READING DAY AND A WORD ON WASHINGTON GRIDLOCK

I found some really interesting stuff to read today. I spent the better part of the morning paging through another book on ethics. Then I had some phone calls to make. To be blunt, it cut straight into my writing time.

But that doesn't matter. I grow when I read. I stock up on ideas. When I sit down to write tomorrow morning, I'm sure my inspiration will be flowing at full speed.

In the meantime, thanks for checking in. And don't forget to check out my archives!

I started looking through everything I've written so far about Barack Obama. I'm amazed that my satires have partially proven correct. Last year at this time, I never would have thought that my jokes about stubborn Republican opposition to Obama would have proven true. But oh how they did: Painfully so. In fact, the Republicans have succeeded in completely intimidating Obama simply by digging in their heels, crossing their arms and saying the word "no."

Democrats have not done much better. They refuse to stand up to the Republicans even though they have massive Congressional majorities. But whenever they pass something, the Republicans start screaming "tyranny by the majority." Now most Americans think Obama caused all the problems that originated more than 10 years ago. It's just hopeless.

Who'd a thunk that would have happened on February 3, 2009? I know I didn't. On the other hand, perhaps we all expected just a little too much from the Washington political system. I don't blame Obama as much as I blame the entire wretched two-party system with its identical, wealthy members. There really is no difference between Republicans and Democrats. They all come from the same social class. They just debate each other for show. In the end, nothing changes. Nothing at all.

But at least it gives me something to satirize. I guess that's the saving grace for me. There is abiding truth to the old Russian adage that "laughter through tears" is the best kind of laughter.

Oesterhoudt

BIRTHRATES AND HOMOSEXUALITY : A CLASSICAL PERSPECTIVE AND A WORD ON TRADITION-BASED ARGUMENTS

AN ESSAY

Over the last few weeks, I have been delving deeper into Aristotle's Politics. In a previous essay, I wrote that I had begun to read Aristotle with more forgiveness. Now, I can confidently say that some of his ideas actually "work" for me. I no longer cast a suspicious eye on everything he writes. Rather, I closely evaluate his arguments to parse points that make sense to me.

In the past, I criticized Aristotle because he was too metaphysical. He presumed that everything on earth has an identifiable "purpose," and that absolute "truth" was obtainable by analyzing various interactions between "purposes." I first read Aristotle when I was college. At the time, I was making discoveries about my own sexuality. Aristotle's metaphysics appeared to argue against "non-procreative" sexuality because "male sexual organs" and "female sexual organs" have absolute, reproductive "purposes." Accordingly, using sexual organs for purposes beyond procreation amounted to "misuse." It is not surprising that the medieval Church and the modern Catholic Church closely read Aristotle. They used this very argument to demonize all sexuality-- with special vehemence reserved for homosexuality.

But a much different picture emerged when I sat down to read Aristotle again. Rather than condemning homosexuality as an abomination--as I always assumed he did, without ever reading as much--he espoused a much less judgmental attitude. To the contrary, he seemed to echo my own belief that homosexuality exists in nature, and that it makes little sense to condemn it. See, e.g., http://reasoncommercejustice.blogspot.com/2009/01/oesterhoudt-strikes.html.

In analyzing the Spartan Constitution, for example, Aristotle reasons as a biologist, observing: "[C]ertainly all people seem compulsively attracted by sexual relations, either with males or females." The Politics, Book II, Ch. ix ¶ 1269b23. Earlier in the same paragraph, he actually praises "societies in which male homosexuality is openly esteemed," because male-centered societies--unlike Sparta--tend to keep avaricious women in check. Id. Aristotle believed that males "naturally" ruled females; thus, it was more an abomination to tolerate females "ruling" men than to allow males to have sex with each other. But in the final analysis, Aristotle suggests that sexuality is natural, no matter whether it involves males or females. Human beings are simply "compulsively attracted" by sexual relations. And that "compulsion" does not draw a bright gender line.

Aristotle does not simply conclude that homosexuality is natural. He even observes that homosexuality performs an essential State function by restraining birthrates. In analyzing the Cretan Constitution, he notes that the lawgiver actually prescribed "sexual relations between males" in order to "keep[] down the birthrate." The Politics, Book II, Ch. x ¶ 1272a12. He also notes that the lawgiver strictly separated males and females in order to prevent unnecessary pregnancies. Id. Put another way, the Cretan lawgiver understood that all human beings are "compulsively attracted by sexual relations" with each other, so he allowed both men and women to find sexual outlets in a manner that would not bankrupt the Kingdom by overpopulation.

I found this fascinating for several reasons. First, I never thought that a classical philosopher--let alone Aristotle--would argue that homosexuality could actually be exploited to fulfill a beneficial State objective. I always thought that Western governments took a moral stance against homosexuality. Apparently that is not true. In the Politics, Aristotle frankly discusses homosexuality as both a natural phenomenon and worthwhile social policy. Morality does not even enter the analysis.

Second, I found it interesting that Aristotle repeatedly speaks out against birthrates. Although he only mentions homosexuality in connection with birthrates in the Cretan example, he mentions low birthrates many times throughout the Politics. He equates high birthrates with poverty, discord and ruin. At the same time, he praises States that carefully control their populations. This makes sense given Aristotle's belief that States should strive to cultivate "good" people, not just "many" people.

Aristotle's views on homosexuality and birthrates fundamentally differ from modern views on the same subjects. For centuries, Western society has learned to revile homosexuality in all its manifestations. Church dogma called homosexuality a "sin;" it warned homosexuals that they would go to hell if they "practiced" it. The law labeled it a "crime;" it warned homosexuals that they would be executed or imprisoned for it. Even the scientific community diagnosed it as a "disease;" psychiatrists did not remove it from the book of "mental illnesses" until about 1970.

Although extreme institutional intolerance toward homosexuality has slowly weakened over time, there remains a virulent moral strain against homosexuality in Western societies. It is still "not normal." It is still somehow illegitimate and "disgusting." Put another way, it may not be "illegal" anymore; but it is still "immoral." Despite some modest legal advances in recent years (i.e., it is no longer constitutionally permissible to jail gay men for having sex), these attitudes force homosexuals to live on the fringes of society. They risk everything by living truthfully. They face a difficult decision whether to tell others about their own sexuality, a decision that no other people need to worry about in society. Or they can simply to choose to live in secret.

These are hardly appetizing decisions to make in life.

Against this background, it is almost inconceivable that a respected scholar would suggest that homosexuality is "natural," let alone that it could serve a "beneficial social purpose." If anything, attitudes toward homosexuality in Western civilization reveal little more than contempt. Until the late 19th Century, "sodomites" hanged in Great Britain. That is a far, far cry from Aristotle's argument that homosexuality actually could provide a benefit to society through lower birthrates.

But Western societies traditionally do not like low birthrates, either. That is why Aristotle's views on low birthrates seem so fascinating today. Historically, Western societies have done their best to encourage high birthrates. They have generally wanted to increase their populations. This coincided with Church dogma that men and women should "honor God" by "blessing Him" with as many offspring as possible. Just as the Church preached against homosexuality, so too did it praise prolific childbearing.

Modern America is no exception to these attitudes. For the most part, the United States encourages procreation among its citizens. Families with many children earn social praise, even congratulations. By the same token, modern America does not fully tolerate homosexuality. Homosexuals, after all, do not procreate. Is there a conceptual link between historical hatred for homosexuals and their inability to contribute to the birthrate?

Is there a moral link? After all, Western history shows that high birthrates bespeak "moral" living, while homosexuality bespeaks "immorality" because it does not contribute to the birthrate. In this sense, there is an inverse relationship between homosexuality and birthrates in modern society: The capacity for high birthrates is moral and good, while homosexuality is immoral and bad because it does not lead to high birthrates.

These views have reigned in the West for centuries. But a quick read through Aristotle reveals that it has not always been so. If a philosopher as renowned as Aristotle suggested that homosexuality is natural and that low birthrates are good, what does that say about "traditional" Western views on these subjects? After all, those who demonize homosexuality as an immoral abomination prize arguments based in "tradition." They say that "tradition" provides a reason to hate homosexuality because "our society has always reviled homosexuality."

But what if "tradition" is wrong? Or at least conveniently tailored to meet ideological ends? When it comes to homosexuality, Aristotle provides a historical example that not everyone in the "Western tradition" thought homosexuality was an abomination. Put simply, Aristotle's divergence from the so-called "tradition against homosexuality" shows that "tradition" arguments can be very misleading. After all, it is easy to just ignore inconvenient voices in a historical tradition, then call the tailored version "tradition."

I do not think that "tradition" categorically supports an argument that homosexuality is necessarily "immoral," or that high birthrates are necessarily "good." We simply must reference Aristotle to wreck any argument that "tradition" on these subjects has been unanimous. It hasn't.

And to those who think arguments based in tradition somehow carry special weight, I offer another quote from Aristotle to temper reliance on tailored history: "Generally, of course, it is the good, and not simply the traditional, that is aimed at." The Politics, Book II, Ch. viii ¶1269a3.

Put another way, it is no answer to a problem to say: "That's the way we've always done it." Solving problems takes independent thought, not blind imitation or historical charades.

REUNITED WITH AN OLD FRIEND : FYODOR DOSTOEVSKY

A REFLECTION

I was waiting for a friend in an office two days ago. Unlike most waiting rooms, this one actually had a bookcase with some good books, not just a table stacked with magazines about celebrity sightings. I looked over the titles. I saw familiar names: Kafka, Orwell, Dostoevsky, Bronte, Tolstoy, Woolf.

When I was younger, I loved literature. I dove into books, even did not fully understand them. I really thought literature would make me a better person; I thought it was good to read books. I even took pride in it. I went to school at Columbia in New York. They force you to read “classic literature” there. It’s called the “Core Curriculum.” Many of my classmates resented the compulsion to read so much. I actually enjoyed it; I disregarded the compulsion. I read for myself. I didn’t care what my teachers said; most of them were just graduate students anyway who had to teach the course to get their own degrees. I just conversed with the authors. I even read more over the summer because I liked the themes and ideas I encountered. I wanted to develop them in my head. I didn’t turn off my brain when the school year ended.

All these old impressions came back to me as I looked at that bookcase. A comforting feeling came over me, especially when I saw the name Dostoevsky. Dostoevsky was my favorite author from my first year at Columbia. I dedicated the rest of my college days to reading just about everything he wrote. I read all his classic novels: Crime & Punishment, The Brothers Karamazov, The Demons, The Idiot. I also read most of his short stories, like Notes from Underground, The Double and The Gambler. Taken together, these books profoundly influenced me. I even used Dostoevsky’s ideas to measure every other philosopher and writer I encountered. Not surprisingly, I liked philosophers and writers who echoed Dostoevsky, like Nietzsche, Kafka and Foucault. By contrast, I reviled philosophers and writers whose ideas stood in contrast to Dostoevsky, like Plato, Aristotle, Kant, Dante and St. Augustine.

Dostoevsky was my heroic standard. But then I graduated from college and he faded from my mind. Forced to contend with commerce, I had no time to read Dostoevsky, or anyone else for that matter. My concerns simplified: Work, make money, go home, try to make more money next year. There was no need to think or to be creative. You just needed to put in time. I went to law school in an effort to boost my earning potential and finally get over the commercial hump. Of course, that didn’t happen; twentysomethings dream big but do not have life experience to know that nothing ever pans out as anticipated. True, I might know more now than I did when I was 22. I’m just knee-deep in debt for it.

During law school, I read more than I have ever read in my life. But I did not read any Dostoevsky. In fact, I read books that Dostoevsky would have detested. I read books and judicial opinions that posited “truth” and “objective standards,” two things Dostoevsky routinely criticized in his works. At the time, I did not reflect on the dissonance between the doctrines I was learning and the ideas I absorbed earlier in my life. Not until recently did I uncover that dissonance. It took heartbreak, suffering, reversal, humiliation, rediscovery and self-evaluation to recognize the foolishness in seeking “truth,” “objective standards” and “commercial success.” In short, it took life experience to bring my intellectual focus full circle. Law school doesn’t teach that. And in college, you are too young to amass it. Yet after law school, I contended with personal trauma after personal trauma. The ideas I absorbed in college started to make a lot more sense than they did before I had experience. By the same token, life experience made me deeply question the law and its orderly, well-polished claims to truth. Contrary to every statute, case and order, there really were no objective standards in life. Life was mysterious and unpredictable, not codified and discernable. No legal test could measure it or even judge it. Right and wrong were not juridical concepts; they were nebulous power judgments.

I slowly recognized that my “radical” college ideas were not so far-fetched. Satire became my stock in trade. Satire helped me reconcile my old learning with the absurdity I saw all around me. Satire helped me dethrone the law simply by referring to life. In short, satire helped me “get back to Dostoevsky.”

All these things swarmed my mind as I looked at that bookcase. I picked up a book: “Dostoevsky’s Short Works.” For the first time in almost ten years, I was opening a Dostoevsky book. I perused the contents: Notes from Underground and The Dream of a Ridiculous Man. I had always wanted to read The Dream of a Ridiculous Man when I was in college. I never got around to it. I was 21 then. Now, at 31, here was my chance. I began reading. Within seconds, I was transported to another world, a familiar one.

I was ready to read Dostoevsky again. At first, I was somewhat embarrassed when I noticed how much he had influenced my own writing over the years. I recognized at once that I had unwittingly become a Dostoevsky imitator. His sentence structures and ruthlessly satirical attacks on “powerful people” obviously made a deep impression on me. His style won me over when I was young and I internalized it over many years. It has become so engrained that I can’t avoid sounding like Dostoevsky, at least in some ways. I can think of many things I have written in this blog that directly appropriate Dostoevsky’s style. For that reason, as I read The Dream of a Ridiculous Man, I eerily felt as if I was reading something I had written. After that passed, I simply felt content. I was just reading my mentor’s words. I felt as if I had been reunited with a dear friend. It was a wonderful feeling after such a long absence. On the other hand, it made me feel good to know that I had been carrying Dostoevsky’s banner on my blog all along, even if I hadn’t known it.

What is it exactly about Dostoevsky that influenced me so much? There are several key ways. For one, he is darkly satirical. He exaggerates details to mock “powerful people”—especially those with ranks and “high standing” in society. At the same time, he calls his heroes “ridiculous” when in fact they are quite noble. In The Dream of a Ridiculous Man, for instance, Dostoevsky calls the protagonist “ridiculous,” “absurd,” “a madman,” "laughable" and “reclusive.” He is poor, lives in a one-room, partitioned apartment and has hundred-year-old furniture. Everyone laughs at him. But later on, we learn that this “ridiculous man” simply wants to treat others as he would like to be treated. For that, society calls him a blathering fool. That is dark satire—this is a man who has noble sentiments. He is not really ridiculous at all; he is only “ridiculous” in the judgment of a broken society. Society is ridiculous, not the good man it calls ridiculous. Dostoevsky knows irony. His sarcastic misanthropy definitely left a solid mark on me.

Second, Dostoevsky deeply understood that “truth” is an elusive—and judgmental—concept. He was one of the first authors to dig deeply into his characters’ conscious thought patterns. His narration, too, recurrently suggests that “things are not what they seem.” He stresses subjective impression and individual reaction to sense, not objective truth. He uses phrases such as “as if,” “even,” “somehow,” “in a way” and “some kind of” when describing people, events, feelings and recollections. This creates an overall impression that there is no “truth,” but rather only fleeting impressions in the minds of those who “were there” to sense something. The Dream of a Ridiculous Man abounds with these “uncertain recollections.” In fact, the reader consciously feels that everything is dark, muddled and indeterminate. When the protagonist recounts his dream, for instance, we have no idea what “actually happened.” In short, Dostoevsky understood that “truth” is in “the eye of the beholder.” Nietzsche picked up on this, too, when he argued that “there are no facts or truths, only interpretations.” In Dostoevsky’s works, every detail is an interpretation. Dostoevsky leaves it to the reader to put the pieces together—and that, too, is an “interpretation.”

Finally, Dostoevsky always tempered his sarcasm and satire with hope. This, too, influenced my writing. In The Dream of a Ridiculous Man, for example, the protagonist—who once gave up on life because “nothing mattered to him anymore”—ultimately declares: “I will not and cannot believe that evil is the natural condition of people.” He goes on to say: “’Knowledge is higher than feelings…[t]he consciousness of life is higher than life, the knowledge of the laws of happiness is higher than happiness’—that is what must be fought!” The Dream of a Ridiculous Man (Pevear/Volokhonsky trans., Bantam 2008) at pp. 338, 342. In short, Dostoevsky takes a stand against “juridical, rule-based” approaches to existence. “Feelings” are better than “knowledge,” and “happiness” is better than “the rules of happiness” because “feelings” and “happiness” intuitively flow from within the individual. By contrast, “knowledge” and “rules” must be “learned according to an extrinsic system.” They are “objective standards.” Yet the protagonist is “ridiculous” for making these discoveries. He is “ridiculous” for daring to oppose “the rules of happiness” and deciding simply to be happy. This is the ultimate satire: It is “ridiculous” to be happy and to savor individual intuitions.

These last ideas struck a familiar chord with me. They seem to mirror my entire opposition to juridical thinking and the objective standards that the law attempts to foist on human beings. How true that we live our lives attempting to mold our behavior to “the rules of happiness” rather than allowing ourselves to simply feel happiness in our own way. Rather than “feeling,” we seek always to “know” some extrinsic rule. In so doing, we forget our own emotions and subject ourselves to an “objective standard.” Someone else laid down the “rules of happiness;” we struggle to learn them. When we fail to reach them, we feel bad. In conforming to those rules, we steadily lose our capacity to form our own impressions about happiness. That is tragic.

Yet Dostoevsky’s message is not entirely pessimistic. After all, the “ridiculous man” does not mind being called “ridiculous.” He resolves to fight the “rules of happiness.” In essence, Dostoevsky holds out hope for those strong enough to fight against objective thinking. He offers support to all the “ridiculous people” who think and feel for themselves in a world that discourages individual approaches to happiness and meaning.

That is a beautiful message. After all, I am a “ridiculous man,” too. I actually consider it a compliment, not an insult. Ridiculous people survive though the ages, not those who merely follow the “rules of happiness.” In fact, ridiculous people might even find their own happiness somewhere along life’s way. The important thing is not to mind being labeled ridiculous. Ridiculous people are special, even if they are not “successful.” Dostoevsky knew that, and that’s one big reason he influenced me so much.

I DON'T CARE ABOUT PLOT

A REFLECTION

I often talk to people about writing. Interestingly, I rarely get consistent advice. Some people say I should write less. Others say I should revise more. Still others think I should take everything I’ve written, put in on paper and turn it into a book. A few have even said I should write a novel. Basically, I can’t possibly accommodate all these suggestions at once. If I did, I would be contradicting myself.

I still learn from these conversations, even if I cannot follow them all. Most importantly, I have learned that “blogging” might not be the best medium for my writing. I turned to blogging without really knowing what it was. I just wanted a regular forum in which to post my thoughts, satires and views. My blog provided the discipline I needed to keep writing, as well as to develop coherent themes. After writing several hundred pages, however, I began to see that most “blogs” are not really “literature-based” or even “text-based.” To the contrary, many “popular blogs” are more picturebook than book. One successful blogger told me that internet users don’t want to read. Rather, he said they want to check, peruse, skim and maybe type LOL. He said that if I wanted more hits, I would have to write much, much less—and post more pictures.

This depressed me. I had more faith in people than that. I believed that people want more from life than to look at pretty pictures and laugh. I know that I like to read provocative essays and stories. I thought that people felt the same way. The day after hearing the successful blogger’s advice, I thought I had failed. But my spirit soon rebounded. No matter how well picturebooks work for the “successful blogger,” they don’t work for me. I declared my independence from “internet thinking.” I apologize to everyone who can’t read a page for more than 20 seconds, but I don’t write twitter-sized bites. If you want vacuous brevity, you won’t find it here. I write here as if I were writing a book. I am laying bare my thoughts about issues I care about. I can’t do that in 140 characters or less. If that makes me unpoetic, so be it. Still, I never feel that I waste words. I might write a lot, but only because there is a lot to say about important questions. Style is essential to me. It just isn’t a 4-word-per-sentence/quarter-page style.

I do not mind being an outlier. I eschew convention in most life matters, anyway. It should not surprise anyone that I defy internet convention, too. Nonetheless, I can be realistic when I need to be. I understand that my content would find better expression in paper form. In that light, I plan on printing out everything I write here, tightening it up and transforming it into a printed package. I like seeing words on paper more than on a screen. That might show my age. But it also shows my belief. I don’t shrink from it. I only have one opportunity to say how I really feel today. When I write, I take that opportunity. In this sense, I am taking the advice to turn my blog into a book.

This does not mean I will close the blog. To the contrary, the blog is my laboratory. Here, I merge my creative impulses with discipline. The blog gives me a ready forum in which to post my thoughts immediately after formulating them. That is a fantastic resource. My ideas first see light on the blog. I let them season here, then decide whether to tinker with them further. Ultimately, the well-seasoned stuff will make it into the book, with revisions and probably some additions. I want my book to present a relatively coherent picture about my views. To that extent, my blog archive is a huge help. In some sense, I have already categorized my thinking in many areas. I don’t like to say I am a categorical person. But I won’t deny that I can “categorize” subjects I like to write about.

I will not write a novel. At least, not a traditional one. I won’t write a novel because I don’t like writing plots. Plots are too ordinary for me. I will only dream up a plot to the extent necessary to create a framework for satire. I have always resisted entreaties to “think up cute stories” or “love tales.” I can understand why some people suggest this, because most “literature” and “entertainment” centers heavily on plot. Audiences take comfort in “exciting stories” about men, women, events, romances, turnarounds, developments and resolutions. Trash novel writers make millions writing insipid plots lines and banal dialogue. They know what people want. Plot pays.

But I need more than plot to get excited about writing. I need messages. I need criticism. I need observations. I need irony. I need opinion. I need ambiguity. If I want plot, I can watch the news or buy the New York Post. Plot is ordinary. It is about who, what, when, where and how. This is not to say that great novelists do not weave messages, criticism and observations into their plots. Dostoevsky did that masterfully. But that’s why they were “great novelists;” they did not just recite a plot line. The difference between “literature” and “plot writing” is the ability to make lasting observations about humanity while entertaining the audience with a good story.

Yet literature does not sell as well because it is harder to read: Grisham will outsell Dostoevsky any day. In that sense, literature mirrors the problems I face contending with “internet convention.” Internet reading parallels “plot reading.” Like plot readers, conventional internet readers want quick, easy-to-follow “factual” reports about people and events. Facebook and Twitter prove this. Most internet writing—and many blogs—discuss what some random individual “does” on a certain day; and there is nothing profound about it. “I went shopping.” “I saw Kim.” “Billy is soooo cute XD XD.” “OMG I have a math test next period.” This is internet writing. It is “plot-like.” It is easy to read. It does not dwell on lasting issues, nor is it intended to make a rhetorical impact. It just tells you what someone is doing. If you don’t know the person, you can be forgiven for saying: “Who the fuck is this and why should I care if they got a haircut today?”

I have the same reaction when I read plot-based writing. What do I care? What does this writer want to say? If I do not have an emotional or intellectual connection to the events being described, there is no reason why I should follow it. Hollywood makes money on plot by interspersing routine events with explosions, good-looking people, violin flourishes and special effects. But without the bells and whistles, most Hollywood plots are instantly forgettable. They don’t really say anything. They just provide easy-to-follow entertainment.

When I write, I consciously try to avoid that fate. I do not want my writing to last only for the brief moment in which I write it. I want it to make a statement on an issue that will be just as important next year as it is today. That is why I don’t write plots, unless I am satirizing conventions that use plot. I acknowledge that my writing may not achieve great “popularity” because it does not spin plots, but that does not bother me. I am content to put my beliefs, impressions and thoughts on paper. I comment on issues that confront us all. In the process, I challenge my own assumptions; in the end I usually conclude that I know very little. I prefer ideas to events, even though events in many cases provide the philosophical fodder for ideas. I take my time in developing ideas. If it takes five pages some days, then I write five pages. I cannot squeeze them into Twitter-sized morsels. That is just the way I write.

As always, I am thankful for everyone who takes the time to savor what I write. I know it takes time. I certainly make no claim to be a great writer, nor do I want fame. I just know that I care deeply about transcendent issues that go beyond “what I’m doing today.” It makes me feel good to inscribe my thoughts upon them, if for no other reason than to say: “This is what I believed; it doesn’t matter whether it’s right.” Whether I attack issues satirically or ponder them in an essay, my attitude toward them is the same. Genuine issues deserve genuine discourse. I use my blog to generate that discourse. I am developing a way to look at the world. I am using my time to understand what I really think. Amazingly, I really did not know that until I started writing in earnest.

I never would have discovered my own thoughts if I just wrote plots. That’s why I don’t like them. They contribute nothing to self-discovery, enrichment or individual personality. They just pass time. And we don’t have much.

NIETZSCHE & ME : WHO I AM AND WHERE I'M HEADED

OESTERHOUDT STRIKES

I have written almost every day for the past seven months. When I began maintaining this blog, I had a clear vision in mind: I would write satires and essays. I think I have generally held to this vision. But during my recent trip to Berlin I made an important discovery about my own identity as a writer. While there, I picked up one of my favorite old texts, Nietzsche’s On the Genealogy of Morals. I read the first twenty pages or so in my hotel room, including the Prologue. Nietzsche always put great weight on his Prologues. He used them to provide some insight into the reasons why he was writing, as well as how he perceived his audience. As I read his words, I felt a close kinship with Nietzsche. Nietzsche always inspired me when I was younger, but only now—after truly immersing myself in writing for many months—do I truly perceive the pervasive influence he has exerted on me. I certainly do not want to compare myself to Nietzsche. I simply believe that my writings continue his tradition: Brash criticism of prevailing values; acerbic analysis; and unashamed pugnacity in confronting long-held “truths.” I also believe that Nietzsche’s approachable prose inspired me to write clearly. Above all else, I attempt to make my writings readable, even if the subject matter is wildly complex. Nietzsche has many followers who did not achieve his readability. Foucault is a prime example. For me, however, rhetoric and readability are essential. How else can I satirize and analyze if others cannot readily grasp my points?

Nietzsche called On the Genealogy of Morals “eine Streitschrift.” Typically, translators render that German word as “A Polemic” in English, namely, a “writing that incites conflict in its readers by strongly advocating a contentious position.” “Polemic” derives from the Greek word for “war.” But in my view, the German sounds so much better. “Streitschrift” derives from two words: “Streiten,” meaning “to dispute, fight or contend” and “die Schrift,” meaning “writing,” or “written piece.” Streiten is a core Germanic word. It gives us our English words “strife” and “strive.” It implies bitter dispute, struggle and a willingness to fight. Viewing these meanings as a whole, then, “polemic” seems an academic and indirect way to label On the Genealogy of Morals. It would be better to stick to Germanic words to convey Nietzsche’s core meaning. His writings “strive,” “struggle,” “fight” and invite “conflict.” They cause “strife.” Germanic words hit harder than Greek ones, at least in English. Nietzsche’s iconoclastic willingness to present unpopular views will always intoxicate me.

Streitschriften. That is what I write.

I adore Nietzsche’s Streitschrift style because it stands in contradistinction to vacuous, faux logical “legal writing.” Nietzsche does not burden the reader with endless references to “legal authorities” or “scholars” when he writes his arguments. He takes a position, drops a bomb then lets the reader figure it out. He does not quote. He does not cite “authors” or “judges” to back his position. He presents his own position. He criticizes authorities; he does not depend on them for persuasiveness. In this sense, legal writing is essentially anti-individualistic. In the law, no argument works without reference to “established authority.” Yet Nietzsche’s writing is quintessentially individualistic. He identifies troubling intellectual issues, cuts to their heart and brutally points out the folly in accepted approaches to those issues. Nietzsche did not shy away from inviting quarrels. He even labeled one of his books “Unzeitgenössische Betrachtungen” (Untimely (or Unpopular) Observations). He did not mind ruffling feathers or presenting unpopular views. Nor did he attempt to convince anyone. Legal writing always attempts to “persuade the reader” to accept this or that position. Nietzsche did no such thing. In his Prologue to the Genealogy of Morals, he wrote that it would be a mistake to try to “decipher” his writing. Rather, he intended his writing to spark “interpretations.” Zur Genealogie der Moral, Vorrede 8, S. 11. He hoped to cultivate “reading as art” rather than labor. To practice that art, he admonished his readers not to be “modern men,” but rather “cows,” because good reading necessarily involves “rechewing.”

I see all these sentiments reflected in my own writing. Although Nietzsche did not write satires, his ruthless criticisms concerning ethics, morals, culture and neglected principles all joyfully mock accepted viewpoints. I share his joy in mocking accepted viewpoints and hypocrisy. That joy burns through my writing, whether satirical or not. Satire is a good vehicle to expose absurdities in culture, argument and power. Nietzsche used aphorisms and short, biting essays to expose those absurdities. I opt for satire because I find it accomplishes the same mission, plus it is fun to write. Nietzsche constantly exhorted his readers to relish their intellectual abilities by mocking accepted notions. “Cheerfulness,” Nietzsche wrote, “or to be more precise and to say it in my own language, ‘The Joyful Science,’ is a reward: a reward for a long, brave, diligent and otherworldly seriousness—something that, freely, will not appeal to all.” Zur Geneaolgie der Moral, Vorrede 7, S. 10. For both Nietzsche and me, there is a joy in criticism, a joy in mocking accepted notions. It is fun to write satires; and there is an “intellectual reward” in it because it makes me—and hopefully some of my readers—“cheerful.”

Nietzsche also knew that not everyone would appreciate him. He recognized that his Streitschriften would insult his targets as much as they would delight his followers. I do the same thing. I recognize that my satires about morality, lawyers, “conventional life,” children, criminal justice, finance, sexuality, politics and capitalism will negatively impact some readers. Some readers will inevitably reject my criticisms or take offense that I mock certain dominant values. Some may even resent me for my own values. But here I quote Nietzsche again: “If this piece is incomprehensible or grates the ears of some listeners, I am not necessarily to blame.” Zur Genealogie der Moral, Vorrede 8, S. 10. If people are offended by what I write because I have “no respect” for certain values, or if I “unfairly simplify” certain issues, they fail to understand that my purpose is neither to convince nor to win. Rather, like Nietzsche, I aim only to “cheerfully” spark “interpretation” by pointing out critically troublesome conundrums in our civilization. If I can bring joy to some and thought to others, I will have succeeded in my mission as a writer. If someone blames me for advocating an unpopular position—or for failing to understand the irony in my satires—then I feel sorry for the reader who did not grasp my purpose. As Nietzsche theorized on this point, perhaps an angry reader should question his own values, rather than mine, to identify the source of his outrage with my critique.

I have learned so much by writing. It is astounding to think that, since beginning this blog, I have written the equivalent of a 600-page book. I have no intention of stopping. I simply think it is important to at times sit back and reflect on the trajectory my writing has followed, and to evaluate whether I have stayed true to my original aims. Reading Nietzsche again showed me not only that I have held the course, but also reminded me that I am part of his ongoing critical tradition. To that extent, do not expect my essays or my satires to contain airtight logic or rigid organizational structure. Rather, expect them to toss rhetorical grenades into tranquil waters. Expect them to breathe with joyful mockery. Let them provide an incitement to think about power, relationships, fairness, equality and principle. Do not expect them to provide answers to every specific question. Rather, let them provide an opportunity to think more deeply about things you might never have thought deeply about. I am not here to convince, persuade or conquer. I am here simply to point a few things out—with Streitschriften. If I cause strife, I apologize; but as Nietzsche said, I am not fully to blame for it. It is “constructive strife.”

Thank you to all who take the time to read—and “rechew”—my posts. If my arguments seem overheated, illogical, disorganized or melodramatic, I have good reason, for Streitschriften are not traditional arguments. Instead, they are invitations to intellectual struggle, and there is joy in that.