Here, I will discuss briefly “The New Rhetoric,” one of three major theories of pedagogy James Berlin discusses in his lengthy essay, “Contemporary Composition.”
The New Rhetoric, for me, was most interesting of the three methods Berlin discussed, not least because I mostly disagree with its major tenets, but also that, of all teaching methods I’ve been exposed to, it is perhaps the most frequently practiced. For the New Rhetoritician, Berlin says, truth is “dynamic and dialectical, the result of a process involving the interaction of opposing elements.” Unlike to Plato’s assumption that truth is embodied in natural “forms” which are meant to be discovered by an intricate method of philosophizing, the relation between these opposing elements are “created, not pre-existent and waiting to be discovered.” Because truth as such is undiscoverable through sense impressions – to do that, it needs to be organized and structured – truth is, in the context of communication, an element highly subjective and ungraspable, or suspicious, but through the interchange of messages from one person to another.
Before I attack this argument, it may be well if I stated, first, that I’ll make no attempt to misrepresent Berlin by connecting him with this view, though he seems to approve of it. I myself am not totally adverse to it. I agree, for instance, with their view that truth is in a constant state of flux, and that, being such an elusive substance, any resolution to discover a viable truth would no doubt rely on a communal effort. There are, however, different kinds of truths and different elements to those truths, each which appear to be appropriated uniquely to their relative contexts. The New Rhetoric’s is a perspective that allows for little in the interpretation of those truths’s that are most elementary yet elusive, which are the spiritual truths. I disagree with their view that communication is necessarily designed for the purpose of arriving at truth. Some forms are, and others are not. I believe that human beings apprehend a crucial truth through experience; racial integration, for instance, spread the bounds of the culture’s tolerance and, I think, civilized it to a great extent, all by the simple means of familiarity.
Wednesday, February 25, 2009
Saturday, February 14, 2009
Simon of the Desert: A Review
On February 14, 2009, The Criterion Collection announced the release of Luis Bunuel’s film “Simon of the Desert,” significant for its being the last film of the great director’s so-called “Mexican Period.” The film, which lasts only 43 minutes long, features two familiar Bunuel collaborators, Claudio Brook (Simon) and Silvia Pinal (The Devil).
I watched the film on a Friday night, alone, and, with the expectation of seeing an outrageous, anti-clerical comedy, I wasn’t disappointed at all. I do believe, however, that unlike other “art” directors, Bunuel is usually more accessible; no other director, in my opinion, is as at once so obscure and somehow very appealing, for the reason that, no one is often as creatively outrageous. This trait is apparent in “Simon of the Desert,” which is loosely based on the fabled Christian ascetic, Simon Stylites, who, as legend has it, in his attempt to expiate himself of venal sins, lived upon a high pedestal for 36 years. The film retells Stylites’ story, with Claudio Brook in the title role, covered in a dirty wool smock, cheeks covered in a matted beard, and speaking with a funny, pompous croak at his adoring, hypocritical followers.
Brook, who had an illustrious career (he starred in two other Bunuel films, “The Exterminating Angel” and “Viridiana”), is quite good; he is pompous, more self-important than noble, though he tries; when he heals the poor, handless cripple, who, walking off afterwards apparently without the slightest impression of the miracle, his cynicism seems, ironically, to reflect that of Simon’s himself. The dirty ascetic, glaring into the windswept land, wonders to himself about the nature of this religious gesture, fantasizing his mother holding his head in her understanding arms, comforting his sorrows. By his nature, he is weak, and we are certain that when the devil comes he will surely capitulate to temptation.
Bunuel made very good use of Silvia Pinal in their too-brief collaboration. The two teamed before in “Exterminating Angel” and “Viridiana”. The latter film is probably her best work, and, incidentally, was a humiliating blow to the dictatorship of Francisco Franco, who commissioned Spain’s leading director and exile back to his homeland to make an art movie, not expecting the hilarious, atheistic fiasco that resulted. Lacking the innocence of the naïve, religious girl in that film, Pinal here is evil itself. I thought that the scenes Pinal was in were the film’s funniest, especially the bizarre ending in a New York nightclub. The devil comes to Simon three times: first, as a sexy schoolgirl, singing a vulgar lullaby; then, as a bearded, cherubic messenger of God; and finally, as a ghostly, necrophilic apparition in a coffin.
The ending of the film still troubles me. Did Simon allow himself to fall under the devil’s spell and be taken to New York, or was he forced against his will? If the first proposition is true, then his fate in the nightclub – to be stranded in the future – is more appropriate. But is it, really?
The film is great. See it.
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=gNGOsvrbvu4&feature=related - Scenes from the film.
I watched the film on a Friday night, alone, and, with the expectation of seeing an outrageous, anti-clerical comedy, I wasn’t disappointed at all. I do believe, however, that unlike other “art” directors, Bunuel is usually more accessible; no other director, in my opinion, is as at once so obscure and somehow very appealing, for the reason that, no one is often as creatively outrageous. This trait is apparent in “Simon of the Desert,” which is loosely based on the fabled Christian ascetic, Simon Stylites, who, as legend has it, in his attempt to expiate himself of venal sins, lived upon a high pedestal for 36 years. The film retells Stylites’ story, with Claudio Brook in the title role, covered in a dirty wool smock, cheeks covered in a matted beard, and speaking with a funny, pompous croak at his adoring, hypocritical followers.
Brook, who had an illustrious career (he starred in two other Bunuel films, “The Exterminating Angel” and “Viridiana”), is quite good; he is pompous, more self-important than noble, though he tries; when he heals the poor, handless cripple, who, walking off afterwards apparently without the slightest impression of the miracle, his cynicism seems, ironically, to reflect that of Simon’s himself. The dirty ascetic, glaring into the windswept land, wonders to himself about the nature of this religious gesture, fantasizing his mother holding his head in her understanding arms, comforting his sorrows. By his nature, he is weak, and we are certain that when the devil comes he will surely capitulate to temptation.
Bunuel made very good use of Silvia Pinal in their too-brief collaboration. The two teamed before in “Exterminating Angel” and “Viridiana”. The latter film is probably her best work, and, incidentally, was a humiliating blow to the dictatorship of Francisco Franco, who commissioned Spain’s leading director and exile back to his homeland to make an art movie, not expecting the hilarious, atheistic fiasco that resulted. Lacking the innocence of the naïve, religious girl in that film, Pinal here is evil itself. I thought that the scenes Pinal was in were the film’s funniest, especially the bizarre ending in a New York nightclub. The devil comes to Simon three times: first, as a sexy schoolgirl, singing a vulgar lullaby; then, as a bearded, cherubic messenger of God; and finally, as a ghostly, necrophilic apparition in a coffin.
The ending of the film still troubles me. Did Simon allow himself to fall under the devil’s spell and be taken to New York, or was he forced against his will? If the first proposition is true, then his fate in the nightclub – to be stranded in the future – is more appropriate. But is it, really?
The film is great. See it.
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=gNGOsvrbvu4&feature=related - Scenes from the film.
Thursday, February 12, 2009
How to Make Love to a Humanist
Of the multitudes of ideas men have created, perhaps no other has been more influential (or controversial) than humanism. In its history, some of the most intelligent and noble ideas have been thought by men who have numbered themselves in this tradition, as well as the most benighted and ignorant of people. Considering myself a humanist, it may be well if I clarified this mystifying term, so frightening to so many in the American public. Afterwards, I’ll explain why it, humanism, is so crucial for understanding our world.
First, I quote one of the 20th century’s eminent philosophers, Antonio Gramsci, who, I believe, summed up the humanist credo well. Gramsci, a man who was imprisoned most of his adult life in the northern Italian state of Salo for his beliefs by Mussolini’s regime, and who never saw any of his work published, said, famously, that people must maintain a “pessimism of the intellect and optimism of the will.” What does Gramsci mean? He is advocating, simply, a sentiment, not a belief, that would befit men to best confront the problem of despair and inertia, which has dogged people the world over, throughout history, and has rendered many helpless, more particularly, by cynicism. People, he argues, must assume that the worst that could happen if they weren’t to act is guaranteed; however, by exerting their will to change their conditions for the better, people must assume their actions will affect a positive change. In this sense, action becomes, for the philosopher, an act more moral than thoughts and values for their own sake. So, for instance, if I studied heavily for an algebra exam, and I was certain that I would still fail, I would resolve to take the test anyway; the reason is because, if I didn’t take the test, my failure would be guaranteed, whereas if I took it, I either would pass the test or have the satisfaction of knowing I didn’t cower before the anticipation of taking it.
Gramsci’s idea, for me, is emblematic of the humanistic philosophy. This concept, like all humanism, is intended to give moral leverage to the individual, which, in turn, implies a greater need for, on the one hand, personal responsibility, and on the other, more obligation to one’s community. We can no longer deify the cult of reason, for the simple reason that civilization’s barbarism and vulgarity, so obvious to us all now, must figure into any serious assessment of human behavior.
However, there are plenty incidences that one can point to in which people don’t act like skull-splitting, blood-drinking barbarians. The Loyalist movement in Spain, which lasted from 1936 to 1939, has long been used as an example by anarchists and libertarian socialists as proof of the viability of anarchism, with good reason. George Orwell wrote memorably of the large communal societies that were established throughout Spain, in “Homage to Catalonia.” Orwell, a British socialist, fighting on behalf of the independent cause and describing the war-torn conditions around him, wrote that, though he didn’t understand everything in this society or even didn’t like many aspects of it, added that he couldn’t help but to behold what the Loyalists had accomplished and admire it. He returned to this region several months after his first visit, when the entire area had been crushed, usurped by Franco and his Felangist regime.
Orwell’s experience, and Gramsci’s, are a source of deep inspiration to me. They prove that, in the midst of insurmountable chaos, sadism, and unspeakable brutality, people can somehow maintain a semblance of reason and accomplish important things that may be beheld as example of moral behavior for other generations. I don’t believe humanism is strictly reserved for leftists or atheists, much for the same reason that I don’t see morality and piety as merely the apple of a right-winger’s eye. We are talking about humans and human values, after all, which can leave endless space for second-guessing and hairsplitting, on anything we could possibly choose to discuss. I don’t have space to attack that mammoth here. If, however, I were asked what I think all humanists share in common, I’d answer, they all agree that the common good is somehow reliant upon a balance between individual and communal security; that people, unlike property, are moral vehicles, and as such ought to be guarantors of certain rights, and; as many telling things can be determined about someone by the work they do, the quality of work must be improved as much as possible, which would in turn, presumably, improve the general value of life in the country.
First, I quote one of the 20th century’s eminent philosophers, Antonio Gramsci, who, I believe, summed up the humanist credo well. Gramsci, a man who was imprisoned most of his adult life in the northern Italian state of Salo for his beliefs by Mussolini’s regime, and who never saw any of his work published, said, famously, that people must maintain a “pessimism of the intellect and optimism of the will.” What does Gramsci mean? He is advocating, simply, a sentiment, not a belief, that would befit men to best confront the problem of despair and inertia, which has dogged people the world over, throughout history, and has rendered many helpless, more particularly, by cynicism. People, he argues, must assume that the worst that could happen if they weren’t to act is guaranteed; however, by exerting their will to change their conditions for the better, people must assume their actions will affect a positive change. In this sense, action becomes, for the philosopher, an act more moral than thoughts and values for their own sake. So, for instance, if I studied heavily for an algebra exam, and I was certain that I would still fail, I would resolve to take the test anyway; the reason is because, if I didn’t take the test, my failure would be guaranteed, whereas if I took it, I either would pass the test or have the satisfaction of knowing I didn’t cower before the anticipation of taking it.
Gramsci’s idea, for me, is emblematic of the humanistic philosophy. This concept, like all humanism, is intended to give moral leverage to the individual, which, in turn, implies a greater need for, on the one hand, personal responsibility, and on the other, more obligation to one’s community. We can no longer deify the cult of reason, for the simple reason that civilization’s barbarism and vulgarity, so obvious to us all now, must figure into any serious assessment of human behavior.
However, there are plenty incidences that one can point to in which people don’t act like skull-splitting, blood-drinking barbarians. The Loyalist movement in Spain, which lasted from 1936 to 1939, has long been used as an example by anarchists and libertarian socialists as proof of the viability of anarchism, with good reason. George Orwell wrote memorably of the large communal societies that were established throughout Spain, in “Homage to Catalonia.” Orwell, a British socialist, fighting on behalf of the independent cause and describing the war-torn conditions around him, wrote that, though he didn’t understand everything in this society or even didn’t like many aspects of it, added that he couldn’t help but to behold what the Loyalists had accomplished and admire it. He returned to this region several months after his first visit, when the entire area had been crushed, usurped by Franco and his Felangist regime.
Orwell’s experience, and Gramsci’s, are a source of deep inspiration to me. They prove that, in the midst of insurmountable chaos, sadism, and unspeakable brutality, people can somehow maintain a semblance of reason and accomplish important things that may be beheld as example of moral behavior for other generations. I don’t believe humanism is strictly reserved for leftists or atheists, much for the same reason that I don’t see morality and piety as merely the apple of a right-winger’s eye. We are talking about humans and human values, after all, which can leave endless space for second-guessing and hairsplitting, on anything we could possibly choose to discuss. I don’t have space to attack that mammoth here. If, however, I were asked what I think all humanists share in common, I’d answer, they all agree that the common good is somehow reliant upon a balance between individual and communal security; that people, unlike property, are moral vehicles, and as such ought to be guarantors of certain rights, and; as many telling things can be determined about someone by the work they do, the quality of work must be improved as much as possible, which would in turn, presumably, improve the general value of life in the country.
Sunday, February 8, 2009
Rhetoric Burger...Hold the Reason!
Recently, I have begun to reconsider my own beliefs, my judgments of other people, institutions, values; never, in all my mental wanderings, have I come to a satisfactory resolution to these pressing issues. I wonder, while wresting on a wizened, boney tree limb in my backyard, Jimi Hendrix at my side, waiting by a fire, what the meaning of truth is. Sadly, Jimi could offer nothing to help me in my journey, though, as you would expect, these meetings have at the least resulted in some great tuneage on his part.
The question is, “How will logos, pathos, and ethos benefit me in my life?” I would gladly have skirted that question to Jimi, who is, I believe, far more capable of answering than I am. He has, however, been dead for almost 40 years, so I suppose I’ll pick up the bag…
Whenever I catch myself watching television-for whatever reason that was-, or if I am simply listening to people talk after class, or, found in the middle of a heated political debate with another student I loose control and act a fool, I am continually amazed at the apparent disregard of reason and soundness in our arguments. To use myself as an example: When talking about, say, religion, I usually make no pretense of wanting to share a “civilized conversation,” and, like some flea-bitten, glassy-eyed pit-bull, leap on the poor sap I’m talking to, aiming straight for his jugular vein. Why, I can’t say. No doubt, I’m just as able as anyone else of being logical, of breaking down another’s argument, and of showing where I disagree and why, without the need to humiliate them. And often I have done just that.
But-and I’m sure some of you reading this would agree-these are very contentious times in our countries’ history, for a host of different reasons, and, no matter which “side” we’re on, there seems always to be a lingering instinct in us to be right, not logical. To be even more cynical, I would go so far to say many people-the dispossessed, the jobless and unhappy-would not even care to fit ethics into their arguments; simply winning an argument would suit them fine.
One example: Three years ago, I took an “American Policy” class, which was meant to inform us of the various branches of government, how wealth is distributed, etc. There were two blokes sitting behind me, who, other than during this period, had never spoken to anyone else. That day, the class somehow touched on ethics, which led to subject of homosexuality. Before anyone knew it, the class was swept into a fiery, limb-tearing harangue, all over the “morality” of homosexuality, with the two boys behind me leading the charge. I’ll spare you the whole argument-“Homosexuality is like necrophilia!”; “God hates fags, and you’re defending them!”- but all throughout, as I was attempting to speak to them, calmly, and trying to get a small point across, I instead was forced to dodge all the gobs of mud being flung at me from the other direction. Has it always been this way, I thought, or is this a new type of person we’re making?
From the “Aahh shad-up”-ing of a Bill O’Reilly to the lip-pursing, “Worse Person in the World”-like sarcasm of a Keith Olberman, modern people tend to move towards the vileness of a bad argument. I could be wrong, but I don’t think our social life has always been this way. Looking back, I think that, though the United States has witnessed countless horrors in its brief history, their may once have been a time, however brief, when people could talk to one another respectfully, logically, and without the urge to turn the other person into a bloody, meat-like pulp over a parking space at WalMart.
This is what Jimi and I were discussing last night. For my own part, I would like to use more ethos in my arguments in the future. That way, I may better be able to understand the other person’s point of view, no matter how much I find fault in his ideas.
The question is, “How will logos, pathos, and ethos benefit me in my life?” I would gladly have skirted that question to Jimi, who is, I believe, far more capable of answering than I am. He has, however, been dead for almost 40 years, so I suppose I’ll pick up the bag…
Whenever I catch myself watching television-for whatever reason that was-, or if I am simply listening to people talk after class, or, found in the middle of a heated political debate with another student I loose control and act a fool, I am continually amazed at the apparent disregard of reason and soundness in our arguments. To use myself as an example: When talking about, say, religion, I usually make no pretense of wanting to share a “civilized conversation,” and, like some flea-bitten, glassy-eyed pit-bull, leap on the poor sap I’m talking to, aiming straight for his jugular vein. Why, I can’t say. No doubt, I’m just as able as anyone else of being logical, of breaking down another’s argument, and of showing where I disagree and why, without the need to humiliate them. And often I have done just that.
But-and I’m sure some of you reading this would agree-these are very contentious times in our countries’ history, for a host of different reasons, and, no matter which “side” we’re on, there seems always to be a lingering instinct in us to be right, not logical. To be even more cynical, I would go so far to say many people-the dispossessed, the jobless and unhappy-would not even care to fit ethics into their arguments; simply winning an argument would suit them fine.
One example: Three years ago, I took an “American Policy” class, which was meant to inform us of the various branches of government, how wealth is distributed, etc. There were two blokes sitting behind me, who, other than during this period, had never spoken to anyone else. That day, the class somehow touched on ethics, which led to subject of homosexuality. Before anyone knew it, the class was swept into a fiery, limb-tearing harangue, all over the “morality” of homosexuality, with the two boys behind me leading the charge. I’ll spare you the whole argument-“Homosexuality is like necrophilia!”; “God hates fags, and you’re defending them!”- but all throughout, as I was attempting to speak to them, calmly, and trying to get a small point across, I instead was forced to dodge all the gobs of mud being flung at me from the other direction. Has it always been this way, I thought, or is this a new type of person we’re making?
From the “Aahh shad-up”-ing of a Bill O’Reilly to the lip-pursing, “Worse Person in the World”-like sarcasm of a Keith Olberman, modern people tend to move towards the vileness of a bad argument. I could be wrong, but I don’t think our social life has always been this way. Looking back, I think that, though the United States has witnessed countless horrors in its brief history, their may once have been a time, however brief, when people could talk to one another respectfully, logically, and without the urge to turn the other person into a bloody, meat-like pulp over a parking space at WalMart.
This is what Jimi and I were discussing last night. For my own part, I would like to use more ethos in my arguments in the future. That way, I may better be able to understand the other person’s point of view, no matter how much I find fault in his ideas.
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