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?