White Lies

To continue this argument I'm having with myself about theory, I should note that I have little to argue with in the substance of most theory. I agree that there is a basic disconnect between words and the things they signify, and this lack of connection is a sort of space that allows complexity - a complexity of influences and commitments - into any question of meaning. I agree, in fact, that this complexity need have no real end or limit. As a result, I agree, in principle, that to say anything about a piece of literature is to attach oneself to what are probably literally numberless debatable propositions. I agree that most of the theory-naive are aware, if they are aware at all, of a tiny number of these propositions. I agree that the theory-wise are aware of quite a few, but that this few is a tiny proportion (approaching zero) of the whole. I agree therefore that saying things about a piece of literature is fraught with problems. I agree that looking into literature this way is a bit unnerving, is a bit of a stare into the abyss.

But (and this is the big but), I don't valorize that staring. Many theorists seem to say that it is either a mark of weak character to be so unnerved, or a mark of weak character to turn away from what is unnerving. I cannot agree that there is any kind of general ethical principle here. I turn away from dozens of unnerving, disgusting, repellent things every day and feel no shame. This includes - and this is perhaps the key point and the inspiration of the title of this blog - thoughts of my own that are unnerving, disgusting or repellent. I do this by telling myself white lies.

We all have dark thoughts, and the darkest ones are often the least resolvable. Take mortality, for instance. It is disagreeable at this moment that I will die, and it will be disagreeable in the next moment and for all the remaining moments of my life - if I let it be so. Instead, I tell myself, without thinking about it overmuch, a useful white lie - that death is certainly a long way off, that I will likely do things to redeem my existence before then, that I will end up dying in a pleasant, not overly-drawn-out way.

My favorite personal white lie is about nihilism. When I "really think about it," as I did during an unhappy period in college, my total lack of metaphysical commitments makes this a perfectly cold and meaningless universe, all of whose somethings might just as well be nothings. Life, for all its apparent tangibility, is a dream - la vida es sueno. Now this is a rather terrible thought. In my heart of hearts I believe it to be so, and I am utterly committed to rationalism and materialism and do not have the option of escape to some sort of theistic teat. So instead of facing this black view of existence, I don't think about it. I act - my brain runs - as if it weren't so. In other words, I tell myself white lies, things like "love is eternal," or "beauty is precious." I, of course, am aware that I am lying, so I am not troubled by a bad conscience for truly committing myself to ideas I know to be false.

Which brings up the morality of lying per se. I say that it is because I am lying that I am not troubled by a bad conscience, which may seem a curious perversion of the standard view. Given what I have said are my total lack of metaphysical commitments, I could just say I am an amoral creature who acts in such a way as to live as happy a life as I can (including behavior that serves no purpose other than to soothe a conscience I believe to be a psychological remnant of the Superego). However, I will, for the sake of those who might differ, talk a bit about the white lie in general. I would claim that there are clearly relationships in which white lies are not acceptable. For instance, a government should not tell its citizens any white lies. But in most relationships, white lies are one of the bases of the very serenity and happy fellow-feeling that ethics was invented to maintain. They must of course be used very sparingly, because they are often expressions of hierarchical power, which of course will occasionally be abused. But surely, if there is one form of the white lie that is a victimless crime, that can never be accused of abuse, it is the white lie we tell ourselves.

Now, I may have left some strings hanging out there, but let me leap ahead to the question of whether, when I lie to myself about literature, I am lying to my readers and therefore perpetuating in bad faith all those hidden levers of power in my interpretation that will abuse homosexuals, women, Spaniards or semioticians. There are two issues here, I think. First, if I am lying, is anyone being fooled? And, second, if I am fooling people, does my paper in the Annals of P.G. Wodehouse Research having any more of an effect than that rather over-flapped butterfly wing we hear so much about?

To the first question, whether I am fooling people, I will note that my biases would shock nobody of reasonable intelligence. Perhaps I should write at the top of my articles, THIS AUTHOR, A WHITE ATHEIST JEW/PROTESTANT BORN IN THE MID 70S IN SPAIN, GREW UP IN RELATIVE FINANCIAL POVERTY BUT WITH THE BENEFIT OF EDUCATED WHITE PARENTS, THEN ATTENDED AN IVY LEAGUE SCHOOL WHERE HE FELT LIKE AN OUTSIDER BUT ABSORBED A BELIEF IN HIS OWN SUPERIORITY, THEN...

Well, you get the idea. Perhaps, indeed, I should. But of course my point is that if I am part of some hegemony, which I find doubtful, the readers of the APGWR will be able to recognize that in the bigotry of my analysis.

To the second question, of whether there is any real harm done by careless - let's call it negligent - literary analysis, I'm afraid that here I will have to brace myself, because I have a lively sense of humor and don't want to insult those who feel they are doing something of deep ethical significance in revealing the innards of criticism. Oh, what the hell, I kind of do want to insult them. Ha. Ha. Ha. Oh, that felt good. Seriously, folks, SERIOUSLY?

That was powerful argumentation, wasn't it. At any rate, my personal opinion is clearly that my white lies about literature do no one harm and have the potential to make me happy, which will make my wife happy, which will make our children happy, which will add a happy generation to a world sorely in need of them. Thoughts?

Battening on huge seaworms in my sleep

Been wrestling with myself about going back to school. There are, thankfully, a few verities: (1) My present life is not satisfying, particularly in the sense that I am keenly aware that none but a half hour to an hour a day is spent doing something that is my heart's wish, not counting the happy time with my family which is my heart's pleasant reality; (2) I have become convinced that among a number of impractical 'practical' choices, an academic lifestyle would most fit my desires, abilities and self-image; (3) I just barely, on just a couple of occasions, had a glimmer of belief in college that I might actually like the academic study of English Lit; (4) I am never going to find the "difficult" versions of literary theory to be anything more than mental masturbation, and in some ways there is no part of the academy I hold in lower regard than the cultural studies people who treat the bookworms (who actually read books) with disdain; (5) I must wait until at least the Fall of 2008 to start, due to the date of my starting to think about this vs. application deadlines, and the daily grind has already made me feel old and desperate now - which is to say, 1.66 years away from that start date; (6) I am troubled by disturbing memories of underperformance and embarrassment during my undergraduate years, and more generally by a fear that what seems like determination now can easily dissipate over the unthinkably many years it will take to get my PhD (by which time I will be nearly 40 and therefore dead), leaving me once again feeling trapped in an unhappy profession.

So those are some of the verities. To talk a bit more about the theory thing, I decided to study English in the first place because I wanted to have an excuse to read and learn from the most beautiful and witty writing in English. I could hardly fail in this more completely than I would if I ended up spending most of my time reading criticism, which I rank with motivational literature and statistical abstracts as among the worst of all writing ever committed. I know that there is plenty of room in the academy for English Lit people who are not that interested in theory (although I admit we all have a "theory" in how we approach literature). But I don't like being the slow kid in class, and the theorists all act like the "mere researchers" are either dupes and dummies or downright dastardly. After my brief career in journalism, the last thing I want to have to respond to is continued accusations of being evil, narrow-minded, in on the conspiracy, etc., which is a regular part of my life and very hard on a person with as overdeveloped a conscience as mine.

I should also note that I have dreamed about other possibilities, and the relative sweetness of those possibilities transmogrifies itself into another drop of poison in the well. For instance, I think I could truly, geniunely if not unequivocably enjoy studying music in graduate school. Exactly what I'd study, I don't know. I do know my failure to get past the first timid steps of a music career mean that I would have a tough time getting a reasonably good teaching job with my PhD - it seems that every professor of music I've ever seen, other than the composers and the historians, had at least the semblance of a professional career before joining academe. The same seems, by the way, to be true of communications professors, though I don't think that's something that truly tempts me. I've also though about going the medical school route, which doesn't seem at all exotic for a Harvard grad, given that it seems like everybody and his uncle I graduated with is now a doctor, whatever they might have studied at school. I've never had the heart to treat the possibility seriously, but wouldn't it be nice to make a lot of money by doing something that isn't particularly evil? (p.s., I wouldn't be a plastic surgeon.)

So at the heart of the thing stand, I think, three questions, all interrelated:
(1) Is there any real option other than English Lit grad school for me?
(2) Can I truly enjoy English Lit grad school and what follows, or am I fooling myself?
(3) Can I wait almost two years to change things? (This question should take into account the fact that things WILL change in various ways over that time if I do nothing else - the wife and I are having another baby (in June - sorry if I haven't told any of my three readers), she is planning to start working and therefore giving us a healthier income, and she is planning to return to school herself at the local college. And then of course there are the unpredictable things, which we can safely predict will, in some form, occur. Of course, it must also take into account question one - we are always surprised by what we can stand when we have no choice, aren't we?)

An H.-grad who doesn't make money
Is like a bee dis-liking honey.
The dung-beetles prat
As they chew on their scat,
"For us, you know, life ain't so sunny!"