The Consolations (and Consternations) of Philosophy—and Fiction
By David Corbett | January 12, 2024 |
In my senior year as a math major, I scored second from the top of my class in the theoretical aspects of advanced analysis (calculus squared, as it were) and fifth from the bottom in the practical applications of the same material.
The head of the department, Dr. Arnold Ross (born Chaimovitch)—a man who profoundly influenced me in numerous ways—took me aside and said, “You want to be a philosopher, not a mathematician.”
He wasn’t wrong, though I ultimately became neither. But my philosophical disposition has revealed itself in both my reading and writing.
Although we speak often and at length on the importance of making sure our readers feel something, I personally cannot commend a novel that does not also make me, in the words of Dr. Ross, “think deeply about simple things.”
Some of you may remember a post I wrote for Writer Unboxed a year and a half ago titled, “Writing Our Country.” It sought to apply some of the ideas of the American neo-pragmatist Richard Rorty to writing fiction in today’s literary environment.
Specifically, the post addressed Rorty’s belief that the novel served a uniquely valuable role in expanding not just the perimeters of our understanding but the range of our empathy for others whose backgrounds, cultures, and daily experiences vary widely from our own.
The goal of this expansion was to broaden the range of solidarity of human beings seeking a more just, prosperous, and peaceful world.
The Stanford Encyclopedia of Philosophy puts it this way:
The key imperative in Rorty’s ethico-political agenda is the deepening and widening of solidarity … [He] distinguishes between “us” and “them,” arguing that thinking of more and diverse people as “one of us” is the hallmark of social progress. Solidarity is brought about by gradual and contingent expansions of the scope of “we;” it is created through the hard work of training our sympathies … by exposing ourselves to forms of suffering we had previously overlooked. Thus, the task of the intellectual, with respect to social progress, is not to provide refinements of social theory, but to sensitize us to the suffering of others, and refine, deepen and expand our ability to identify with others, to think of others as like ourselves in morally relevant ways.
As self-proclaimed “postmodernist bourgeois liberal”:
[Rorty] is skeptical of political thought purporting to uncover hidden, systematic causes for injustice and exploitation, and on that basis proposing sweeping changes to set things right. Rather … [he] follows Judith Shklar in identifying liberals by their belief that “cruelty is the worst thing we do,” and contends it is our ability to imagine the ways we can be cruel to others, and how we could be different, that enables us to gradually expand the community with which we feel solidarity.
For Rorty, the novel plays a uniquely valuable role in this effort:
Novelists, like Vladimir Nabokov, George Orwell, Charles Dickens, Harriet Beecher Stowe, and Radclyffe Hall, offer new descriptions that draw our attention to the suffering of previously overlooked people and groups. They contribute to social progress by pointing out “concrete cases of particular people ignoring the suffering of other particular people.” Because reading novels is one of the best ways to sensitize ourselves to the suffering experienced by others – to see that they have “the same tendency to bleed when pricked” – Rorty thinks a liberal arts education is key to maintaining liberal democracy, and for strengthening a global human rights culture.
To be clear, Rorty’s positions on such matters were hardly universally acclaimed. In his essay “Trotsky and the Wild Orchids,” he wrote, “If there is anything to the idea that the best intellectual position is one which is attacked with equal vigor from the political right and the political left, then I am in good shape.”
In particular, at much the same time as Rorty was addressing such matters, another element of postmodernist philosophy was gaining the upper hand, one which called into question the ability of any of us to genuinely understand someone else’s “lived experience,” and challenged the idea that it was useful or even possible to identify with others.
Ironically, this notion became especially prevalent in the humanities and has made serious inroads in publishing, undermining the idea that novels can help us, especially those of us who’ve benefited the most from colonialist patriarchal Western culture, to gain any understanding or empathy at all for members of marginalized communities.
I say “ironically” because the majority of publishers, editors, and readers of books written by members of marginalized communities are educated whites. What is the point of publishing such books, let alone translating them into English when necessary, if they cannot help us better understand the “lived experience” the writers are depicting?
To be sure, none of this has arisen out of malevolent motives. As the American philosopher Susan Neiman has pointed out, in the wake of the Holocaust, moral thinking, in its attempt to adapt our understanding of justice in the face of such previously unimaginable horrors, focused on the suffering of victims of authoritarian violence, torture, and genocide.
What began as a refocusing on the experiences of injustice’s victims, however, became a preoccupation on victimhood, to the point that victimization became emblematic of elevated moral status.
Even those whose work proved fundamental to the postmodern understanding of justice and morality came to see their ideas highjacked by an increasingly rigid academia focused on identity.
One example: Edward Said, whose Orientalism is one of the most influential texts critiquing western misrepresentations of Middle Eastern and Asian cultures. As noted in Yascha Mounk’s The Identity Trap:
[B]efore his premature death of leukemia, in 2003, Edward Said became very critical of the way in which the identity synthesis was starting to transform intellectual life in the United States. Identity, he said at one point, is “as boring a subject as one can imagine.” Though some leftists had seemingly started to believe that people who belong to a group that has historically been victimized have some form of privileged access to moral virtue, “victimhood, alas, does not guarantee or necessarily enable an enhanced sense of humanity.” … The idea that it would serve progress for members of different ethnic and cultural groups to be more defined by their differences than by their commonalities struck Said as particularly perverse. … a kind of “apartheid pedagogy.” In the end, Said therefore embraced a form of universalism that stood in direct conflict with some of the core tenets of the identity synthesis: “Marginality and homelessness are not, in my opinion, to be gloried in; they are to be brought to an end, so that more, and not fewer, people can enjoy the benefits of what has for centuries been denied the victims of race, class, or gender.”
The internet has become a major tool for alienating, mobbing, shaming, and delegitimizing those who fail to abide by the current orthodoxy, especially in terms of standpoint theory and intersectionality, which combine to create the idea that only one’s own lived experience has moral authority, and attempts by members of different ethnic, cultural, or religious groups to communicate with each other should be treated with extreme skepticism—or worse.
Cultural warriors from the opposite end of the political spectrum have seized on these excesses to paint their opponents as Stalinist scolds seeking to stifle free speech and strictly enforce a code of thought and behavior at odds with traditional American values. The result has been book banning, curriculum cleansing, and attacks on academia with particular focus on racial or ethnic minorities, the LGTBQ+ community, and their allies. [Note: This is not a blanket statement about conservatism, but rather a statement concerning what are known as Nationalist Conservatives. Two other schools of conservative thought, Fusionism and Humanist Conservatism, are far less exclusionary in their thinking on cultural issues.]
All of which presents a particular problem for writers of fiction: how do we, in such a heatedly polarized environment, write authoritatively on issues touching on politics without committing professional suicide?
I intend to address that question in my next few posts here at Writer Unboxed. Specifically, I’ll explore:
- How politics is rooted in character, with discussion of how to “write about politics without writing about politics.”
- How the core metaphors or concepts informing political dispositions create opportunities to address politics without moralizing, consciously or unconsciously.
- How to step outside one’s own political convictions and write authentically about those whose political identity differs starkly from one’s own.
- How to write about politics in terms of group identity—and the perils of defying the group’s norms.
- How polarization seemingly invites fictionalization due to its ability to enhance conflict—but not without serious risks for writers.
What are some of the best novels you’ve read that address politics? What made the books so engaging? How has politics been handled badly in other novels you’ve read? What went wrong?
David Corbett (he/him) is the author of seven novels: The Devil’s Redhead, Done for a Dime (a New York Times Notable Book), Blood of Paradise (nominated for numerous awards, including the Edgar, Do They Know I’m Running?, The Mercy of the Night, The Long-Lost Love Letters of Doc Holliday, and The Truth Against the World. He has also published the story collection Thirteen Confessions and the novella The Devil Prayed and Darkness Fell.
David’s short fiction and poetry have appeared in a broad array of magazines and anthologies, with pieces twice selected for Best American Mystery Stories.
His non-fiction has appeared in numerous venues, including the New York Times, San Francisco Chronicle, Narrative, Zyzzyva, MovieMaker, The Writer, and Writer’s Digest.
He has taught both online and in classroom settings through the UCLA Extension’s Writers’ Program, Book Passage, LitReactor, 826 Valencia, The Grotto in San Francisco, and at numerous writing conferences across the US, Canada, and Mexico. In January 2013 Penguin published his textbook on the craft of characterization, The Art of Character (“A writer’s bible that will lead to your character’s soul.” —Elizabeth Brundage), and Writer’s Digest published his follow-up, The Compass of Character, in October 2019.
Nice post 🙏
Are you sure you didn’t become a philosopher? Just asking.
The purpose of fiction is to stir empathy. Yes. It is not just a purpose but also a known effect. It’s what fiction does when it works.
I would argue for an additional purpose to empathy, though: to inspire. That’s why some fiction tells us of protagonists, while other fiction tells us of heroes and heroines.
Some fiction affirms values, other fiction challenges them. We could go on, but my point is that, ask me, the operation of fiction on readers is to open them, change them by degree, and above all to cause them to imagine.
That by itself is worthwhile. HNY, my friend.
I agree with your take, and I think Rorty (or any other philosophical liberal, left-wing or right-wing) would as well.
But in the current zeitgeist there is seemingly an increasing number of those who claim that no matter how you try, you can’t “open” readers to experiences they fundamentally can’t understand, and writers should not even try. I find this position both dogmatic and inaccurate. And, as I noted in the post, I also think it’s ironic, since publishing in the last few years has championed the works of writers from marginalized communities, despite the industry and the overall readership of such books being overwhelmingly white. What’s the point if not to open readers to experiences beyond their own? HNY to you as well, and look forward to seeing you somewhere, somehow in 2024.
David, one of the best novels I can think of in its approach to politics is Richard Powell’s, The Philadelphian. It be came a film, The Young Philadelpians, with Paul Newman, Grace Kelly, Robert Vaughn and numerous others. The film, as is often the case, left a lot out. In the book, Powell takes the main character, Tony Lawrence, from childhood to adulthood, to a crisis interwoven in both his personal and political lives. Throughout the journey in the book, Powell explores key decisions in Tony’s life, decisions that seem benign and simple. Yet those are the decisions that lead him to a crisis that I don’t want to say too much about because it would spoil the discover for those who haven’t read it. The book was reissued in 2006, on its 50th anniversary, and every time I re-read it, I am engrossed in it, though I know every decision and every part of the story very well after all these years. At its simplest, I see it as a statement that one’s politics are not separate from every other part of one’s life. Everything is interwoven and interconnected, and an action in one, affects everything else. Powerful, and entertaining as well.
Great recommendation, Doc. I think the interconnectedness of one’s political beliefs and other aspects of life is a crucial point. Politics doesn’t lie in some vault of its own inside the mind. Our politics speak to our values, our “tribe,” our “dream of life.” I’ll be talking more about that in the months to come.
Speaking of Paul Newman and the film versions of political novels, he was the main force behind WUSA, the film adaptation of Robert Stone’s Hall of Mirrors. By virtually all accounts, the film was an unmitigated disaster, but the book is one of my favorites.
I think the perils of film versions of political novels lies in precisely what you point out–they involve aspects of character that are often interior and therefore lie beyond the camera’s reach. A good script can externalize some of that, but the vast majority do so in service of a particular political or moral stance–normally to explore the fight against some injustice. The exception may be satire, in both fiction and film versions, like the novels of Christopher Buckley (whose Thank You For Smoking was adapted for film) and the TV and film works of Armando Iannuci (The Thick of It, In the Loop, Veep, The Death of Stalin).
Thanks for chiming in!
I agree with your take, and I think Rorty (or any other philosophical liberal, left-wing or right-wing) would as well.
But in the current zeitgeist there is seemingly an increasing number of those who claim that no matter how you try, you can’t “open” readers to experiences they fundamentally can’t understand, and writers should not even try. I find this position both dogmatic and inaccurate. And, as I noted in the post, I also think it’s ironic, since publishing in the last few years has championed the works of writers from marginalized communities, despite the industry and the overall readership of such books being overwhelmingly white. What’s the point if not to open readers to experiences beyond their own? HNY to you as well, and look forward to seeing you somewhere, somehow in 2024.
Hello David. Everyone at WU should be grateful to Dr. Arnold Ross.
1. Regarding Rorty and the importance of the novel: his wisdom might be extended to include the novel’s even more crucial importance before the relentless expansion of video’s dominance. Think of how examples taken from TV and film figure more and more often in Writer Unboxed posts. In craft books for writers. My point is that unlike video, reading demands a slower pace. The images aren’t created for us by others; readers create the images in their individual conscious minds through reading. The capacity for appreciating characters in action is developed in this way, not by watching something taking place outside the self.
2. Having taught the humanities, I am a biased observer, but I think Rorty is right about liberal arts education. Excepting highly elite institutions, a “good education” today is defined in strictly materialistic terms. Even advanced placement courses in high school work against liberal arts education: AP courses are a way of earning college credits without taking college courses. That way, students and their families save on college tuition. You have probably read the recent New Yorker article titled “The Death of the English Major.” Soon, only students who come from money will enjoy the luxury of choosing to study the humanities. Everyone else will be trained to be “cubicle-ready,” rather than educated. But to be honest, the English major is now dominated not by classics and masterpieces, but by “texts” that are submitted to analysis by various ideological points of view.
3. The humanities are themselves to blame for having become megaphones for both grievance and a loss of respect for the idea of truth. Dr. Claudine Gay resigned as president of Harvard after she demurred from condemning anti-semitism. She said condemnation was dependent on “contextual” factors. She put her money where her mouth was in her self-defense by titling her farewell remarks “My Truth.” You have your truth, I have my truth–how is this any different from the infamous “alternative facts” offered up by Trump’s press secretary?
Thank you for another required-reading post.
Thanks, Barry. Those are some sobering insights, especially under Item 2. (As for Item 1, I have found myself becoming lazy with the effort of reading fiction, preferring either nonfiction or TV/film, and I’m fighting against it.) As for Item 3, there is a paradox at the heart of all moral or philosophical “relativism.” Its foundational premise is that all unbounded generalized claims to truth are invalid, but that itself is an unbounded generalized claim to truth. (This is similar to the infamous Liar’s Paradox.) Rorty also denies the validity of transcendent or essentialist narratives, but being a pragmatist in the tradition of James and Dewey he believes we can at least reach consensus through dialogue on a number of crucial issues. I’m not sure politics would be one of them, sadly, but we can achieve a consensus on how to negotiate our disagreements. That was the hope of the Founders and everyone who believes in democracy. The growing antidemocratic sentiment not just here but around the world is therefore cause for real concern. Both fascists and postmodern progressives seem to believe only power matters.
Thanks, Barry. Those are some sobering insights, especially under Item 2. (As for Item 1, I have found myself becoming lazy with the effort of reading fiction, preferring either nonfiction or TV/film, and I’m fighting against it.) As for Item 3, there is a paradox at the heart of all moral or philosophical “relativism.” Its foundational premise is that all unbounded generalized claims to truth are invalid, but that itself is an unbounded generalized claim to truth. (This is similar to the infamous Liar’s Paradox.) Rorty also denies the validity of transcendent or essentialist narratives, but being a pragmatist in the tradition of James and Dewey he believes we can at least reach consensus through dialogue on a number of crucial issues. I’m not sure politics would be one of them, sadly, but we can achieve a consensus on how to negotiate our disagreements. That was the hope of the Founders and everyone who believes in democracy. The growing antidemocratic sentiment not just here but around the world is therefore cause for real concern. Both fascists and postmodern progressives seem to believe only power matters.
Hi Folks: I will be away from my desk for the rest of the afternoon as we take our Wheaten terrier, Fergus, to the vet. For some reason his kennel cough, which seemed to have gone away, has come back. I’ll check in this evening (Eastern time) to respond to any comments you may have. Thanks for understanding.
Thank you for this stimulating post, David. I look forward to how you’ll further bestir our thoughts in related posts to come. In the realm of philosophy’s consternations and consolations, I recently found just that in the book “Why We Are Restless: On the Modern Quest for Contentment” from Jenna Storey and Benjamin Storey (Princeton Univ. Press, 2021) — they calmly and engagingly explore how the cultural/political life-view for most of us today is so deeply rooted in the widely conflicting but interacting ideas of four brave and brilliant French minds — Montaigne, Pascal, Rousseau, and Tocqueville. In the thrust of their centuries-long “conversation,” I sensed so much relevance to storytelling, especially in the simple core question of whether we will recognize the everyday divine dignity of every human being (and act accordingly). Seems to me a key requirement for superior fiction. Meanwhile, from that realm of fiction, I love how “The Brothers Karamazov” from “Dosty” touches timelessly and repeatedly on all this. As does Tolstoy also, I’m finding now in reading several of his short stories. Classics stick around for good reasons.
Thanks, Thomas. Your comment about the everyday divine dignity of every human being reminds me of another remark by the philosopher Susan Neiman, who contrasts conventional liberal thought with current postmodern progressive thinking. Longstanding liberal thinking promotes not just justice over power but universalism over tribalism. Once we begin thinking of someone’s essential identity as intrinsically tied to race, or sex, or some other group attribute, we lose sight of the value of recognizing our shared humanity.
David, your posts expand thinking, make me question…which is a damn good thing. Too long ago, as a teacher of English, my colleagues and I discussed some of what you are considering here. My simple goal in those days was to encourage young people from households that worshiped television…to READ. I’m not certain my attempts were ever fulfilled, but I did have a few students THANK ME for that possibility. You, David, help keep my mind questioning. We all need that.
You’re too kind, Elizabeth — and I often wonder at the frustrations of being a high school English teacher. I know what a snotty know-it-all I was at that age — and I was a reader!
This caught my eye in your post:
“Novelists, like …, Harriet Beecher Stowe, …, offer new descriptions that draw our attention to the suffering of previously overlooked people and groups.” Because she, like several other writers who have made a difference, spoke for the disenfranchised – people who were not even allowed to learn to read because their ‘owners’ knew it would make them difficult to abuse.
I’m looking forward to your posts on politics – it is the subject of the year, after all – but the ideas have much wider application to all kinds of marginalized groups. One of which, my bailiwick, I’m tackling: ‘Disability and chronic illness in fiction.’
Both as fiction and as blog posts.