February 2012

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The Erasing of Memories

by Kyle Cupp on February 29, 2012

Should people be allowed to erase their memories?  Amanda Marcotte thinks so.  She gives three reasons: 1) memory isn’t as sacrosanct as people think, 2) just because a memory isn’t stored in your brain doesn’t mean it’s gone, and 3) fears that people will be irresponsible with this technology are way overblown. Marcotte raises the issue because, apparently, the technology to erase specific memories may be available in our lifetimes.  Her conclusion:

These technologies are intended for and will be used by people who have a memory that is crippling them. Post-traumatic stress disorder is no joke; symptoms range from insomnia to paranoia to fear or sadness so crippling that the patient can’t leave the house. Jobs are lost, marriages break up, and sufferers often resort to suicide. Purging their brain of the memory and putting it on paper where it can’t hurt them is an act of mercy. Again, it’s not like the patient will be unaware that they were in war/were raped/escaped from a tower on 9/11. They will know this and be familiar with all the relevant details, after they read it on paper. All that will really be missing is the feelings of fear and pain that are attached to the original biological memory.

You may have seen the film Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind.  Marcotte references it several times as an example of what won’t happen with this technology.  I’m not sure I agree, either with her memory of the movie or her application of it, but let’s assume that she’s correct in saying that most people who employ this technology to erase their memories won’t do so willy-nilly or as a way to forget and act as if some event didn’t really happen.  I’m dubious, but okay.  The application of the technology that should concern us most is not the use of those crippled by a memory, but the exploitation of it by those not interested in personal choices, but power.

Instead of Spotless Mind, think Dollhouse, the two-season Joss Whedon series about a corporation that erases people’s memories so as to give them new ones and a new identity.  Why? To form them into dolls for use by the wealthy and privileged.   The technology that makes the dolls is ethically problematic itself, but as the story progresses, it makes clear that the uses of technology cannot be restricted to some approved intentional operation, not when the technology gives access to incredible power.

With Marcotte, I see that the technology to erase memories has benevolent possibilities, but apparently unlike her, I’m apprehensive about its other uses, specifically by those with power instead of the freedom in mind.

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Zombies Show the Limits of Our Ethics

by Kyle Cupp on February 29, 2012

Zombies: a danger to our ethical systems

I’m glad to see Rose Woodhouse giving philosophers a good name by discussing the permissibility of killing zombies.  It’s an important question, not because zombies might actually exist, but precisely because they represent what our ethical theories typically frame as non-existent and therefore ignore or exclude.  When zombies meander hungrily within our ethical horizons, even if only in our imagination, our ethical thought is faced with its own limitations.  I imagine Derrida would have liked zombie narratives for just this reason.

My favorite zombie moment may be from a Halloween episode of The Simpsons.   Zombies have overrun the city of Springfield.  The Simpson clan, led by a shotgun-armed homer, flee their house.  As they approach their car, their neighbor and Homer’s nemesis Flanders appears and, if memory serves, says something about nibbling Homer’s ear.  Homer blows him away.  “Dad, you killed Zombie Flanders!” Bart says, astonished.  “He was a zombie?” Homer asks.

The scene is funny because in the real world of The Simpsons, Homer despises Ned Flanders and is obsessively resentful of Flanders’ success, life, and happiness.  He wouldn’t kill Flanders, not in any normal circumstance, but then a zombie apocalypse ain’t normal.  It’s a disaster that’s not part of “the plan,” as the Joker in The Dark Knight would say, and so people panic and forsake their morals to an extent they wouldn’t when faced with a horror that at least makes sense in light of history or normalcy. Wars, poverty, Republicans–these evils happen and are expected, and ethics can chart discernible courses in view of them.  Zombies don’t happen, except when they do and all hell breaks loose.  Then we find out how limited and frail our ethical systems really are.

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Secularism Needs Pluralism

by Kyle Cupp on February 28, 2012

Michael Brendan Dougherty, in response to my cheers for a pluralist, secular state, presses me via Twitter on what happens if secularism isn’t pluralistic.  When that happens, society risks suffering from a problem similar to what secularism is supposed to address: state enforcement of comprehensive moral and behavioral norms by those who have the power to enforce them.  The coercion to follow norms of secular ideologies can be just as detrimental to human freedom and social justice as the pressure to behave in accordance with religious tenets.

As I said previously, secularism by itself does not prevent the imposition of norms upon the whole of society that some group or other or even the majority finds objectionable.  Nor will it ensure that the people of the nation debate from the same accepted premises, as if the exercise of reason detached from claims of revelation means that everyone begins from the same place.  We don’t all reason the same way.

Pluralism, which entails both a plurality of worldviews and a widespread respect for that plurality, helps keep secular society from becoming an authoritarian instrument of a particular secular worldview.  It shies away from forcing people to think and act in a certain moral way.  It prefers dialogue and persuasion to command and enforcement.  It values hospitality and dissent and disagreement and criticism.  It looks suspiciously at all grand narratives and comprehensive doctrines, especially those espoused by people with guns.

Secularism needs pluralism; otherwise, its leaves the door wide open for the abuse of power and the stripping of freedom.  Pluralism is no guarantee of freedom and justice, but it helps, and it’s necessary.

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A Pause to Listen: Katie Melua

by Kyle Cupp on February 28, 2012

Today we begin A Pause to Listen, a reoccurring series this blog will typically feature on Tuesdays.   The theme: musical performances, of course!  We lead off with the sublime, enchanting Katie Melua, singing “The Flood.”

Melua knows how to express overflowing meaning with the simplest words, and she does so with remarkable delivery. Listen to the way she whispers the words “let go,” and tell me you aren’t enthused with wondrous fortitude.

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+1 for Secularism

by Kyle Cupp on February 28, 2012

Must thank Rick Santorum: he gives me so many opportunities to write relevantly about my pet topics.  In the news today: secularism gives our wannabe national savior tummy troubles and an acidic burn in the esophagus.  Tasked by our wannabe investigative media to explain comments he made about his gag reflex to JFK’s speech on religion in the public sphere, Santorum pointed with one hand at secularism and with the other drew the skull and crossbones:

I don’t believe in an America where the separation between church and state is absolute. The idea that the church can have no influence or no involvement in the operation of the state is absolutely antithetical to the objectives and visions of our country.

This profession of belief makes sense given that Santorum sees the political sphere through a theological lens, but it’s a belief detached from reality nonetheless.  E.D. Kain explains why:

Obviously the church is just one of many special interest groups that really does have some say over matters of state. That’s simply a reality of representative government, whether we like it or not. But more importantly I really don’t think that Rick Santorum understands what he’s saying here, and the implications for freedom of religion.

Right.  An absolute separation of church and state is impossible.  Churches inform beliefs, and beliefs influence behavior.  You can separate church and state to Buzz Lightyear’s catchphrase and still have people voting on this or that solely on the basis of religious reasons. That being said, the impossibility of an absolute separation is no reason not to respect the dividing line.

I’m a churchgoing Catholic who believes that God has disclosed the highest truths about what it means to be human, but I’m also a secularist without apology.  I favor a secular state, a state that does not impose moral or behavioral norms that have religious tenets as their sole basis.  Secularism, when practiced, won’t prevent the imposition of norms upon the whole of society that some group or other finds objectionable.  Nor will it ensure that the people of the nation debate from the same accepted premises.

Secularism is no check upon all coercions of action by the state, but it is an important and necessary limitation upon state power.  Without it, political conflicts become turf wars over holy ground that scorch the fields of religious freedom.  Political debates become proclamations about God’s will and how the state should see it done.  These conflicts don’t typically end well.

An absolute separation of church and state may be impossible, but the absolutism of theological politics makes me long for it.  Richard Kearney says, and I agree, that “the absolute requires pluralism to avoid absolutism.”  Long live the pluralist, secular state, I say.

Or you can vote for Rick Santorum, the antiemetic of presidential candidates.

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Introducing the Boy to Video Games

by Kyle Cupp on February 27, 2012

I take it as a given that my children will be corrupted by the world, so I intent to do everything in my power to corrupt them myself. I’ll want to refrain from imbibing hemlock-based liquids, but that’s a price I’m willing to pay.  To this end, I’ll be introducing my son to some classic video games on the Nintendo Entertainment System.  He’s played some very basic games like Excitebike, but the official introduction will not begin until he’s learned to read without assistance, a milestone that is within sight.

So, dear readers, which game do you recommend I use to initiate the boy into the world of video games?  I’m sticking with the NES as nostalgia has dictated me to do so and I worry that starting the lad on the Playstation of PS2 will incline him not to try the 8-bit masterpieces.  Besides, playing video games demands a skill set, and the early Nintendo games are perfect for building them.

The early contenders are as follows: The Legend of Zelda, Dragon Warrior, Final Fantasy, Super Mario Bros., and Crystalis.  I’m leaning towards Zelda as the game play is fairly straightforward yet incredibly challenging.  I pride myself on having beat first and second quest without dying.  No pressure, though, for the Cupp spawn.

Anyhow, the boy’s “official” first game doesn’t have to be one of these titles.  What say you?

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Echoes on the Road

by Kyle Cupp on February 25, 2012

“Only man as a living being introduces law and order into nature, not from a rational, but from a biological necessity (that is, in order to be able to act) by virtue of the fact that the sensory organs or functions indicate more the regular than the irregular processes in the world. Later, reason interprets this regularity as a natural law.”

- Max Scheler, Man’s Place in Nature

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Remaking Star Wars

by Kyle Cupp on February 23, 2012

The Star Wars films have their cinematic gems–and lightsabers, which better be well-stocked in heaven–but if the stories were ever to be retold, I’d want someone other than George Lucas in the lead X-wing.  Someone like…me.

Yes, I’ve thought long and in nerd-level detail about how I’d re-envision the world of the Jedi.

Were I given the opportunity and more money than Han Solo could image, I would tell the story of the rise, fall, and redemption of Anakin Skywalker in a three season HBO series.  My Anakin would be radically different from whiny space brat we all know and regard with a cringe: extraordinarily powerful and intelligent, magnanimous, and with a long way to fall.  The overarching narrative would center on his story, but not every episode would focus on him.  His tale would be like the Dude’s rug, tying the whole room together.

Before I further explain what I would do, permit me to mention what I’d remove from the story: the clones, the Clone Wars plot, the Death Star plot, the extermination of the Jedi plot, the Virgin Birth, the planets having a uniform terrain and environment, Jar Jar Binks, and Skywalker temper tantrums.  Instead, the series would be about the political, cultural, and religious conflicts the Jedi Order have with the government of the Republic and the multiple planets throughout the galaxy.  Anakin’s rise and fall would mirror the deterioration of the Jedi as “guardians” and as political players.  While they lose control of their exemplar knight, they also lose control over the Republic.  Anakin’s redemption through the love of his children, Luke and Leia, would expose the limitations of the Jedi way.  Lucas touched upon this theme, but I would like it explicit and cardinal.

I would keep Palpatine as a sly and powerful senator and secret Sith Lord, but he wouldn’t be working to transform the Republic into an empire.  His goals would be more in keeping with the way of the Sith: growing powerful in the Dark Side of the Force while working behind the scenes to undermine the moral and political authority of the Jedi.  He’d be an expert player of the game of thrones, maybe even the best, but his ascension to power would be more subtle, more the designs of a closet religious fanatic than a would-be emperor.

Obi-Wan, Mace, and Yoda would also play prominent roles, but as less likeable characters than they were in the films.  They’d still be good guys, more or less, but more morally flawed, more open about using Anakin and later is children for their own religious, cultural, and political purposes.  Through them and other Jedi we’d learn much more than Lucas ever told us about the Jedi mythos and ethos.  The origins of the Jedi, and whether they are as history records them, would be an important theme.  I’d also get into the conflicts that emerge between the Jedi way, which has the backing of and power over the senate, and the multiple religions and cultures that each planet would reasonably have.  In my Star Wars, the Jedi wouldn’t be the only game in town, but they’d want to be, and they’d blur the lines between the Light Side and Dark Side of the Force in their Force-fueled futile attempts to remain the mainstream galactic religion.

Luke, Leia, Han, and Chewbacca would mostly feature in the third and final season.  In order to maintain continuity between the second and third seasons, i.e., not have a 20 year gap, I would have the Skywalker twins conceived in the first season.  I’m not sure yet who their mother would be, maybe a fellow Jedi or a bounty hunter or a senator, but not the wife of Anakin.  No secret marriage in my version, although Luke and Leia’s mother would be among the main characters throughout all three seasons.  Oh, and Leia would also be a power Jedi like her brother, but in conflict with him about how best to save their father. The method they ultimately choose would be similar to what Luke did in the films–refuse to fight and appeal to love–but it would cost them more than the death of their father.  I’d probably have at least one of them slain by Palpatine.

As you can tell, my telling of Star Wars would not be for young children.  It would be grand, dark, tragic, and morally ambiguous.  So, what do you think?  Am I off my AT-AT?  Am I dramatically idiotic to imagine a remake?  If you could remake Star Wars, how would you do it?

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Dust to Dust

by Kyle Cupp on February 22, 2012

Genece Cupp, Study of Georges de La Tour's Penitent Magdalen

I find it easier to get into the liturgical spirit of Ash Wednesday than that of Good Friday, perhaps because that latter is only a few days from the celebrations and festivities of Easter Sunday.  As much as I try for a somber disposition when meditating on the death of Christ, I cannot get out of my mind the approaching joy manifested in the image of the resurrection.   My ritual involvement in Good Friday is like the experience of re-watching a climactic film scene in which a beloved character seems dead but really isn’t. The image of death points to the image of life.

Ash Wednesday, however, perhaps because of its distance from the merriment of Easter, retains for me its themes of penitence, mortification, earthiness, and death.  The ritual words of the day, “Remember that thou art dust, and to dust thou shalt return,” speak not of a miraculous movement from death to life, but of the all-too-real progression of lifelessness to life and finally to death: ashes to ashes, dust to dust.

My personal tradition on the day, besides receiving a cross-shaped smudge of ashes on the forehead, is reading T.S. Eliot’s haunting poem “Ash Wednesday,” which I’ve posted below, most of it below the fold.

Ash Wednesday

I

Because I do not hope to turn again
Because I do not hope
Because I do not hope to turn
Desiring this man’s gift and that man’s scope
I no longer strive to strive towards such things
(Why should the agèd eagle stretch its wings?)
Why should I mourn
The vanished power of the usual reign?

Because I do not hope to know
The infirm glory of the positive hour
Because I do not think
Because I know I shall not know
The one veritable transitory power
Because I cannot drink
There, where trees flower, and springs flow, for there is nothing again
[click to continue…]

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Bidding Farewell to the Law of Human Nature

by Kyle Cupp on February 21, 2012

The day before his papacy began, Joseph Ratzinger delivered a homily in which he made the oft-quoted observation: “We are building a dictatorship of relativism that does not recognize anything as definitive and whose ultimate goal consists solely of one’s own ego and desires.”  I disagree.  At least, I disagree if we’re speaking of serious contemporary moral thought.  With the claim that modern mass society is marked by egoism and intemperance, I’ve no quarrel, but I’d call this moral laziness or the absence of moral consideration, not a dictatorship of relativism.

From what I can tell, moral relativism is very rare if we’re talking about a comprehensive moral philosophy.  Sure, morally relativistic arguments abound–Dick Cheney’s “9/11 changed everything” comes to mind–but those making these arguments are not typically people who think anything goes because there are no standards beyond a particular time and place to which one can appeal.  Cheney may be a moral monster, but I wouldn’t call him a relativist. Such ethicists exist, no doubt, but they’re not the movers and shakers of contemporary culture.  If our culture has dictators, they ain’t they.

What we have been seeing, much to the horror of moral realists, is the willful abandonment of old, time-tested moral theories such as the derivationist variation of natural law ethics.  Good luck selling the idea that one can derive moral knowledge from a metaphysical study of human nature.  Not only does “Hume’s law” make a mess of things, metaphysical knowledge is in disrepute.  It is no longer persuasive to say, for example, that the biological purpose of human sexuality establishes a moral norm by which one can condemn homosexuality or contraception.  Few philosophers today tie the biological purpose of human sexuality to any metaphysical/moral truth about human nature.  Arguments in support of norms for human sexuality have to come from elsewhere.

So what we have today in the world of moral and ethical thought is not a dictatorship of relativism, but, from a bird’s eye view,  moral ambiguity and pluralism.

We’re living in dangerous and difficult times, no doubt.  I struggle with remaining hopeful for moral progress when a presidential candidate says how wonderful it is that the U.S. government may be assassinating foreign scientists or when the sitting president shows no serious moral qualms about having a secret panel compose, keep, and act upon a kill or capture list.  And these are not even near the most abominable atrocities that received some measure of justification in the past century.  I struggle, but at day’s end I find myself with hope.  Humanity has made moral progress in important ways.  We’ve slowly come to recognize the claims of justice from people who were once oppressed.  And we have developed ingenious ethical languages–theories of virtue, of rights, of obligations, and of moral value, to name a few–that have helped us chart the whirling seas of right and wrong.

Pluralism poses difficult challenges, especially for societies striving for homogeneity, but it affords us welcome opportunities as well: global dialogue, open dissent from prevailing orthodoxies, and the chance to put faulty once-dominant moral theories behind us.  Some of them, derivationism for example, deserve to be shown the door.  Others need to stay.  After all, moral progress doesn’t mean we forsake all tradition.

Today, we seem to have everything on the table and a large trash bin nearby.  That’s…disconcerting.  Rethinking ethics is dangerous business, but it’s also necessary for real moral progress.  Sometimes what’s holding us back are attachments to bad theories and fallacious arguments.

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