we look at Spanish accounts of their encounters with local people, we find references to Greek and Roman historiography. Many of these accounts were, of course, written by priests of the Christian religion, a religion which, it bears repeating, was a central part of the Europeans' cultural inheritance and which has its origins in the Greco-Roman world. 

The real reason that Greece and Rome play such a significant role in the culture of the nascent United States, then, should be fairly obvious. Early Americans (at least the educated ones) talked about Greece and Rome because they came from Europe, and European culture was rooted in the Greco-Roman past. European settlers in the Americas, from Quebec to Buenos Aires, brought European culture with them, and European culture had a significant classical component. The specifically Enlightenment style of classicising engaged in by men like Georgia founder James Oglethorpe, whose utopian schemes were influenced by Plato, was simply the latest wave of classical influence. That it involved engagement with the classics was, in itself, more of a continuation of pre-existing European cultural habits than anything fundamentally novel.

All of this should, to repeat, be fairly obvious to anyone who knows anything about global cultural history. But the power of the ideology that currently has a stranglehold on US colleges is considerable; so considerable, in fact, that it leads college professors to write statements that any layman can see are plainly false. For Rebecca Futo Kennedy, for example, of Denison College, Ohio, modern Americans ‘are no more or no less the heirs of the ancient Greeks than they are the heirs of ancient China.' 

In fact, Americans are clearly more indebted to ancient Greece than they are to ancient China. Their monumental architecture is Hellenizing in style; banks and state capitols look vaguely like the Parthenon, not the Foguang Temple. Modern Americans' political system was created by men who drew on and discussed Polybius and Plutarch, not Confucius and Shang Yang. The higher registers of their main language, English, is full of borrowings from Greek, not Mandarin. And the holiest text of the dominant religion (the New Testament, Christianity) is written in koine Greek, not Old Chinese.  

Once again, virtually everyone who hasn't spent too much time around a modern American Humanities department knows this, and knows why this is the case. Americans are more indebted to ancient Greece than to ancient China because the United States was created largely by Europeans; and European culture, for stunningly obvious reasons, has always been more indebted to ancient Greece than to ancient China. 

But this simple fact destroys one of the central contentions of the extreme 'social justice' approach to Classics profiled in Poser's New York Times piece. This contention, as Poser describes it, is that ideas about the classical tradition 'cannot be separated from the discourses of nationalism, colorism and progress that were taking shape during the modern colonial period, as Europeans came into contact with other peoples and their traditions.' 'Enlightenment thinkers created a hierarchy with Greece and Rome, coded as white, on top, and everything else below,' she goes on. And she quotes Harvard professor Paul Kosmin: 'That exclusion,' he tells her 'was at the heart of Classics as a project.'

This is wrong-headed in any number of ways. For a start, as the cognitive scientist Steven Pinker has had to remind historians, the idea that exclusion, inter-group violence, and slavery was a product of the Enlightenment gets things exactly the wrong way round. One of the things that most clearly distinguishes Enlightenment and post-Enlightenment cultures is precisely their relative inclusivity and pacifism, not to mention their distaste for slavery, an eccentricity that in itself sets them apart from virtually all previous civilisations. 

But the simplest way we can see that the radical revisionist view is wrong is by going back to the obvious facts about Western cultural history that I've referred to in this post. The new would-be orthodoxy is that the classical tradition 'cannot be separated' from ideas that took shape in the modern colonial period. In fact it can, as a simple glance at the classical tradition before the modern colonial period makes clear. 

Locked in?

Whence Woke? There are many theories. Though some, like Lindsay and Pluckrose, stress the movement's origins in predominantly French political theory, many point to its striking predominance in English-speaking countries, a.k.a. the Anglosphere - and even Pluckrose and Lindsay acknowledge the origins of certain key concepts, such as intersectionality, in US academia. This is especially interesting - if that is the word - considering the Anglosphere's prominence in the history of liberalism. How did such an illiberal way of thinking grow out what looked like such liberal soil?

One possibility is that Wokeism developed for its own reasons, but was then spread around the world (at least in the first, and hopefully last, phase of the pandemic) by the English language and the networks and lifestyles that go with it - rather as world-beating rates of obesity have spread from Austin to Auckland with the diffusion of car-focused suburbs and fast-food joints. Another possibility is that it's something else in 'Anglo-Saxon' culture that has done most of the work, the most common culprit being not the flaxen moustaches but the residual habits of Protestant Christianity, with its predilection for puritanism and witch-hunts. 

The point of this short post is just to add another idea to the mix - probably a bad one, but, well, that's what blogs are for. Intellectual historians - and intellectuals tout court - have a tendency to over-state the importance of high-faultin' philosophical ideas on world history, and I'm well aware that's a danger here. So I offer this as just one more factor that may have played a role in the deep history of this new form of extremism. 

The hypothesis is just that the philosophical tradition of empiricism, long strong in English-speaking cultures, may have had a hand here. Philosophers like Locke and especially Hume argued that what we know comes overwhelmingly (even, perhaps, entirely) from our senses. This was a tendency in English-speaking philosophy even until the time of A.J.Ayer (a disciple of Hume) and Bertrand Russell. 

Locke and Hume and Berkeley argued, against continental 'rationalists' like Leibniz, that innate faculties (e.g. reason) played a relatively small part in how we came to understand the world. The debate involved famous puzzles like what would happen to a blind man who was suddenly given the ability to see. Would he simply take in knowledge of his surroundings like the rest of us, or would he be somehow cognitively unprepared for all the new information coming his way? (The answer, it turned out, was the latter.)

Part of Kant's contribution, of course, was to try to reconcile these two traditions: we understand the world, he suggested, by taking in evidence according to certain in-built schemas. Though empiricism retained a role in Kant's brand of idealism, the radical empiricism of the likes of Hume had clearly been left behind.

The problem for radical empiricists of various stripes since Kant has been our growing knowledge of human development and psychology. Aristotle and Spinoza had both intuited that different beings have different in-born tendencies, though neither of them quite understood why. Now we have a much better idea: we act in typically human ways (and even in typically male and female ways) to a large extent because of our genetics. (And the same can be said of cats and bears and flies and jellyfish).

Some writers still like to warn about the dangers and wrong-headedness of 'essentialism,' but, of course, essentialism isn't always wrong. We expect humans to act in certain ways (not like rocks, say, or gold- or star-fish) because we attribute (consciously or not) a humanness to them. We think they - we - have some mysterious human essence. And we're right. Except that it's steadily becoming less mysterious.

The later Wittgenstein, who can be read as a kind of born-again fundamentalist empiricist, tended to want to dissolve human tendencies and actions into 'forms of life,' even to the extent of seeming to say that internal mental states could be read off outward actions. What more aggressive empiricist invasion of the private sources of innatism could there be?

Psychological behavioralists followed this lead. Chomsky cut his teeth criticizing them, in particular by pointing out that languages seemed to have an innate aspect to them. Children across the world seemed to have been born with a 'language instinct.'

Since Darwin, Mendel, and the neo-Darwinian synthesis of evolutionary theory and genetics, we've had a pretty good idea of how this works (even if the details have turned out to be far more complicated than we expected). Our genes encode certain inherited information, and this includes tendencies towards certain behaviours. We can even estimate the proportion of certain traits that are genetic as opposed to environmental (though lay people tend to underestimate the extent of the genetic influence that scientific studies support). 

One of the most obvious features of the Woke culture on university campuses is the hostility (among many other sorts of hostility) towards ideas about human nature. Most of the current elite are outspoken 'blank-slatists,' preferring to believe that we are born as blank slates for our environments to write on, rather than the largely pre-designed, if highly responsive, robots we more closely resemble. 

The sources of this hostility are multiple and have been written about extensively elsewhere. It's my suggestion here, though, that the Anglo-Saxon tradition of philosophical empiricism may be among the roots of this reactivity. Even if we have plenty of good evidence - overwhelming evidence, at this point - that our behaviours are strongly influenced by our genetic essences, there's a strong tendency among English-speakers to want to treat humans as random streams of sense-perceptions. If this is at all right, it's another way (along Puritanism) in which Wokeism emerges, not as a cosmopolitan revolutionary movement, but as an peculiarly reactionary brand of Anglo-Saxon traditionalism.

In praise of prose

Near the end of his mammoth 6-volume Oxford History of Western Music (which, I must confess, I haven't read all the way through), Richard Taruskin suggests that musical notation may now have outlived its usefulness. Notation emerged in order to preserve and transmit music, to enable other people to play something far beyond the context it was originally composed in. But when I can upload my latest composition straight onto YouTube (be warned), why bother writing it down?

A few years ago, the top Facebook execs apparently decided that prose was going the way of musical notation, if not necessarily the dodo. Their thinking was similar to Taruskin's. Now that we can just speak into a camera and upload the video onto the world-wide web (as they're calling it), why would anyone go to the trouble of writing their thoughts down? 

The huge shift to video on social media that the tech execs anticipated hasn't quite materialized (at least not yet). There are a lot more videos online, and YouTube has become a venue for spoken commentary and argumentation (what the Greeks would have called rhetoric) from ordinary citizens in a way that was never quite possible in the world of TV, with its relatively few channels overseen by hierarchical corporations. And yet, people are also still writing a lot of prose.

I think that's a good thing. The written word, you see, still has its advantages.

The main one is that it allows both writer and reader to take things at their own pace. That means you can wait till you're really sure of what you're saying to write it down. You can look up everything you can find bearing for or against your argument and include it in a footnote. You can even change your mind and write a completely different sentence to the one you thought you'd be writing. And your reader can go back and puzzle out what you've written if they don't quite get it the first time round. They can pause for a while to ponder what you've said before moving on to the next paragraph.

Writing also has some plus points when compared to conversation. Now, I'm aware we're all intensely aware of the joys of in-the-flesh interaction at the moment, after weeks if not months of lockdown. In-person conversation has its plus points too (not least of which is that we seem to find it inherently enjoyable). But we're also all aware, I think, that there are things we choose not to say to people's faces. Often that's a very good thing. Often it's a result of an apparently natural tendency to want to be kind to each other. At other times it can be a result of hierarchy or outright intimidation. That means it can often be easier to state what we really think in the privacy of our own rooms (or, at least,  behind the partial screen of a laptop screen).

Of course, many people are retreating to their rooms to voice their thoughts - they're just doing so into a camera rather than on a page. They're obviously free to do so - I'll defend their right to that to the death, even if Voltaire might not really. But what shift to video there has been has brought with it its own issues. We're rarely intimidated in front of someone talking to us on YouTube in the way we might be in real life, and (as comment sections attest) we usually feel free to reply in ways we wouldn't in person (sometimes even to a pathological degree). But videos do transmit things about a person - like passion and attractiveness - in a way that often distracts us from the tough but necessary work of evaluating claims on their merits. Since the types of charisma that videos transmit aren't equably distributed, it can also exacerbate various forms of privilege.

All that, obviously, is why I've written this entry. 

Meditations on the rosary

Recently I started praying the rosary. That may not sound unusual, but it was something of a surprise to me, since I'm not a Catholic, nor a Christian (except in an attenuated, cultural sense), nor even a theist (that is, I don't believe in a personal God distinct from the world yet active in it). So why am I doing it?

The proximate cause was the power of context. Specifically, I was lucky enough to have time in the first couple months of this year to wander around some of the dozens of beautiful Gothic and baroque churches that are dotted around Munich and its environs. Poking my nose into the Theatinerkirche one day, I heard a prayer being recited over the loudspeaker, and I decided to sit for a while to figure out what it was.

It helped that it was in German, a language I thought I knew but was trying to get back up to speed with. It also helped (if that's the word), that six of the years since my last stint in Germany were in California, where I got deep into a hippy version of Buddhism.

The California hippy Buddhism I got deep into encouraged us to look at religious activity just as a kind of practice, and an experimental one at that. (Unlike Greco-Roman religion, it's not even 'orthopraxic,' since engaging in certain practices isn't seen as madatory.) 

After I'd recited a few hundred verses of Japanese (a language I really don't know) as a kind of psychological experiment on myself, I started looking at Christian worship with fresh eyes. Why couldn't I just look at Christian practices like the Eucharist as a practice, without getting into the question of whether the claims made about it were true?

Well, one of the reasons is that official Catholic teaching, in particular, requires you to believe certain claims in order to take part. That's an impasse I'll come back to in this post and, no doubt, on this blog. But nobody has questioned me on what's going through my mind as I work through the rosary, at least not so far.

One of them is that I don't believe some of the things I'm saying (like that Mary is the mother of God), though others strike me as possibly true (like that Jesus was crucified with a crown of thorns). But that's probably not the most interesting thought I've had praying the rosary (if it turns out it is, the rest of the post will offer you diminishing returns). Nor is the way I feel it's such an unexpected and interesting thing, something I need to explain (surely a product of being Protestant by upbringing, a kind of cultural identity it takes occasions like this for me to even notice, but is apparently there.)

A couple of other things have occurred to me too, in the odd way they seem to when you're engaged in a meditation practice focused on focusing on something else. So here are some rather secular meditations on the rosary, with hopes that Christian readers will forgive me.

One interesting thing about the rosary is how it features a combination of repetition and variation - variations on a theme, as it were. The main bit, the Ave Maria ('Gegrüßet seist du, Maria,' etc.), is recited fifty times, but there are also five 'Our fathers' between each set of ten Ave Marias, and there's a distinct lead-in to the whole exercise. And on top of that, after each 'Gegrüßet seist du, Maria,' there's a different descriptive phrase about Jesus which varies depending on what set of ten you're on, what day of the week, and can also vary depending on the season (Lent) say, and what specific tradition you're following.

Catholics will no doubt find all this pretty familiar and banal, but it's interesting to me as something you see in so many religious traditions - in fact, this combination of repetition and variation is basically what ritual of any sort boils down to. In the San Francisco Zen Center, I remember a lot of the California Buddhists offering explanations of that sort of thing in terms of mindfulness practice. (Justifications in terms of tradition didn't seem to have as much purchase in the Haight as in some other places I've lived.) Paying attention to bowing correctly was meant to snap you out of your thoughts and bring you back to the present moment.

But I'm also interested in how the variations might add to your attentiveness. It's something scholars used to write about poetry - that the slight variations poets introduced to regular metrical schemes kept the readers' attention. When you have to perform or recite something yourself, it makes you use that bit more cognitive energy. You could mindlessly recite the Ave Maria a hundred times, but whether you could do so while getting the added descriptive phrases about Jesus right is another question.

All this talk of Buddhist meditation has reminded me of another thing that caught my attention - the theory that this Christian form of devotion using a chain of beads might actually have originated in Buddhist practice. (I've also recited 'karmapa chenno' and such things with beads in Buddhist contexts.) I have no idea how respectable this theory is, and I can't find any solid evidence for it. But having recently read Thomas McEvilly's huge book on possible transmissions of philosophical and spiritual ideas from East to West, I do believe I'm credulous. 

The final thought, as often at the end of a meditation session, is a practical one. This time it isn't 'Right, I'm going to send him that email' or anything like that, but a modest proposal to the Catholic Church to transform the way it presents itself. More precisely and generally, I do wonder whether Christianity isn't losing out on a big opportunity.

There's an enormous market of attention for meditation in the West, and (as I exemplify) young people in the West are quite willing to recite things they don't believe, and seem alien to them, if it's presented as a way of calming the mind.

Personally, I believe that's actually the most honest way of presenting practices like the rosary, since I don't personally believe many of the religious claims that often go along with them (as with the rosary). But even if you do believe in those more concrete claims, presenting them as a practice others can share in might be an interesting way of reaching out, and of inviting outsiders into your own contemplative tradition.

Don't get me wrong: some people really believe what they're reciting, and I respect that. What isn't clear to me is what trouble it causes to have others who don't believe them reciting them for their own reasons. In any case, as I say, so far nobody has objected to me praying the rosary with my own funny thoughts in my head.

It's an interesting irony of my own spiritual life that I was raised in a tradition (Christianity) that has its own rich mystical history, but when I felt the need for contemplative experiences I headed increasingly Eastward (all the way, in fact, to California). Was that because hippies seemed more hip than Anglicans, and Buddhism more exotic? Yes. But it's also, I think, because Christian churches are, in my experience, oddly embarrassed about the more direct mystical strains that most of them have holed up, like eccentric elderly relatives, in their attics.