Arsen Darnay's Blog, page 20

Being and Becoming

Looking at the Wall Street Journal this morning an ad caught my eye: “How Jesus Became God.” That sort of headline will snag me, to be sure. It belongs to a category of icons that signal to me the entire thrust or essence of something without my having to expend even a tiny bit of energy to know whether I’m interested or not.
The ad is promoting The Great Courses (The Teaching Company, LLC), and the professor who teaches this course is Bart D. Ehrman of the University of North Carolina at Chapel Hill.
It seems to me that, given a forced choice, people may be divided into those who are for Being and those who are for Becoming. Count me among the former. I assume that those who vote for Becoming (certainly the inclination of modernist thought) can also have their arms twisted hard enough to confess that Being has some role to play in reality, albeit it is but a momentary sort of thing before becoming has changed it into something else which, itself, is getting ready to become yet something else again in a nanosecond or so. Those who vote for Being do not deny Becoming but certainly rank it as something hierarchically lower than Being. Thus they assert the reality of something absolute.
Now that title acts as a badge of modernism, which is marked by paradox—like the Liar’s Paradox. If Jesus can become God, God is evolving. That’s been done more extensively by Hegel, but to do justice to Hegel in a Great Course would cost the buyer more than the $79.95 (marked down from $269.95) to learn how Jesus evolved. Ehrman describes himself as an agnostic (from the viewpoint of knowledge) and an atheist (from the viewpoint of belief) ( link ), but certainly not in the ad or on his own website. So why does he bother with this subject? Is Christianity so irresistible even to unbelievers? Or is the problem that once you have a PhD and Master of Divinity, you’ve got to talk about something?

Translation Exercise

Michael Gilleland published a poem yesterday ( link ) reputedly by Claudian (Claudius Claudianus (370-404)—poets didn’t live long then) titled “De Luna” or “To the Moon.” Brigitte immediately began a process of trying to find a translation—which process I continued this morning. A failure all around. What with the poem only recently attributed to Claudian (as further explained by Michael), the poem seems to have no following except among curmudgeons.
So, just to get a little handle on that text, I started an exercise in translation. For that my meager qualifications are about three years of Latin when I was a boy—and ownership of a couple of decent Latin dictionaries. Herewith the results:
Hymn to the Moon

Glorious moon, the sky’s greater part,Paired with the sun, a moving light—fire, wine,Creatrix of months, many births’ motherYoked to the stars you rule sub-solar poles.Rising, you gather up the past day’s hours,Paternal Ocean once more sees his stars.Your breath livens the earth, envelops Tartarus.With Isis’ rattle you wake the solstice, cymbals clash,Isis, Luna, Choris, Heaven’s Juno, and Cybele! By turns you give the days their namesAnd again renew the light of months. FirstSlender, then full, then fully resurgent: whenThin ever waxing, when waning the world’s dark.Come hither our lovely goddess whoseLight-making force binds heifers to flocksAnd turns Fortune’s wheel so prosperity runs.
The original—including two versions—are on Laudator.  I used the first version shown. Now I’ve no idea, really, how close I’ve managed to come to the actual meaning of that Latin—beyond a “feel” that gradually develops over many decades of such play. I’ve stuck closely to the meaning of the underlying words, only taking such liberties as translating sistro, which means “rattle,” by indicating that that word was used to mean, once, rattles shaken in the worship of Isis. Claudian, I learned, equated the Moon with Isis, so that seemed appropriate.
In the course of my endless search for a translation, I came across one ( here )  by Claudian titled “The Lonely Isle.” The translator’s name isn’t given, but the poem testifies to Claudian’s powers of producing an image. Here it is:
The Lonely Isle
Deep in a distant bay, deeply hiddenThere is an island far away from meWhich lulls the tumbling waves to dreamy quiet;And there steep cliffs against the water’s riotStand up, and to their shelter ships are bidden,Where those curved arms shut in a tranquil sea.

The Tenth Muse

You’ve probably not yet heard of the Tenth Muse. My bad. I should have announced her long ago. It is my wife, Brigitte, but in the world of the Muses she is called Theodora, her middle name. I say this because it finally dawned on me that her gifts are too exceptional in working crosswords to be explained in the usual way.
The other day, for instance, the clue for 25 across was “Elk.” I couldn’t get anywhere with that left-central block until I asked my Muse if she had anything for 25 across. “Yes,” she said, “WAPITI.” I was astonished. “How did you come up with that?” I asked. “I don’t know,” she said. “I just knew it.”
Then, the other day, when a clue asked for one of the Muses, Brigitte produced the seventh muse in the flash of an eye: Terpsichore. Asked about that one (the only one I ever remember is Clio, the Muse of History) she said: “I’ve always loved knowing that Dance had a Muse.”
Therefore I now propose a Tenth Muse. She is there in the following tabulation. The first nine come from Wikipedia (link). The last is added by, proudly, humbly, by me.
Muse Domain Emblem Calliope Epic poetry Writing tablet Clio History Scrolls Euterpe Song, elegiac poetry Aulos (ancient musical instrument like a flute) Erato Lyric poetry Cithara (type of ancient lyre) Melpomene Tragedy Tragic mask Polyhymnia Hymns Veil Terpsichore Dance Lyre Thalia Comedy Comic mask Urania Astronomy Globe and compass Theodora Crossword Puzzles BIC mechanical pencil 0.5mm

Forgotten Books Recalled

A while back now we read two novels by Robert Hugh Benson (Lord of the World and Dawn of All), originally published in 1908 and 1911. We’d become aware of these from a post on Siris ( here ). Both came from a publisher called Forgotten Books ( link ). I noted at the time that Forgotten Books might be a valuable source, but what with having bought two books of fiction, the impression was not as strong as it became when, very recently, I purchased a copy of Phantasms of the Living, by Edmund Gurney et al, and discovering, from its distinctive title page, that it also belongs under that publisher’s imprint. Well. Phantasms is a non-fiction classic in the parapsychology field; it appeared in 1886. Now I have a paperback of it which is actually a photocopy of the original. This made me go to the publisher’s web site to find out a little more.
Forgotten Books offers around 487,000 old books accessible in various form, online and also on paper (from Amazon.com). As best as I can tell, none of these is still covered by a copyright although Forgotten Books puts its own copyright on them (of dubious enforceability, I think). I made a test. For years now I’ve been trying to get access to the German historian, Theodor Mommsen—a process that has required long waits as volumes of his History of Rome reach me from distant university libraries. These books are rather handily available, at surprisingly low prices (Vol. 1, for instance is $10.03) from Forgotten Books. Books in English, Latin, French, German, Italian, and Spanish are also available. A perusal of a few of these have shown that the photocopying approach is not always entirely flawless. Sometimes small errors appear in typography. But access is what matters when it comes to getting at nineteenth century books of the sort really inaccessible in an orderly manner unless you live right next to a very major university library. Thus far, in neither of the two novels nor in Phantasms have I met any typographical anomalies.

Choose Your Magic

Looking back at the leading figures of the Society of Psychical Research (founded in 1882 in England)—and reading the writings of its prominent figures—what strikes me is an interesting contrast between SPR’s main enterprise, to focus research on extrasensory perception in the broadest sense, and the cultural environment in which that research initially took place. That environment was decidedly scientific and its underlying cosmological assumption was progressivist, thus resting on the concept of evolution broadly construed. SPR could, of course, have chosen to call its approach natural philosophy and to have adopted a traditionalist cosmological view—if perhaps festooned with lots of question marks. But such was the atmosphere in England, indeed all over the Western world, then that Science had to be capitalized and the notion of some kind of “emergent” process—in biology this was evolution, a model that soon to spread to other fields—seemed natural, however fundamentally illogical.
I prefer to use the word “philosophy” when talking about matters that transcend the strictly measurable. As for progressivism, that view, I think, ultimately appeals to magic. The notion that life arose from matter, and consciousness from life, appears to me to violate the notion that anything that “comes about” had to have had, at least in potential, that which we now see actualized.  Aristotle 101. Progressivism introduces into matter potentials which we can’t discover using reasonable science. If we could, we would have long ago managed to create “life” by starting with ordinary chemicals. Such efforts have failed—but current attempts at achieving artificial intelligence are a continuation in another modality.
The traditional cosmological view is also labeled “magic” because it assumes that—in order to preserve the logic of the potential-actuality sequence—God had to have created the world. Therefore reality is a top down structure. Such magic, however, is much more believable for me because it is more comprehensive. It contains within it, with God’s presence, the very power, writ large, which we detect in ourselves, writ small, namely consciousness. Matter can’t explain it, but God’s presence can.
When I contrast “progressivist” with “traditional” cosmologies, I’m not disputing the facts of evolution—only its interpretation. Thus the Catholic Church accepts evolution as a means that God may have used; but the traditionalist aspect is that in Catholic doctrine God creates each soul; the soul is not a product of evolution.
Choosing the right magic may help a “scientist” or “philosopher” make the right projections about the future—or not. Around about 1896, when he was finishing his monumental Human Personality and its Survival of Bodily Death, Frederic W.H. Myers, one of the cofounders of the SPR, wrote thus in the epilogue of his book:
I venture now on a bold saying; for I predict that, in consequence of the new evidence, all reasonable men, a century hence, will believe the Resurrection of Christ, whereas, in default of the new evidence, no reasonable men, a century hence, would have believed it. The ground of this forecast is plain enough. Our ever-growing recognition of the continuity, the uniformity of cosmic law has gradually made of the alleged uniqueness of any incident its almost inevitable refutation. Ever more clearly must our age of science realise that any relation between a material and a spiritual world cannot be an ethical or emotional relation alone; that it must needs be a great structural fact of the Universe, involving laws at least as persistent, as identical from age to age, as our known laws of Energy or of Motion.
The evidence Myers presented more than a century ago has become ever better. But his application of a progressivist approach in matters of soul-knowledge was overly optimistic.

Little Red Devil

Thanks to John Magee’s knack with the camera—I discovered this picture on Patioboat this morning—I’m enabled to show my new Toro snow blower, operated here by Monique, which I have named, after a tremendous upsurge of original inspiration, the Little Red Devil.
Except when it comes to books, I tend to be excessively timid in purchasing anything the purpose of which is principally to free me of physical labor. I’ve spent decades admiring and envying such a device when casually used by my old neighbors at McKinley—while I used a red plastic snow shovel for the same long time and only replaced it, at last, when I had eroded a full half of its total surface!
Well, the new house, and so forth, and its seemingly endless drive, at last overcame my scruples and, in a matter of less than an hour I not only decided but also carried out the intention of owning such a thing. The Little Red Devil (touch wood) has done a great job thus far, shared communally too, not least this morning when another 1.2 inches had to be moved out of the way so that we could deploy our Honda for a trip to Sinai Huron Hospital to give blood. The sunshine you see in the picture, however, won’t show up until tomorrow.

Grimm It Is

The route to this post is almost impossible to render. Let it simply be said that this is our 55th wedding anniversary, discussion of which began by my digging up our marriage certificate to prove to Brigitte that it isour fifty-fifth! Things proceeded from there, memories piling on memories. In the course of that we happened across Grafenwöhr, the location of one of my times in the military ( link ). In time we got on to the possible meaning of the word wöhr.
Of late we frequently examine the etymology of German words too. In that process I discovered that the brothers Grimm, Jacob and Wilhelm, famed for their storybook collections, were also responsible for a monumental eight-volume Deutsches Wörterbuch (German Dictionary). They began compiling it in 1838 and began publishing their results in 1852. That unbelievably rich dictionary—delving very deep into etymology—is fortunately available on-line. And if great effort is expended answers even to very obscure questions begin to emerge.
The word Graftranslates to “earl” (in England) or “count” (elsewhere). Wöhr, it turns out, means tillable land surrounding a domicile and its adjoining buildings. The word is rooted in the same Germanic word as the English “worth”—which stands to reason: in the good old days land itself was the value. Grafenwöhr, the place, therefore translates literally to Earl’s Worth or Count’s Worth. Now the ironic aspect of this is that Grafenwöhr has been, since 1910, a military firing ground for artillery—the land being virtually useless for any other purpose. So we concluded that the place had been misnamed. It should always have been called Grafenwöhrlos, meaning The Count’s Worthless. But, as I tried to say in the above referenced post on this blog, it was a wonderful place of solitude—for some people the highest worth of all, with or without a title of nobility.

So How’s the Weather?

Thanks to good fortune or the mysterious bends of the Jet Stream, all of last summer both overheat and drought and giant storms and floods managed to miss us. In the fall and winter thus far blizzards have also avoided us. Weather systems either slide in a south-northwesterly direction past Detroit to the north; else, obeying the same angle of advance, they passed beneath us and left us high and dry. An interesting map of global temperatures for 2014 showed a while back our region, call it the Jet Stream Dip—bounded by Minneapolis to the west, Detroit to the east—colored blue to indicate unusually cool temperatures whereas the rest of the country was yellow and orange, streaked here and there with brown to show unusual heat and dessication.
Yesterday, finally, came the exception to prove the rule: a genuine snowstorm. It endured a good 24 hours and left us under nearly a foot of snow with wind-blow drifts that here and there topped four feet. Yet even this storm, you might say, just barely touched us with one wing. But today, under a brilliantly sunny sky, we must tackle a forgotten problem: Where to put those giant mounds of frozen water. It felt like I was at the bottom of Grand Canyon already—just shoveling a path to the garage to reach my new Toro Snowblower… When I bought it two weeks ago, we were joking around here: “Now that we have one, it’ll never snow again.” Wrong again. Plenty of work for the little Red Devil—enough so that I now regret not buying the next bigger version…

That Day

However real the real might be—
Its flavor’s ever ordinary—Memory renders what has beenOddly wondrous and romantic,Matched sometimes by the actualAs on this morning by a snowstorm:It hazes up what’s long endured.
Some five point one-eight billion Babies, three of them your own, have comeDown to these shattered shores (to putThe thing statistically) since youWere born—came crying, flailing, inAwe, in celebration, we don’t Know—the Many of whom, for me, You are the One. Happy Birthday.

1/31 Syndrome

I was fairly convinced that, since starting this blog (on 2/7/2009), I had said pretty much the same thing every January 31 that followed—namely that today is peculiarly suited to wonder about the passage of time. That turns out to be wrong. Entries for 2011 and 2013 domake references to time, not the entries in other years. Perhaps my urge to mark the time (so to say) only comes in odd years.
The syndrome is easy to explain. Christmas, New Years, and Epiphany powerfully remind us of time’s passage. Thereafter the new year earnestly begins. For those who’re in the workforce, serious attention to the profession or occupation resumes with but a rather fuzzy holiday, Martin Luther King Jr. Day (which is only really half-observed), causing a half-stop. Then, suddenly, it is the 31st, and around here you’ll hear both Brigitte and me muttering to ourselves, “Jeez. January’s over. Where has it gone?”
Something that comes with advanced age is the feeling of time speeding up. I’m aware that saying that I’m contradicting myself. I don’t really believe in the so-called flow of time. Time, for me is simply duration. Therefore what I’m sure I mean is that the world is moving ever faster—or that the public message that comes from the civilization is quite unaware of repeating phenomena like seasons. Whereas, one might argue, as in childhood so in oldhood. Therefore for us the seasons are ever more meaningful again, much as they were in our youth. And the stuff between them rushes on, rushes, runs, races. And the end of January therefore shocks us to awareness of something. Call it a syndrome. The neatest definition of that word is “a place where several roads meet.” But what are their names?