Blog 7 -- 2/24/14

It was suggested during today’s discussion, and I am sure Nietzsche would agree, that good for good’s sake is “better” than good for God’s sake. Now, if we think back to our example on whether or not there exists such a thing as a selfless act, we seemed to arrive at the conclusion that in the end the motive wasn’t important. How is this instance any different? I’m going to be completely honest: I am quite certain that if there existed no God for me to subscribe to, I would renounce a fair share of what some may consider to be the ethical nature of my being (sorry Kierkegaard, not your Ethical). Frankly, I despise my so-called duties to humanity insomuch that I would find no reason to maintain them in the absence of my god-figure, for whom I abide by such expectations. It just so happens that the gentleman who articulated the aforementioned conclusion also responded to those who think as I do. His assertion (more or less): If the removal of religious doctrine gives way to one that is immoral, then the individual was not moral from the outset. I have no quarrel with this. Why? Because I know first-hand that for some, myself included, morality has always been traced back to religion. For this type of person, there is no reconceptualization of morality, what has been will always be. One might compare this conceptual framework’s trajectory to that of learning a language: After about age seven, it becomes exponentially more difficult to learn a new language. Likewise, and more often than not, these ideas are instilled in the religious demographic at an early age, a critical period in life when fundamental teachings play a disproportionately large role in dictating the philosophical journey of an individual’s life. While I have digressed to a degree, the point I am trying to make is all the more evident: If such a large proportion of the human population relies on religious teaching for their morality, and the outcome of a good for good’s sake or God’s sake is the same, why is good for good’s sake better (if in fact eliminating good for God’s sake has the potential to result in no good at all)? Further yet, does it matter?

Yours Tru.ly

Blog 6 -- 2/19/14

Suffice it to say, upon further introspection and consideration of the text, I agree with the audience member who suggested Kierkegaard's Spheres represent a trichotomy into the extremes—wherein no one exists. It is no difficult task to entertain the thought of these encompassing all of humanity insomuch as horoscopes or personality tests, ambiguous as their results may be, tell us exactly who we are. Rather, it is much more likely that these Spheres are not spheres at all, but exist as a continuum (if at all) such that one may fall in between two categories, if not amongst all three, which brings me to my second point: If one is represented, at least to some extent, by multiple categories, is Kierkegaard’s framework of linear transition insufficient? It follows from this logic that an individual could exist in both the Aesthetic and Religious Spheres, but not the Ethical. According to Kierkegaard, however, in addition to these stages existing as discrete (contrary to that which I allude), there is an orderly and predictable flow between them. If, as Thad points out, some readily identifiable features differentiate the Aesthetic from the Ethical (namely rules and duty), then can we also elucidate the features that separate the Aesthetic from the Religious and therefore circumnavigate the Ethical Sphere altogether as we journey to the so-called pinnacle of our being (i.e. if the aesthete comes about accepting rules, duty and sin all at once, could he or she bypass the Ethical Sphere?)? Let’s reconsider—with respect to this question—Kierkegaard’s premise of existing only in one Sphere at a given time. Now, must one still follow the exact order that Kierkegaard offers us, from Aesthetic to Ethical to Religious? Say, for example, one has identified with the Religious Sphere for as long as he can remember, but not long ago experienced a “falling-out” with his faith. Feeling as though he has been deprived of countless luxuries due to the restrictions imposed upon him by his rules, duties, and faith, the man assumes a life of immediate satisfaction and gratification. Has he not just transitioned from Religious to Aesthetic without passage through the Ethical?

Yours Tru.ly 

Blog 5 -- 2/17/14

While the majority of the day’s dialogue offered confounding, yet enriching—thus ultimately constructive—thematic deliberation, I believe the seemingly unchallenged notion of objective uncertainty’s applicability to normal passions remains fallacious. I explicitly recall a speaker from the audience suggesting that the objective uncertainty, the apple teasing us from a branch just beyond our grasp, need not be restricted to infinite passions, but I suspect Kierkegaard would contest. Doesn’t the fact that our normal passions are inherently mundane, and thus not infinite in nature, preclude these worldy passions from being considered uncertain. After all, normal passions are defined by reality, the antithesis of uncertainty in this context. That being said, I concur that objective uncertainty need not be restricted to cosmological interpretations, but I also feel as though these passions, while not necessarily traditionally infinite, require some fundamental obscurity about them. For example, one might consider their infinite passion to be that of true love, traditionally speaking. This does not rely on some supernal entity for definition, but the concept itself escapes reality in the same sense that death eludes us.

On another note, despite having read through Kierkegaard’s arguably esoteric prose, a part of me still considers his push for a subjective god-figure reason enough that objective uncertainty ought to be referred to as subjective uncertainty. After all, if we are in constant chase after this independently conceived entity, what about this is objective? There is nothing objective whatsoever about a subjective god-figure that suggests the term should be referred to as such.

Yours Tru.ly

Blog 4 -- 2/12/14

A recurring topic in both the group’s presentation and the text is that of the relationship between finitude and reality as contrasting infinitude and possibility. This novel dichotomy is coupled under the overarching theme of anxiety, which, as Kierkegaard points out, is critical to the development of one’s faith. As a victim of chronic anxiety in a strictly medical sense (which I acknowledge is not the type of anxiety to which Kierkegaard speaks) and having been raised as a devout Roman Catholic, I must confess to remaining confused by the position being made here. In a religious sense, I can certainly attest to a sort of “high” that deep spiritual reflection often produces in me. One might even say I derive a great deal of pleasure from the contemplative induction of fear resulting from uncertainty in faith, a paradigm that has shaped my life from its very outset. As strange as this deliberate meddling with fearfulness may sound, I believe this oddity might be the only similarity between what I feel and what Kierkegaard preaches. Moreover, I am not convinced that possibility surpasses reality in its density, as suggested on page 30 of the Solomon’s Existentialism. I imagine, while not expressed as such, that Kierkegaard’s argument is grounded in the unpredictability of possibility that—to the trained eye, those who wish to concern themselves—lays the foundation for anxiety in an otherwise certain reality. This brings about the following question: Is the true determinant of whether or not reality is inferior to possibility in its capacity to give rise to anxiety solely the product of time? Is it safe to assume, from Kierkegaard’s logic, that reality always refers to the present, while possibility always refers to the future? Are these relationships consistent as hard-and-true as that of infinitude and possibility as opposing finitude and reality?

Blog 3 -- 2/10/14

Monday's discussion of themes present in The Fall led to some interesting conclusions, one of which seemed to be left unchallenged, or at least tossed aside as insignificant. The group presenting--and by group, I mean Seth--not only recapitulated, but appeared to support, the notion of friendship as an act of selfishness. Now, I am not necessarily in disagreement with the rationale, nor am I suggesting an alternative hypothesis, but I do feel the need to bring to light some other things for consideration. For starters, the term selfish bears a largely negative connotation--if not inherently, then certainly courtesy of Seth's implementation as such. This in mind, in conjunction with the fact that friendship as being selfish was left as though nothing shy of absolute truth, made for an interesting thought: If befriending someone is always attributable to the benefit of the self, which, needless to say, is morally questionable, is the act's antithesis (pursuing a life devoid of friendships, a life of seclusion), whereby cherishing one's own isolation, any less selfish? For example, during my first two years at ASU, I lived a life somewhat similar to that of a hermit. Everyday, I'd go to class and then return straight home. Not once did I go out of my way to meet new people, go to parties, explore college life, or the likes. Truth is, I loved being alone. Granted, I had a wonderful girlfriend, so I was never truly alone in the traditional sense, but I avoided extracurricular interaction at all costs so as to preserve my own solitude, to protect my time alone, to relish in the simplicity I called my life. Was I being selfish? Undoubtedly. Is this sort of selfishness any better, or worse, than that described during the presentation and depicted in Camus' The Fall? Or, perhaps selfishness, as we know it, is unsuitable for either situation. After all, both scenarios comprise the very ebb and flow of being introspective, all-the-while social, creatures. 

Yours Tru.ly

Blog 2 -- 2/3/14

http://youtu.be/VdoPmuNU7AQ

In light of this afternoon's discussion, I encourage those reading this to navigate to the YouTube link (above) where you will find a snippet from the 2001 film Believer. (If prospective philosophical deliberation is not incentive enough, perhaps Ryan Gosling as lead role will suffice--ladies, that means you.)

I call upon this film for multiple reasons, all of which revolve around it being a loose interpretation and contemporary take on today's readings. First, and perhaps of lesser import, is the not-so-obvious presence of all three of Camus' responses to absurdity--all tightly bound up, and subsequently unwound, in the film's terminally conflicted protagonist, Danny. From the outset (consider viewing the entire movie for full comprehension of the following references), Danny is seen rebelling--quite literally--against those who embody Camus' cosmological approach, namely those practicing Judaism. In this instance, though an unrealistically extreme analogy at best, the young neo-nazi assumes the position of what Camus terms "revolt", whereby renouncing the existence of a god. In time, Danny's true identity is disclosed as having been raised Jewish, implying his exposure to, and opportunity to consider, one of Camus' alternatives: acceptance of cosmic purpose. In the end, as seen in the included YouTube video, it is the clash between the previously mentioned responses to absurdity that forces our protagonist to invoke Camus' third and final option: suicide. Danny's character engages in all three of Camus' responses to absurdity at one point or another throughout the duration of the film, but it isn't until after his death (a negligible disparity between the film's delivery and the delivery of our reading selection) that we delve into a more literal representation of The Myth of Sisyphus. The conclusion of the film does a particularly lovely job getting at the piece's gist. Like the gods who made Sisyphus aware of his own hopeless efforts, Danny is also informed of the futility inherent to his punishment. I do, however, find it rather disconcerting that in Camus' account, we are left with no substantial rationale or tangible justification for imagining Sisyphus as happy, despite its thematic significance. In the film, however, we see Danny as though attempting to maintain his obliviousness of the futility of his efforts--a sort of means of coping with the meaninglessness of his ascension. How, then, are we to go about envisioning Sisyphus as happy when the story itself bears such negative connotation throughout and leaves us with no ways to consider otherwise?

Yours Tru.ly