From The Imaginative Conservative
By Forrest McDonald
Editor’s Note: “The Speech” was addressed in 2002 to the last class Forrest McDonald (January 7, 1927 – January 19, 2016) taught as a regular member of the faculty at the University of Alabama. Dr. McDonald retired thereafter from teaching.
I could try to tell you how all this
came about, but the narrative would be a dreary one; and besides, you
probably already know. So, instead, I propose to address the question,
how does one survive (and I mean survive as something) in a world
that may not? How does one remain sane in a world that is insane; how
does one live without fear in a world in which the only certainty is
that nothing is certain.
I have four suggestions. Three of them
lie within the province of a lifetime commitment to study of the liberal
arts. I stress the word lifetime, for though education may begin in
college, it must not end there. My fourth suggestion is more personal,
and I shall save it until the last.
Let me introduce my first suggestion by
attempting to define what education is. Education is not the mere
accumulation of knowledge. One can listen to endless learned lectures
and read all the books the New York Times touts as “new and
noteworthy,” and possibly thereby become informed, but one does not
thereby become educated. Nor is education merely training: one can learn
how to solve problems in economic theory or build skyscrapers or smash
atoms, and still be a long way from educated. Education includes these
things, and more, having to do with experience and maturity, but these
are not all. An educated person, quite simply, is a person who thinks,
and thinks in a fashion that is informed, disciplined, and free. The
first two of these qualifiers, information and discipline, are
relatively easy to acquire, though the second is harder than the first.
The third, freedom, is much more difficult, precisely because we in the
talking professions are by no means all—or always—free ourselves.
Hence my first suggestion: open your
mind and keep it open. I hasten to add that I am not advocating
relativism; as Flannery O’Connor said, some people have such open minds
that their brains fall out. Rather, I am saying that we need to
distinguish between what is absolute—God alone—and what is relative. To
believe that one is possessed of absolute truth, secular or sectarian,
ideological or philosophical, or to regard anything but God as an
absolute—be it gold, the state, human rights, even human life—is a form
of idolatry, a violation of the First Commandment and the deadliest of
sins. Doing so utterly precludes the expansion of knowledge or
understanding; and what is more, it prohibits civilized social
interaction. Its inevitable progeny are bigotry and hatred, causes and
crusades, gulags and suicide bombers.
Perhaps I can offer my second suggestion
in a somewhat lighter vein, though the suggestion itself is no less
serious. It is that we strive eagerly to resurrect the English language,
now virtually defunct. Many people have called attention to the decline
of the language and have sought the root cause of the malady; my own
diagnosis is laziness. That is to say, we have ceased to be willing to
work hard to form and express our thoughts with precision; and we have
also, when reading or listening, stopped paying close attention to
whether anyone else is saying just what he means. For instance, how many
of you have observed that presidents of the United States, when asked
specific questions about such matters as unemployment or inflation or
foreign policy, have the habit of replying, “We feel” instead of “I
think”? The gap between group feeling and individual thinking is, after
all, rather wide. Maybe they know what they are saying, and maybe not;
either way, we should be worried.
The best analysis of the decline of the
language is one made some years ago by George Orwell. Orwell began by
focusing on the use of metaphors. A newly invented metaphor, he pointed
out, assists thought, and liberates it by conjuring an image, while a
metaphor that is technically “dead” (e.g., “iron resolution”) has in
effect become an ordinary word and can generally be used without loss of
vividness. But in between these two classes is a huge dump of worn-out
metaphors that have lost their evocative power and are used merely
because they save the trouble of using phrases that fit—that is,
thinking. Metaphors are often used without knowledge of their meaning;
for example, most of you have been on tenterhooks from time to time, but
how many of you know why a tenter has hooks? Moreover, incompatible
metaphors are frequently mixed, a sure sign that the speaker or writer
is not interested in what he is saying. A colleague of mine once wrote
that, after Roger Williams was exiled from Massachusetts, he ”floundered
around in the woods” for a while. You can find flounder in the ocean
but never in the woods. The metaphors also get garbled. In a single
segment of National Public Radio’s Morning Edition, I recently
heard the following: “collapsed like a deck of cards,” “the issue that
broke the straw,” and “living high hog off the land.” We have also
witnessed metaphor inflation, the use of superlatives such as
“holocaust” or “genocide” to describe minor mishaps. The Three Mile
Island nuclear accident was a “disaster” in which no one was hurt. And
the media reported a world trade “summit” meeting in Houston, Texas, a
city that is scarcely ten feet above sea level.
That is not the worst of it. We tend to
abandon short, homely words and substitute, whenever possible,
hybridized Latin or Greek words, such as “hybridized.” We are fast
losing all sense of numbers agreement: media and data are treated as
singular (they are plural), and none, each, and every are treated as
plural whereas they are singular. We have lost the distinction between
shall and will, I and me, who and whom, like and as, less and fewer. And
we are befogged by bureaucrats, politicians, and self-styled victims
who deliberately use words to obscure their intent.
The result, in general, is an increase
in slovenly and vague language. But our greatest fault is in resorting
to meaningless words when we do not know what we really mean. This is
most starkly seen in subjects without substance, such as the history of
art criticism and the theory of literary criticism.
Behold this example from Poetry Quarterly:
Comfort’s catholicity of perception and image, strangely Whitmanesque in range, almost the exact opposite in’ aesthetic compulsion, continues to evoke that trembling atmospheric accumulative hinting at a cruel, an inexorable serene timelessness….
But the rest of us are equally guilty,
especially when dealing with current political questions. When we say
“free,” we mean popularly elected. “Democratic” has ceased to have
anything to do with a form of government; it means “good,” just as
“racist” means bad. “Equal rights for oppressed minorities” means
special privileges for organized interest groups. Then again, the
radicals of the late 60s and early 70s—who now dominate the
academy—taught us that “liberate” means capture, that “free speech”
means mandatory cursing, that “nonviolent” means mob action,
“nonnegotiable demands” mean let’s talk it over, and that 52 percent of
the population is a minority.
Orwell gives an example of his
translation of a passage of good English into a passage of modern
English. First, a well-known verse from Ecclesiastes:
I returned and saw under the sun, that the race is not to the swift, nor the battle to the strong, neither yet bread to the wise, nor yet riches to men of understanding, nor yet favour to men of skill; but time and chance happeneth to them all.
Here is the way a professor or a government functionary might translate that strong and pleasing prose:
Objective consideration of contemporary phenomena compels the conclusion that success or failure in, competitive societal activities bears no necessary correlation to, and exhibits no tendency to be commensurate with, innate capacity, but that a considerable element of the unpredictable must invariably be taken into account.
As E.B. White said in translating Tom Paine, soulwise these are trying times.
The attraction of this ponderous way of
speaking and writing is that it is easy because it avoids thought. You
will find it easier—even quicker, once you have the habit—to say, “In my
opinion it is not an unjustifiable assumption that” than to say, “l
think.” Too, if you use ready-made phrases, you not only don’t have to
hunt for words, you also don’t have to bother with the rhythms and
rhymes of your sentences, since these phrases are generally so arranged
as to flow forth freely. One shirks all responsibility simply by
emptying one’s mind and letting the cant of the day come crowding in. It
will construct your sentences for you and think your thoughts for you.
When you do meet a person who does not talk in such clichés, who does
not think in clichés, who does not, in short, live in a reduced state of
being, you will find that he is some kind of rebel, expressing his own
opinions and not a “party line.”
My third suggestion is a bit more
involved, and possibly more difficult than learning to keep an open mind
and to think and speak in the mother tongue. It is this: we must learn,
anew, how to think non-scientifically when dealing with nonscientific
things. “Wait a minute!” you may say; “science is what got us where we
are.” If that were your reaction, I should consider the point made, and
rest my case. But let me be more specific. It has been common to ask the
silly question, “If we can put a man on the moon, why can’t we solve
our social problems?” The reason we cannot solve our social problems is
precisely the reason we can put a man on the moon. That is to
say, our pragmatism in general and our scientific and technological
mentality in particular made our great material achievements possible.
The essence of this mentality is the problem solving approach. The
scientific method isolates problems and solves them: it cannot take the
broad view, for anything beyond the immediately testable, measurable,
and provable is by definition unscientific. Americans are parodies of
the scientific mentality: when something goes wrong, we fix it, and do
not take into account the possibility that our principles may be wrong.
We have, for instance, been appalled to learn that children reach
college without having learned to read. Some people reacted by proposing
that we should reorganize the entire educational system from
kindergarten upward—and they were branded elitist, racist, or
reactionary dodos. Fewer people considered the possibility that the
commitment to universal education is inherently futile and that other
means of civilizing children should be explored. Instead, the nation did
what it always does: it threw money at the problem, it started remedial
reading classes in college, and it dispensed with literacy tests. This
psychic quirk enabled the United States to become the most proficient
exploiter of technology the world has ever known; but the same mind-set
is a barrier to dealing with human relationships. In sum, the trouble
with pragmatism is that it no longer works.
Before it is too late, we must abandon
our fragmented, problem-solving approach to knowledge and take up a
holistic view of human affairs. Doing so will be no small feat, for one
of the unquestioned superstitions of our time is that to think
nonscientifically is to think nonrationally. To overcome this
superstition will require nothing less than escaping the boundaries of
our culture; but, however difficult it is, it can be done.
You might be skeptical—we can’t learn to
see with the eyes of others—but a moment’s reflection shows that we
perform this scientific impossibility as a matter of daily routine. We
usually know, for instance, what others expect of us, which is not
always what we prefer to do, and yet we commonly do what is expected.
When we select a gift for loved ones we try to choose what would please
them, not ourselves. (At least we do so if we respect their feelings. We
recognize their full humanity by turning the Golden Rule inside out,
doing unto them as they would have us do unto them, not imposing our
preferences upon them.) Or take your situation as students. You
doubtless have professors who teach from points of view that you do not
necessarily share. And yet you are capable, and most of you are willing
in the pursuit of grades, to write the essays and give the answers that
the teachers want. To that extent, you are perceiving with perceptual
apparatuses not your own and acting on the basis of the dictates of
alien perceptual machinery.
Let me offer a notion or two as to how
to do this on a large scale. You will scarcely be surprised to hear me
recommend the study of history, on proper principles, as a primary means
to the desired end. I emphasize the words “on proper principles,” for
historians are not entirely agreed as to what they are about. A goodly
number of historians have agonized in trying to come up with a reason
for studying their subject, or, more properly, for being paid to do so.
Their efforts usually focus upon two propositions, both of which are
more or less scientific and neither of which is valid: 1) that history
repeats itself, and therefore knowledge of it will enable us to avoid
the mistakes of the past and direct the course of the future; and 2)
that the study of the past will enable us to know how we arrived where
we are, and therefore to know where we are headed. I shall not go into
why these propositions are unsound, but, like Bill Clinton, expect you
to take my word for it. The true value of the study of history is that
it can make it possible for us to escape the provincialism of the
present.
We all know (or at least we all say)
that we can enlarge, enrich, and alter our perspective by traveling
abroad. We cannot do it by hitting 17 European capitals in 14 days or by
seeing Spain from the vantage point of the Madrid Hilton. But, if we
live for a time among the common folk of, say, a small fishing village
on the Costa del Sol, we come to realize that southern
Spaniards—Andalusians—do not think the way we think. They do not share
the same set of values, and they do no perceive reality in quite the way
we do. To the extent that we can learn to think as they think (which is
not especially hard if one makes the effort and regards them as
subjects rather than as objects), we understand them. And when we return
home and look at our own society the way they would, we can see things,
all around us, that were previously hidden. That is the way it is with
history, properly studied. Get to know what Americans knew and felt and
believed a hundred years or two hundred years ago, and with the prism
afforded by that knowledge, take a squint at what is around you now. I
guarantee that you will be amazed and enlightened.
Another route, even broader, is the
avenue opened to us by literature. You, of course, are engaged in an
adversarial relationship with books—you attack them as enemies with a
view toward plundering them of information to be used as weapons in the
war for grades—and you have little time for a leisurely perusal of good
literature. We all promise ourselves when we are in college that when we
get out, we will read those wonderful books we heard about but did not
have time for. The promise is seldom kept: most people stop reading
entirely, and many of the remainder read only in specialized areas. That
must not happen.
Reading is vital. The most important
reason is that reading is a cheap, entertaining, and safe way to
experience a great deal more of life than is otherwise possible or even
desirable. For instance, you don’t have to rob and kill an old lady to
feel the guilty torment of the soul that would follow: simply read
Dostoevsky’s Crime and Punishment. What I am saying is that a good book deals with reality in a meaningful way, by making us feel
what is real. Another example: massive quantities of data have been
gathered and analyzed to describe social life in Chicago between the two
world wars; but those are merely numbers and abstractions. If one wants
to know what it was really like to live there at the time, one turns to
the novels of James T. Farrell.
Enough of that. I promised you four
suggestions, and so far have offered only three. The other prerequisite
for living sanely in an insane world is an attitude toward life, which I
can describe no further than as gratitude and joy in the very fact of
one’s existence, and in the existence of one’s fellow human beings. The
cynic responds, why should one be joyful in life, when in no time it is
followed by death, and when with each person’s death the whole universe,
for that person, ceases to exist? My answer strikes me as reasonable,
though perhaps it is merely a rationalization of my own joy. Scientists,
as we know, deal in probabilities rather than, as was once thought, in
absolute laws. Anything that happens with a probability of, say, ten to
the millionth power to one, is pretty much a sure thing. If the theory
of evolution has any validity (I regard it as somewhat silly, a
confirmation of Chesterton’s comment that people who don’t believe in
God will believe in anything), if it does, have any validity, I say,
what do you suppose the probability of man’s existence is? I am speaking
of the movement up through the countless environmental changes and
mutations necessary for the evolution from primordial ooze to humanity. I
can assure you that it is considerably more farfetched than a
ten-to-the-millionth-power-to-one shot; it is approximately as likely as
the spontaneous transformation of every atom in this room into an atom
of plutonium.
And given the existence of human beings, the probabilities against
my own existence—or yours—are again as high as those against the
existence of man. You can attribute this to God, or to big bangs, or to
sheer blind luck; all I can do is shout hallelujah, I got here! My God, I
got here! In the face of this colossal fact, I must exult in my
gratitude, for everything else is trivial: no matter what the
uncertainties, whether things are better or worse, whether I am hungry
or well fed, whether I am sick or healthy, or cold or comfortable, or
honored and respected, or despised and kicked and beaten, even that I
shall soon be leaving, all is trivial compared to the miracle that I got
here.
Fellow miracles, let us rejoice together.
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