Language and Meaning

The limits of my language mean the limits of my world

– Ludwig Wittgenstein

I was reading the New York Times Sunday Magazine last weekend and caught this article, written by Michael Pollan, about the rise of agricultural diseases. In it, he begins with bemoaning the decreasing power of the word “sustainability”, seeing as it has been turned impotent; yet another zombiefied corporate catch-phrase designed to make what one does appear useful even when in practise the reality is much more ambiguous.

There is a biting summary of this phenomena in the second paragraph of Pollan’s article:

Confucius advised that if we hoped to repair what was wrong in the world, we had best start with the “rectification of the names.” The corruption of society begins with the failure to call things by their proper names, he maintained, and its renovation begins with the reattachment of words to real things and precise concepts. So what about this much-abused pair of names, sustainable and unsustainable?

I sat at the breakfast table, thinking about this paragraph. It stunned me, because my awareness of the philosophical questioning of language – its power to distort and clarify – didn’t extend as far as back in time as Confucius. To read it made me understand that this conflict – the fight to keep language from becoming a meaningless putty in the hands of technocrats – has been going on probably since the dawn of communication. It wasn’t until reading, of all people, Confucius – that old aphorism-spewing chestnut – speak about it that my understanding of the conflict was deepened.

The two writers who outlined this conflict most beautifully for me were Wittgenstein, quoted at the top (from his treatise, Tractatus Logico-Philosophicus) and John Ralston Saul, who rallied against the rise of technocrats most effectively in his books Voltaire’s Bastards, and The Unconscious Civilization. Each fulfilled a means of illuminating the power of language in a way that was neither impractically academic nor precious. Saul warns about how the images and words we share can be/have been actively distorted by those with corrupting self-interest. Wittgenstein’s very philosophy is about the parsing of truth and falsity (or senselessness, as he would put it) in how we use language to construct a world view.

With the discovery of Confucius’ addition to this subject, I now have more to research and reflect upon. I suppose I’m fascinated with this subject, and for reasons I don’t think are trivial. We are beset by corrupted means of communication every day: images that lie as well as they seduce, thoughts withheld from publication/broadcast because of vested interests. And yet, most importantly, I believe it’s also language that can save us – the very tools used to fool us can be used to liberate.

I suppose one of the first questions I have is whether there are more than a handful of people out there who give a shit, or whether this is a pursuit (non-Quixotic, I insist) only a begrudging elite will ever have interest in following. Sometimes I’m haunted by the words of writer William Sturgeon, who – when asked if it was true that he thought 90% of science fiction was crap – answered that, actually, 90% of everything is crap. What haunts me is how this somewhat off-the-cuff pronouncement translates into the percentage of everyday people who truly care enough about things like this. It’s important to me that people understand that the corruption of language (visual, textual, audible) is not simply an academic concern, and that it’s possible to put up an effective, civil defense against it.

Update: For more on Confucius and the “rectification of names”, please see this link for some context.

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Book Review: The Odyssey, by Homer

“As soon as Dawn with her rose-red fingers shone once more […]”

Homer’s Odyssey is one of the 500lb (or 226.796kg) gorillas I’ve been reading as of late. I came to it strangely. You see, eventually I want to read James Joyce’s Ulysses (a gorilla estimated to weigh a half-tonne). I knew that it was going to be a slog, so I did some research in preparation. Lo, it was suggested I read The Odyssey, as Ulysses tends to make reference to it. And thus, the Fates, if not Athena herself, recommended my next book.

The Odyssey isn’t a novel, but rather a song/poem much in the same way as the ancient epic, Gilgamesh (and if you don’t know what that is – and no, it’s not a reference to the evil magician from the Smurfs – don’t worry about it. I’m just trying to find another example that isn’t also another Greek work from the same period). It was never originally written down, but rather carried from person to person in the same way you would hand someone a CD of a song you’d like them to hear. Preserved through history as an oratorical epic, Homer’s Odyssey is an account of Odysseus, the Achaean king/hero, and his Job-like 10 year quest to return to his homeland, Ithica, having fought a decade before in the Battle of Troy (recounted in Homer’s earlier work, The Illiad).

What’s immediately engaging about the telling of The Odyssey is its surprisingly non-linear construction. We don’t start with the fall of Troy and Odysseus’ return to Ithica. Rather, we begin with the immortal goddess, Athena, seeking to undo the curse laid upon Odysseus from the earthquake god, Poseidon. From there, she confronts Odysseus’ son, Telemachus, living with his mother, Penelope, in Odysseus’ Ithican palace, now taken over with young suitors angling to wed Odysseus’ abandoned wife, laying waste to his kingdom in the process (note: the Greek gods tended not to come down and appear to mortals as themselves, but rather as fellow mortals – presumably shy folk that they are).

It is only after this substantial preamble that we – in filmic terms – cut to Odysseus, stranded on the isle of the immortal goddess, Calypso, where she has kept him for years as her…well…is “recalcitrant love-slave” applicable? Yes? Okay then. It is only through Athena’s indirect intervention that Odysseus is allowed to leave and finish his journey. Along the way, he is eventually allowed to provide the details of his painful journey since the fall of Troy: the land of the Cyclops, the Sirens, the Lotus Eaters, the thunder of Zeus, the House of Death, the nature of Poseidon’s curse. If you have any inkling or interest in swashbuckling adventure, heroic tragedy, monsters, mythology, or men transformed into sheep, there is no reason not to follow Odysseus’ tale.

Even preserved in verse-form (read: there’s half as much text on the page as in a typical novel), The Odyssey moves at a fast clip – though its thickness may intimidate you at first glance on the shelf. It’s a legendary tale that’s not like cough syrup to read – in fact, you may just find inspiration in its construction, evocativeness, and imagination.

The Odyssey, by Homer (ISBN: 978-0140268867) is available at a fine independent bookseller near you, or at any number of online sources. Please note: this review is based on the award-winning 1996 translation by Robert Fagles, who also produced a version of Homer’s Illiad. For those on the fence, there is a very readable summary of the book and its history here.

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Requiems Not Required: Jazz and Classical

Just today, I was sitting in the kitchen of a post production audio house – my current temporary office – and found myself inexplicably tuning in to what was playing on the radio: Schubert’s Symphony No.5. It’s a dreadfully beautiful piece of music. I say dreadfully, because it’s so evocative as to remove my mind from the mountain of very important things I have to tend to.

Thing is, I’m pretty sure I’m the only one in the building who could either name what was being played, or who would allow themself to be affected (nay swoon). But it’s not like I set out one day in my youth, predetermined to “learn” classical music. I don’t think anyone does, regardless of what it is we end up liking. Often we come across these things circumstantially. If it hadn’t been for my watching A Death in Venice on TV one night long ago, I probably wouldn’t have sought Schubert’s symphony, nor the original story by Thomas Mann. I should also thank the old Warner Brothers cartoons, in particular the Bugs Bunny classic The Rabbit of Seville (riffing brilliantly and faithfully on Rossini’s Barber of Seville).

Jazz came to me later, introduced by my flipping around the radio, looking for something other than Top-40 pap. And like everything I love, once I get hooked I find myself wanting to know more, filling in the holes illuminated by the light of my curiosity. I’m prone to infatuation and, not entirely unlike the tragic protagonist of Mann’s Venice, find myself obsessed to learn as much as possible about these things.

The problem is that both Classical and Jazz, while not dead, are held in a stasis by so-called Classical and Jazz “lovers” who seek, paternalistically, to coddle them like glass-boned children, halting their growth (intentionally or not) and – as a dire result – their acceptance to new generations.

To some, this statement is nothing short of heresy. In Reflections of a Siamese Twin, John Ralston Saul – writing about the aggressive protectionism of French language in Quebec – made two valuable insights which also reflect on the state of Classical and Jazz music. First, that culture is not something which society should attempt to create, control, or destroy to meet our fashionable needs – it’s a living organism which follows its own path. Second, that the only languages which need protection are dead languages. That is to say, he was criticising those who strove to legally protect and manipulate something which didn’t require it in the first place.

The problem isn’t that most of us don’t tune-in to Classical or Jazz radio. The problem is that most everything programmed on these stations (with varying degrees, depending upon where you’re located) is safe, old, and terribly predictable. Say what you will about the soulless depths of corporate-run, computer-programmed Top 40 radio, but one thing you can’t deny is that they play songs written during this century (already nearly 8 years old). Jazz and Classical radio suffers from a predilection: only play the standards. Their philosophy: who cares if you play three different interpretations of Lullaby of Birdland seven times a day – it’s a standard. Who cares if the daily playlist is the same tired variation of Mozart, Brahms, and Beethoven – they’re popular.

They’re partially correct: Lullaby of Birdland is a standard, and those three dead white German guys are popular. For both genres, deservedly so. But, in a contemporary sense, it’s only to the extent of pleasing people who have no desire to see either Classical or Jazz develop in different directions. When was the last time you heard anything from Miles Davis’ Bitches Brew on the radio? That album was released almost 40 years ago – when was the last time you heard a single Classical composition written within this time?

We can’t rely on movie soundtracks and cartoons to bring notice to the brilliance of older forms of music – if we do, they will always remain “older forms of music” rather than the living, breathing spirits which they are. We do both Classical and Jazz a disservice by sneering at contemporary innovation – I contend that it’s the snobs who have done the most damage. We can’t rely solely on the likes of Wynton Marsalis as appointed sentinels to tell us what is or what is not jazz music. We can’t forsake contemporary composers, like Alexina Louie, to keep programming the same tiresome Mozart/Brahms/Beethoven lineup for our orchestras.

People should be freely exposed to different forms of music. Often. However, it should be neither prescriptive nor mandated. Assuming we are only as developed as the environment we are exposed to, it makes critical sense to see, hear, and experience as many things as possible. It is for this reason that protectionism makes no sense.

[author’s note: when using the terms “Classical” and “Jazz”, I’m using popular terminology. Technically, within both (admittedly very broad) genres, there are countless sub-categories (Baroque, Be-Bop, Fusion, Romantic…).]

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All those whose mind entitles themselves,

And whose main entitle is themselves,
Shall feel the wrath of my bombast!

– Mark E. Smith
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State of the Nation

It would seem that the world is going through some disruption lately. Both the microscopic world that is my creative life and the world-at-large.

The novel is coming along, but I found I’d written as much as I could. It couldn’t get any further in its current draft without a “state of the nation” – the necessary point at which the writer must ask tough questions before proceeding. So, I decided to distill each chapter into cue card format, with the thought of posting them on a corkboard – the main idea was to be able to glaze over the thing and look at it objectively; this is something that’s impossible to do when you’re building the thing chapter by chapter. After completing the summary of the last-written chapter of the current draft, I realised that the draft was anaemic.

This was no surprise – or rather , it shouldn’t have been a surprise. The whole purpose of summarizing the novel into cue card form was for the fact I couldn’t see the forest for the trees anymore (pardon the cliché). You find yourself telling a story filled with characters and ideas, yet at times it ends up being a bunch of ideas posing as a story – at worst, neither…just a bunch of semi-articulated characters talking in order to necessarily further the plot so that the fucking thing can keep moving forward the way you thought it would.

In any case, justified or not, I was disappointed.

The next day, I took a long walk – the saving grace for the creative mind. I rolled the book’s problems and inefficiencies around my head like rocks in a laundry dryer. I then found myself sitting in a familiar coffee shop and proceeded to spend a couple of hours writing down the resulting thoughts from my medicative stroll. In the end, it wasn’t as bad as I’d thought. While not every individual issue got solved, I found myself with a solution or two which addressed my doubts. However, the long road seems longer – there’s still a lot of work to be done before I can consider the current draft complete.

And the rest of the world, you ask? What of that macroverse you’ve avoided telling us about? Well, one bastard got kicked out of office. Another promises to step down. One did everything possible to halt any significant movement on climate change. Another continued to arrest anyone who questioned his hand-picked successor’s path to election.

The moral of the story lies in the immortal words of Charles Bukowski: perseverance is greater than strength.

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On Awareness: A Diatribe

I was cruising around the blogdom (blogoshpere, blogoverse, what have you) and visited Bookninja – a great, topical place for writer/publisher/reader types. George, the site’s author, in his posting about the controversy surrounding book pricing in Canada [controversy summary: our dollar surpassed parity with the USD$ in August, and yet our sticker prices are still in line with our dollar being worth $0.85] began as follows…

The parity/book pricing issue is still making headlines, which probably means nothing else is wrong with the world. Glad to hear we cleared up that Darfur/rainforest/child sex trade mess. Just like acid rain and the impending nukular armageddon. Whew. Glad it’s over. Now, back to blindly consuming my way through life….

The point of his posting was about customers getting upset over the supposedly unfair pricing scheme, but I was caught off-guard at first by the bitter sarcasm of the opening paragraph. With no criticism directed towards George (because what I’ve excerpted above is just that – an excerpt – and is not his main point), there’s something about people taking a passive “high road”, even sarcastically, which drives me nuts.

How, pray tell, shall we “clear up” what’s happening in Darfur? Anyone got a quick-and-easy child sex trade disinfectant? It inadvertently highlights a problem that I’ve noticed: everyone seems to be aware of the world’s problems. Indeed, thanks to television, the internet, and various types of media, that whole AWARENESS thing has totally succeeded. It has succeeded in creating a society that is so self-satisfied to simply be aware of suffering – suffering-by-agency, if I may invent the next cycle of academic theses – that doing anything to help isn’t necessary anymore. It seems as if it’s enough nowadays to simply say: yeah, I know. And that’s the end of our moral responsibility.

In fact, I would wager that it’s probably harder to motivate people to get off their asses in support of a cause/belief now more than ever. Part of this has to do with the fact that people who are getting-by reasonably well – what used to be known as the middle class, but which is now becoming “the haves” (vs. the “have nots” who are working three part-time jobs and still flirt with the poverty line) – have absolutely no incentive to lift a finger to do anything. In the United States, as an example, the greatest thing George W. Bush did was to stay the hell away from drafting kids for Iraq – rather than seeing sons and daughters ripped away, like during Vietnam, we’re all comfy in our well-paying jobs, in our warm homes, with our new TVs, arguing about the relative strengths of Blu-Ray vs. HD-DVD.

Our economic comforts make us lazy. They allow us to philosophize idly, without consequence. Nothing, save the economy itself, makes us worried anymore. Our perspective of the world becomes increasingly virtual; the suffering of others becomes something we hope TV and film celebrities, like Don Cheadle, can solve for us. We’re simply asked for money to donate – again, another passive gesture. Alms for the poor.

I don’t mean to critique anyone who’s got money, nor to cast aspersion on the efforts of anyone who’s trying to make a difference; I’m not trying to be a prole with a chip on his shoulder. I just turned 37 yesterday and this is the first year of my adult life where I haven’t had to worry about paying rent – and I like not having to worry about that. I’m just concerned about the lull of consumerism and the lack of ways for people to truly, as in dirt-under-your-fingernails truly, get involved and feel as if they’re making a difference in an immediate, non-virtual way.

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In Memorium: Thomas Drayton

The city I moved into in the summer of ’95 is changing. Indeed, all things change and the best of us learn neither to fear it nor be heedless of what it is ushering. If there was an icon of Queen Street West, a spiritual totem that all in the city was not so bad, it was Thomas Drayton (shown pictured, left, with Andre Benjamin of Outkast).

He was often seen outside his marvellous vintage clothing store, Cabaret, or taking walks with his behemoth of a Rottweiler. It seems odd to say this, because in a sense you’d expect it to be commonplace, but Thomas was such a decent, grounded, and inherently benevolent person – indeed, I come back to the word totem to describe such a person. He always smiled warmly and greeted you on the street, regardless if neither of you had ever been formally introduced.

I can say that everyone I know who met him, whether it were fellow dog-walkers in the park or infrequent patrons of his store, were heart-broken to hear of his passing. He died peacefully after the onset of a sudden illness, on October 24th.

Songs are not legion for those who are neither particularly heroic nor lamentable; we prefer to base our odes, it seems, on those who straddle one of two extremes. Lost in the middle, where the majority of us dwell, are pillars such as Drayton. He was one of us and yet still managed to set an example of what could be attained.

My heart broke when I saw the placard in the window display of his store, explaining his passing. There is a copy of the memorium here. It’s one thing to keep memories of the dead alive in our hearts – I think, in the case of Thomas Drayton, we can go further and emulate the example he set for us, in his day-to-day style.

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UPDATE: Thanks to everyone for their feedback on this. It’s a contentious issue and I’ll probably shelve it until further notice. I appreciate your points of view.

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When I first envisioned this blog, I had it in my mind that it would be a potpourri of thoughts and feelings, curated with an eye to people of reasonable intelligence and cultural curiosity – with photographs too.

While it hasn’t veered off-course too much, I’ve found that ‘imaginary magnitude’ has become popular for the book reviews, which, owing to evolution, it seems have been the most prodigious type of posting. (As for the photographs, I’m still trying to get some quality scanning time – my scanner broke a while ago, leaving only my wife’s, and it’s hooked up to her computer, and I tripped over first base after my dog ate my shoelaces, blah blah blah).

So, lately, I’ve been wondering whether I should – with all aesthetic considerations taken into account – consider ads on the blog. Those Amazon-y things you see on other sites whenever they mention a book. Yes? No? Ambivalence? Do you find them invasive? Would you be offended by an ad in the margins or click-throughs that would enable people to purchase the books I’m reviewing directly?

I’m torn. I’m torn because I generally prefer to buy books locally at independent booksellers. That said, not everyone visiting my site lives in a major metropolitan area that allows for the cultivation of said booksellers. And hey, I can make a couple of bucks on the side for my time.

Let me know what you think – I’ll start a poll in the margin as well, in case you’re unable to type.

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