If you would like to read my essay, "American Optimism Meets Slavic Fatalism"---read it as opposed to merely cite it as did (it would seem) a group of economists who have now replicated the earlier mis-citation by an economist. (I knew they couldn't write; but no one ever told me they also cannot and do not read.....), you can find it at my Academia.edu site. Look for me under my full name: Mark J. Lovas
The article is not perfect, and I'm sure the relevant literature is far beyond what I managed to say. Yet, I continue to believe that the basics are there, and that they continue to be relevant as I listen to people playing the game of "essentializing" on the term "Russian"--behaving as if there were some common, timeless, and unchanging essence which the term "Russian " captures--a thesis which is both false, and for which my interlocutors have been unable to produce any sort of evidence. (I do not count one's personal experience of communism/totalitarianism as proof of anything. All experience can be misunderstood and itself requires analysis.)
Sunday, September 14, 2014
Saturday, August 30, 2014
American Optimism Meets Slavic Fatalism and Mark "Locus" (sic)
Several years ago I published an article titled "American Optimism Meets Slavic Fatalism" in the Journal of Mundane Behavior. The article has now been incorrectly cited twice.
The first time, the offenders also managed to change my nationality. I've just discovered a second version of the mis-citation. AT http://www.sciencedirect.com/science/article/pii/S1566014111000124
To repeat: The author of the article "American Optimism Meets Slavic Fatalism" which appeared in the Journal of Mundane Behavior 2.3 is NOT "Mark Locus". Its author is Mark Lovas.
Nor is its author an expert on the culture, language, or society of Central/Eastern Europe.
He was trained as a Philosopher, and the paper reflects it. He presents arguments of sort for
thinking that Americans are wrong to label Czechs or Slovaks "pessimistic", without considering
their history and culture. And, if we do the reverse sort of thinking about Americans, we might
think differently about their so-called "optimism". (Though in 2014 that may have already changed.)
Oddly enough, the most recent citation manages to import the neo-Classical economist's divide between the market and everything else (aka 'interfering factors'). And, so my essay gets re-interpreted in a way I'd never endorse. If I had know that economists were going to be read the thing.... sigh.
One final point. I've heard it said many times that economists don't know how to write. This most recent experience leads me to wonder if they even know how to read.
If you'd like to read the actual article, you will find it at this site:
https://independent.academia.edu/MarkjLovas
The first time, the offenders also managed to change my nationality. I've just discovered a second version of the mis-citation. AT http://www.sciencedirect.com/science/article/pii/S1566014111000124
To repeat: The author of the article "American Optimism Meets Slavic Fatalism" which appeared in the Journal of Mundane Behavior 2.3 is NOT "Mark Locus". Its author is Mark Lovas.
Nor is its author an expert on the culture, language, or society of Central/Eastern Europe.
He was trained as a Philosopher, and the paper reflects it. He presents arguments of sort for
thinking that Americans are wrong to label Czechs or Slovaks "pessimistic", without considering
their history and culture. And, if we do the reverse sort of thinking about Americans, we might
think differently about their so-called "optimism". (Though in 2014 that may have already changed.)
Oddly enough, the most recent citation manages to import the neo-Classical economist's divide between the market and everything else (aka 'interfering factors'). And, so my essay gets re-interpreted in a way I'd never endorse. If I had know that economists were going to be read the thing.... sigh.
One final point. I've heard it said many times that economists don't know how to write. This most recent experience leads me to wonder if they even know how to read.
If you'd like to read the actual article, you will find it at this site:
https://independent.academia.edu/MarkjLovas
Thursday, March 14, 2013
už toho dost
What the fuck is this!
the Czech Republic is supposed to a country where atheists are supposed to be the majority! Yet there is all this bullshit about the new pope.
Sorry, but the school halls are dark because there's no money for electricity, and the state television is paying for a reporter to vist Rome.
Something here stinks.
Evidently, the powers that be want to distact us from the attack on our living standards.
Monday, December 17, 2012
Wordclay defunct
There used to be a version of my novella available at "Wordclay", but they've gone out of business.
I'd be happy to see my book with its proper cover, in a nice paperback format. So, if you're a publisher, contact me. But don't expect me to pay you!
Otherwise, the book is available through Amazon Kindle.
I'd be happy to see my book with its proper cover, in a nice paperback format. So, if you're a publisher, contact me. But don't expect me to pay you!
Otherwise, the book is available through Amazon Kindle.
Wednesday, August 29, 2012
Sunday, August 26, 2012
update
The novel is now available on Kindle for $4.99. If you are in the UK, France or Germany you can buy the book there for the equivalent in the local currency.
Tuesday, March 13, 2012
Short Story Excerpt
An excerpt from : "Bob Billing’s Crisis", scheduled to appear in Short Story, Fall 2013
Bob Billing bounced to the left and to the right as the tram swayed. He had forgotten his wallet at home and he was riding without a ticket. Normally, he would take a taxi to school, and the drivers knew him. But, today, he didn’t want to be late. The new director would be there and he wanted to make a good impression.
He was uncomfortable. Too many bodies pressing too close to his own. Also he imagined that he didn’t fit in, that he looked like a foreigner. The US Embassy always warned us, he thought, not to stand out in a crowd.
What was he going to do for lunch? Maybe he could borrow some money from Ferdo. Ferdo was a nice guy even if he wasn’t American.
The thought of going without lunch made him nervous. Some students brought lunch from home in plastic containers. Exotic stuff but it smelled good. He was starting to get hungry just thinking about it.
The bottles of olive oil in his briefcase clinked and clicked together. He wanted to reach down and adjust them, but he couldn’t. He needed to keep one hand holding on; otherwise, he’d just fall over.
He couldn’t even see where he was. The windows of the tram were steamed up. But there, up ahead, in the front of the tram, was another teacher. One of the locals. She was pretty and he always tried to talk with her. Okay, he could get off when she did. She didn’t seem to notice him. But he could walk up the hill to the school with her.
The tram skidded to a halt. The rain or ice or half-snow made things tricky. Bob almost fell getting out of the tram, and the pretty girl saw it. She laughed. He laughed too.
He thought about lunch. No, he’d better not borrow money from her. “I forgot my wallet at home and I didn’t even have a ticket!”
“Oh,” she said, “You are lucky there wasn’t a revizor!”. And she laughed as she said that. Bob feared the police and the ticket-checkers too. He couldn’t get it out of his head that this was a communist country. And even if it wasn’t communist any more, everyone said it was corrupt.
He almost slipped on one of the steps, and she laughed again. “Careful! Your students would be very disappointed if you didn’t come today. After all, they’ve come in this bad weather when they would have rather stayed at home.”
He managed to regain his balance and continue.
Now they were at the top of the stairs and he could relax.
Who would loan him money for lunch? This problem still bothered him. There was no guarantee that Ferdo even came to school today. He might have stayed home.
In the hall, he passed several students who had bought pastries at the “Bufet”. He could smell poppy seeds. He did have breakfast, but maybe it wasn’t enough to last him until lunch. Three younger students walked toward him, each holding a pastry, “Mnyummmm, Mnyummmm”, one said provocatively, smiling at Bob. “I must look hungry!”
In his classroom, Bob took off his coat, and put his briefcase on the teacher’s desk. He wondered. Maybe he’d left some cookies in the drawer. No, just an old rohlik. And it was hard enough to break a tooth. He arranged his olive oil bottles on the shelf near the window.
How could he get through the day without food?
He went downstairs to the teacher’s room. Maybe if he looked at the headlines it would take his mind off his stomach.
In the teacher’s room there was a plate of home-made cookies arranged in a circle. Someone had written “Take one!”. He didn’t hesitate.
As he sat down at the computer, Jana came into the room. She was checking her mailbox, when there was a commotion out in the hall. She went into the hall and spoke very sternly. He wondered what it was all about.
He tried to concentrate on the newspaper, but he was still worried about lunch. Jana sat down at the computer next to his. “Bob, did you leave your lunch tickets in your wallet?”
It was as if she were reading his mind! “Yes”.
“Look, my boyfriend is taking me to lunch. You can have mine.”
“Oh, I wouldn’t want to do that. I’ll pay you for it tomorrow.”
“Don’t worry. You can pay me whenever you want.”
She handed him the ticket.
Normally, he did have a snack at ten and then again at two; so, he was one-third of the way there. His problem was only part way solved.
He smiled and thanked her...............
Friday, January 27, 2012
publishing update--update
The book is now available (in English) in electronic format for Kindle on Amazon: USA, UK, Deutschland, France.
http://www.amazon.com/Neurotic-Exotic-Land-ebook/dp/B007AVZVW4
http://www.amazon.com/Neurotic-Exotic-Land-ebook/dp/B007AVZVW4
Thursday, December 29, 2011
godless Communism
As a child I heard the local Catholic priest lead prayers for the end of "godless Communism". I heard that countless times, and I wonder if my memory is distorted. Did the Irishman who loved whiskey not say it with a certain zest?
And is it only the godless variety he wished to end?
So far as I know, many people lost a lot when "communism" ended.....but I am no expert.
A more sober and expert analysis will be found at the link below.
Caveat: The link leads to an article primarily about Russia/The Soviet Union. It is, therefore, not of direct relevance to the subject of this blog. However, much that one could say about Russia would also be true in Slovakia. The change from what they called "communism" to whatever it is now had many collateral victims--and still does.....
(Thanks to Brian Leiter for drawing attention to this link.)
preview: (with added emphasis)
....most American specialists no longer asked, even in light of the large-scale human tragedies that followed in the 1990s, if a reforming Soviet Union might have been the best hope for the post-Communist future of Russia or any of the other former republics. On the contrary, they concluded, as a leading university authority insisted, that everything Soviet had to be discarded by “the razing of the entire edifice of political and economic relations.” That kind of nihilism underlay the “shock therapy” so assiduously urged on Russia in the 1990s by the Clinton administration, which turned the country, as a columnist in the centrist Literary Gazette recently recalled, into “a zone of catastrophe.” None of the policy’s leading proponents, such as Larry Summers, Jeffrey Sachs and former President Clinton himself, have ever publicly regretted the near-destruction of essential consumer industries, from pharmaceuticals to poultry, or the mass poverty it caused.
--Stephen F. Cohen, writing in "The Nation", link below.
The likes of Larry Summers, Jeffrey Sachs and Bill Clinton! They wouldn't look at the destruction they've caused! Of course not. No more would the likes of JP Morgan give a damn. Morgan caused a depression before the "great" one, and when asked about it by a reporter---Don't you owe an explanation to the public?---Morgan responded that he owed the public nothing.
Wednesday, October 12, 2011
American Optimism Meets Slavic Fatalism
It would appear that the Journal of Mundane Behavior is once again on line.
An article I published there several years ago is available at:
THIS LINK, and the journal's name HAS NOW BEEN HIJACKED BY A SELLER OF ECIGARETTES
SORRY, DEAR READER
MOREOVER, I would like to suggest that given the history of cigarettes,
and the outrageous behavior of their manufacturers,you should be
sceptical about any claims about their effects upon your health.
October 2001, Vol.2, no. 3, "American Optimism Meets Slavic Fatalism"
SORRY, DEAR READER
MOREOVER, I would like to suggest that given the history of cigarettes,
and the outrageous behavior of their manufacturers,you should be
sceptical about any claims about their effects upon your health.
October 2001, Vol.2, no. 3, "American Optimism Meets Slavic Fatalism"
Saturday, September 17, 2011
something not about the novel
This is primarily a blog devoted to the novel,"A Neurotic in an Exotic Land."
However, it may occasionally attract the attention of readers with an interest in Central
or Eastern Europe.
For them, it might be of interest to note the claim that the suffering of people under the so-called Communist regimes--while real, and even cruel--was not as bad as that endured by people in Central and South America. Put more bluntly, the USSR was a more benign master than the USA--and by saying that I do not endorse masters or power politics. Here is the source of this idea:
It is not seriously in question, as John Coatsworth writes in the recently published Cambridge University History of the Cold War, that from 1960 to “the Soviet collapse in 1990, the numbers of political prisoners, torture victims, and executions of nonviolent political dissenters in Latin America vastly exceeded those in the Soviet Union and its East European satellites.” Among the executed were many religious martyrs, and there were mass slaughters as well, consistently supported or initiated by Washington.
--Noam Chomsky, "The Responsibilityof Intellectuals, Redux", Boston Review
Thursday, May 5, 2011
Chapter One of "A Neurotic in an Exotic Land"
I AM NOW RE-POSTING Chapter One so that it will be at the front of the blog.
(further chapters will be found below if you scroll down---including Chapter Six, Part Two, which was inadvertently omitted from the published version)
This is an excerpt from the book--the entire first chapter. (You will also find part of a later chapter posted here--the second half of Chapter Six.) Of course, I am hoping that once you have read the first chapter, you will be more likely to buy the book--if only to find out what happens next. (Or how the characters managed to find themselves in the situations described in Chapter Six........)
Copyright © 2010 Mark J. Lovas; all rights reserved
Chapter One: How Petra Escaped from Her Kidnapper
How had this happened? He asked himself again and again. A wholly fruitless occupation, he knew, but one which came to him naturally. His life could be more miserable. He could be a student at this wretched institution. Come to think of it, what was he now? A middle-aged failure? Stuck at this third (fourth?) rate school in the midwest? No! Not stuck because he had only a one-year contract. Great! Living on thin ice in the middle of nowhere.
He needed a change. Maybe an affair? But his students were so fat, especially the ones with pretty faces. It never ceased to amaze him. He could fall in love. Until they stood up. Hips! They seemed to be altogether a different species from the slim visions of loveliness he’d seen in New York last summer. Then there was Veronica, his so-called girlfriend. Hmmmph. More like a live-in roommate, someone who used to sleep with him when dinosaurs roamed the earth. (Why was that anyway? He couldn’t imagine that marriage was any different? How could anything but having affairs make sense?) But when V. was angry! That was like jumping out of an airplane without a parachute. Was he afraid of her? No, not at all, and, what’s more, he wouldn’t be afraid to be locked in a cage with a hungry tiger.
Well, Veronica was different. She wasn’t fat, of course, and she wasn’t from the Midwest. And he was pretty sure that if he did have an affair, she would find out. So, that road was closed.
And these bills! What exactly does bankruptcy involve? Better not think about it.
What to do? What to do?
Fat! Then, Petra was fat—and sexy, and smart, and rich. Hmmm. Her father was important in the government “back home”, as she liked to put it. She’d been to school in Europe, and went there every summer, always traveled to exotic places on vacations. Now, she had money, or her father did. Why she was at this school he did not know. She was smart enough to go somewhere else, and certainly could afford to pay higher tuition. In fact, if someone were to kidnap her, her father would pay a lot for ransom! What an idea! What a stupid idea! Where would he put her? And Veronica would find out!
OK, he would just have to tell Veronica about it! Oh no, this is just too stupid.
And she was his student! That would be too much. People would come to him asking about her. And he was a lousy liar. She’d have to miss class, and he’d have to give her a make-up exam. What a pain! Well, wait a minute. Maybe he could kidnap her after class on Thursday, get the money over the weekend, and she could be back in class on Monday. Her father would pay big bucks to get his daughter back!
No. No. No. He was just losing it! Get your shit toether Lucas! Get back to work!
- - -
“Louis?” It was Veronica’s voice. Why was she home so early? God, he’d only just started to think seriously abut his work. She looked good too. (Better put that idea out of his mind.) “Hi. Home early?” “Yes, class was cancelled. The prof was sick” “Lucky you!’ “Lucky you!,” she said, as she put her arms around him. He was definitely losing his mind. This sort of thing didn’t happen any more. Well, even if it were a dream, he could enjoy it.
Later, she nestled in the crook of his arm. He was obvlivious to his surroundings, in a state of semi-consciousness not full understand by neuroscience. (Some leading lights of neuroscience assert that the state of the male brain currently occupied by Louis’s gray matter is unique in its absence of cognitive functioning, but feminist critics take a dim view of the claim that male cognitive functions reach a uniquely low level in the post coital-period.) At any rate, Louis’s consciousness was roused by a voice which seemed to speak to him from far, far away.
“Lou?
“Yeahhhh?”
“Have you ever wanted to have kids?”
(Oh my God! He should have seen this coming.)
“Uh, no, not really . . .”
She sat up.
“Are you serious? You don’t want kids?”
“Well, no. It’s not exactly that I don’t want kids.”
(Careful here Lucas. This is treacherous ground.)
“I’m not… in principle… opposed to having
kids. I just have trouble, realistically speaking,
imagining myself (or anyone vaguely resembling
me) as a father.”
‘Lou!”
He sat up.
“You are evading the question!”
“I am?”
He gulped.
(This was not supposed to happen today, not today. He could plead the demands of work. Wasn’t that Kafka’s excuse? But he knew this was going to hurt. Just when things seemed to be improving….)
“But Lou, you’re just sooooh adorable. You should have kids someday….”
(Whew! … He felt relieved. She’d thrown him a line with that little qualifier. The Lord be praised!)
“Yes, Ver, maybe you’re right; maybe I should think about kids . . .someday…”
(What had brought this one anyway? Was she pregnant?)
She leaned across his chest and held him.
“Lou, I am very fond of you.”
(God! What was she getting at? Maybe she was having an affair!—With a guy who had kids?)
She stared at him, glowing with the feverish intensity
of a nuclear reactor’s core (or so he imagined)
Relaxing her grip, she smiled and kissed him.
“I agree. Having kids with you would be a problem.
But that’s OK. I’m still young, and I can handle you.)
(What in the world was she talking about? He didn’t think this was a good time to tell her about his kidnapping idea.)
He had narrowly escaped a terrible fate. She still loved—err—was very fond of him, and apparently she wasn’t pregnant. He couldn’t believe his good fortune.
- - -
Lucas stood before his class, poised to deliver a lecture. My god, he thought, what a grimy bunch! The grunge look must have finally arrived at this benighted place. Or, maybe his glasses were smudged. Ever since he’d gotten these new non-reflective lenses, he’d been afraid to clean them. After cleaning them religiously for two months they’d become all scratched up and he’d had to return them to the eye doctor for a new coat of whatever it was, which took two goddamned weeks. His mother was right: we do all have our own cross to bear. Or, in his own case, right now, his own class.
No. They most definitely were a dirty bunch. They also seemed to be in constant motion. Maybe his hormones had slowed down. Probably that was scientifically incorrect. Oh well, he had to plunge ahead.
“Last time I was trying to explain the difference between two fundamentally different sorts of ethical theory. “ (Jeez! Why did he say trying? I know, because they are so dense. Oh no! Don’t say that.)
The girl in the tremendous whadya call it. He’d heard them called “suckers” in Texas, but he could never use that word. It seemed so obscene. “Lollypop” sounded sill. But watching her go at it gave him ideas. Jesus Christ Lucas!
The issue was not whether his students could comprehend the difference between two fundamentally different sorts of ethical theory. He knew that was hopeless. He himself often found the question confusing. But, there was this bit of terminology which people threw around as if there were a clear difference, and he felt a moral obligation to prepare his students (the innocent unbathed and unprepared louts) in case they ever met (or, even more disastrously, took a class from) one of his colleagues. Suddenly, he recalled that it was precisely this sort of thought which, when allowed to pass the barrier of his teeth, got him into trouble with Lisa. (Lisa came before Veronica, and was every bit as high strung as Veronica was mellow. When he thought of the difference between the two he felt as though he had narrowly averted another disaster.)
There were thirty people here today. (High turn-out when there’s no exam in sight.) Fifty people were registered for the class. He knew some of the people whose names appeared on the official roster weren’t taking the class, but it always seemed so odd, such a curious inflation of souls. Like Lieutenant Kiji or something.
(Lisa wouldn’t like that either!)
The serious girl had a question. (He was afraid of her. She might be a fundamentalist or a Catholic. She was so serious and so stupidly cheerful. He hated that sort. Always asking questions but incapable of understanding anything—Lisa would nx that thought too! Hey. He’d better stop this internal bookkeeping. It was impious to Saint Veronica.)
“Professor LOOO-KUSSS, last time you told us the opposite from what you are telling us today. You said that the GOOD theory was the DEE-ON-TOE-LOGICO and that the BAD theory was TEA-LEE-OH-LOGICO. I wrote it down in my notebook.’ (She gestured toward the historical record. God! What they didn’t write down. Maybe she wanted to be a lawyer or a judge. “Would the court reporter please read back to us the latest inanity from Professor Lucas? And Lucas, don’t go quoting Thoreau either! Not in my court.)
He distinctly recalled writing the words on the board, but that left open the question of how she had actually transcribed them into the historical record. (He didn’t want to know.)
“That’s not quite accurate. It would be more accurate to say that each theory has its own difficulties. Perhaps in your notes you will find that I raised objections to both?” (Was he a diplomat or what?)
He knew why she’d missed this. His presentation—(god, that sounded like something that happened in a car dealer’s showroom! But what he said never seem organized enough to b considered a proper lecture.) –Well, whatever it was, it had been interrupted by a question. (He id love questions—real questions—not this infernal bookkeeping bullshit) and there had been a heated debate about abortion or aids or condoms, and that had clearly wiped out whatever came after it in her memory bank. (He was quite sure that there was empirical evidence for that sort of thing—and he believed that altogether independently of what he had experienced when he first met Veronica.)
He turned on the auto pilot and attempted to locate yesterday’s snippet. (He could just imagine what her exam would look like. So strange. Seeing one’s words reproduced in a way that systematically destroys and distorts their original sense. And it is so easy to do. Omit a few words here. Delete a few thoughts there. Verbatim at odd intervals. Half gibberish. Spelling and grammar intolerable, of course, but just enough sense to remind one of the pristine original. Wasn’t this a punishment somewhere in Dante’s hell?) He tried to supply a new example. It must have been a good choice because the clever boy who sits on the left side of the room began to raise objections. He was fearless. Too bad he didn’t come to class regularly.
When the buzzer (ugly noise) sounded, he felt (as usual) relieved. Why did they have to swarm up after class? What could he possibly say to improve upon the splendid performance he’d just delivered? Hadn’t they been listening? Oh god. What now? Something was wrong. Then it hit him. Petra had not been in class. But she never misses class!
- - -
On the way home, he found himself looking forward to seeing Veronica. He was embarrassed to admit that this was unusual. But, right now anyway, things were good.
When he opened the door, she looked up at him, and on her face he saw something unfamiliar. Was it fear?
“What’s wrong?”
“One of your students has been kidnapped! You remember Petra Kral? She had us over for dinner. She’s from that mysterious country across the ocean. Remember?
(This was too weird. Who had been reading his mind? And how could he sue them for stealing his idea?)
They are demanding recognition for their political cause.
But who are “they”? What cause?
I couldn’t make it out exactly, but the guy who called said they represent a mistreated minority within Petra’s country. Her father is a representative of the oppressive ruling class?
Veronica, do you believe all this? I mean, it sounds like a bad joke.
No, I don’t know what I think. I think it’s weird, but I took notes when he called. Why didn’t he call her father? Why did they call here?
I don’t know why. He explained but it makes no sense. They want you to call her father.
(My god! This is too weird!)
But what am I going to tell him?
Look at my notes.
She handed him a legal pad.
(My god! It was complicated. Too many unfamiliar proper names! Just to read her notes he’d need a class in European History!)
He decided to call up the kidnappers.
“Hello.”
“Hello, this is Professor Lucas.”
“Ahhhh, Professor Lucas. I am so pleased that you have decided to help us.”
“Wait a minute! I didn’t say that.”
Then why did you call?
So I could get information to decide if I was going to help you.
Oh, Professor Lucas, this is a very delicate matter. I assure you that you will most definitely want to help us.
You mean once you’ve filled me in?
Of course. Everything will become transparent to you.
(Where had this kid gone to school? He insisted that the delicacy of the subject-matter required them to meet face-to-face.)
- - -
When Lucas opened the door, a smartly dressed young man beamed at him. (How could a goddamned kidnapper be so joyously happy? This made no sense.)
“Professor Lucas! I feel as though we’ve already met. I know all about you from what Petra has said!”
(Was she holding lengthy tete-a-tetes with her kidnappers?)
The young man proceeded into a lengthy disquisition which made his head spin. The story began a thousand years ago and involved land claims, blood ties, insults, imagined insults, and probably would have made a pretty good television movie with the right producer. But he couldn’t follow the plot at all, until it thickened, and the thickener was, predictably, money.
“So, Mr. Kral need only arrange an electronic funds transfer from his Swiss Bank Account to my own.”
(OK. Now, he ha him. Not a man of principle, but just an ordinary money-grubbing opportunist.)
“But why your account?”
“Because I am the official head of the organization which promotes the human rights of excluded minorities in our country.”
“Can you document that claim?” (Yes, would you please show me your membership card? No, not American Express or Central Europe Express, but the Central European Minorities Defense Fund Card—good in over 500 hotels and restaurant in Paris alone. Diplomats always meet in cities with decent restaurants.)
“Professor Lucas…. (The lad seemed to be ashamed of him.) You seem to have forgotten what I told you.”
(As a matter of fact, he had. There had been so many irrelevant details. Hmmmm. That sounded familiar. He’d heard that somewhere before. Oh yes, his students. That’s what they said about his lectures. No! Cancel that thought! Self-examination was not appropriate at this crucial juncture.)
What do you mean?
Ours is a secret society….
And with that he launched into another lengthy historical account.
Okay, he said, just give me your name, and I’ll call her dad. (Jeez! He sure hoped the dad had heard of them!)
But he hadn’t.
>>>
Lucas could tell that the guy was a real charmer. Even over the phone and across the ocean, the guy just oozed savoir-faire. “Oh yes, Professor Lucas, it is a genuine pleasure to speak with you. I have heard so much about you.”
(Yeah. Right! He could see it now. The entire Kral family, their sides splitting from laughter, at a five star restaurant in Paris. And at the center of attention is Petra, describing her philosophy professor in America. Oh well. Bringing a little joy into the desperate lives of the idle rich.)
“I’m afraid I’m calling with bad news.”
“Bad news?”
“Your daughter has been kidnapped.”
“She has?”
“Yes, by the Hloupy Independence Front.”
“The Hloupy Independence Front?”
“Yes”
“I’ve never heard of them.”
Jesus Christ! Where were his (errr, Veronica’s) notes when he needed them? He motioned to Ver to bring her notes. After a few minutes Kral interrupted him.
“Professor Lucas, I’m afraid this is all beginning to sound like a hoax.”
“A hoax?”
“Yes, the story you’ve told vague reminds me of a chapter of one of my books. It was totally fictitious. I can assure you.”
“But, I’ve seen the kidnapper!”
Lucas had scarcely gotten past specifying his height, age, and manner of speech when Kral interrupted and continued with a description of the youth which was so vivid that for a moment Lucas imagined he saw the wayward youth standing before his very eyes.
“So, you know the guy?”
“I do indeed. He has been attempting to woo Petra for a good number of years. I have forbidden their marriage. His true name is Tom.”
(The tumblers fell into place. Now he knew why Tom wanted to run up someone else’s phone bill. Didn’t want the papa to recognize him! The irty rat.
A hoax! And now a real kidnapping would never work!
“But what should I do?”
The father laughed. “Perhaps we should play along with him. Did he ask for electronic funds transfer?”
“Yes, how did you know?”
“Experience is our best teacher Professor Lucas. You should know that from your empiricist philosophers.”
(Just what he wanted to hear. And Christ! He had called this guy. Oh no! It was going to be on his bill.
Would it be rude if he asked Kral to call back?)
“Just what do you have in mind?”
“Your part in this adventure, Professor Lucas, will be rather small.”
(Right! Do I believe him?)
“You are to propose to Petra.”
(Oh my god! This is crazy!)
“But I won’t have to really marry her, right?”
(Oh shit! I’ve insulted the father. At least I didn’t say that his daughter is fat.)
“I mean I’m already spoken for…”
(Oh shit! Looking at Ver, he couldn’t tell what she was making of all of this.)
“Do not worry Professor Lucas. I understand that my daughter does not exactly correspond to your American standards of beauty.”
(Christ! She fits right in among the girls of the heartland! Some of them make her look downright thin. Well, she might fit in if only she did not dress in such a snappy way. No doubt Papa’s wealth pays for the latest fashion.)
“But, why, then, am I to propose?”
You must teach this youg fellow that he is not the only fish in the sea.
(Now that did sound scary. It did not sound like idle words. It might take deeds, and he was definitely not up for that. And what if she said yes? Oh my god.)
“How do you know it will work?”
“I know it will work. She has told me all about you. I believe that she has what they call a ‘crush’ on you.”
(At this point he exercised saintly self-control.)
“But excuse me, Mr. Kral, doesn’t that mean she might say yes?”
“I’m hoping so.”
(Nuttier and nuttier. And more and more dollars down the toilet to pay for the phone call!)
“Why? If I may ask.”
“Because I want that young buck to learn a thing or two.”
“I’m sorry Mr. Kral. I can’t do it. It’s just too dangerous.”
“Dangerous?”
(Kral was really perturbed. For an instant Lucas was reminded of the last time his truly beloved was angry.)
“Professor Lucas, my daughter tells me that you have considerable debt.” (How in the world?)
“Well, I wouldn’t say, absolutely considerable, but maybe only relatively speaking. It’s nothing compared to your yearly income or the national debt. But it is considerable from my point of view.”
That was the end of the story. He had no power to resist the proposal which Kral made. What would Veronica think? Nothing. She had predicted it. She was laughing to see him squirm.
But, even worse, what would Petra think?
Of course, she knew her old man, so she knew he’d offered to pay Lucas.
Veronica hugged him. “You were so cute on the phone!” (Cute?) Apparently, she liked to see him squirm. But he wasn’t about to complain. Witnessing his torture had ignited her. (Again? He couldn’t believe it. The Lord works in mysterious ways.)
>>>
Lucas called Petra up the next morning. He didn’t beat around the bush and neither did she. He asked her to marry him and she turned him down.
“Oh, Professor Lucas. I’m so sorry you’ve been drawn into this. You know I can’t say yes. I know my father put you up to this. You’ve just got to explain to him that Tom and I are in love.”
Oh Christ! Another long distance phone call!
(Now, wait a minute. She hasn’t really been kidnapped. And I haven’t married her. And Ver is randier than ever. If I go bankrupt, will that kill me?)
“Mr Kral! Yur daughter laughed at me when I proposed to her. She knew you put me up to it.”
“That’s my daughter!” (He sounded positively joyous. Had the entire world gone bonkers?)
“Well, what next, Mr. Kral?”
“I’m afraid the only thing to do is to let them marry.”
“Let them marry? I thought you were dead set against it?”
“Yes, but the ingenuity of the young man. And the way he even used a story from my book. It’s really very flattering. So, I’ve decided to give in.”
(And what about our financial agreement?)
“Now, Professor Lucas, I understand that as a university lecturer, you are poorly paid.”
(An understatement. Taxicab drivers in Toledo make more money.)
“But I insist that you attend the wedding, which will, of course, be held here. And, perhaps there is someone special you’d like to bring with you? Do not worry about expenses. My secretary will contact you, and you will receive all of the necessary funds. And do not worry about the bill for the transatlantic phone calls. All of your expenses will be paid for. You have helped me see the true path to my daughter’s future happiness.”
(Probably papa moneybags was kept awake all night with visions of the nutty professor as his son-in-law. After that a local boy looked pretty good, even if he is a bit of a hothead.)
“You are too generous!”
(Well, not really. Just generous enough if Kral pays the phone bill. As for the flight and the other costs associated with travel, who could say? He might end up deeper in debt. There’s always some extra expense for toothpaste or foot powder.)
Ø > >
“You’re quite a matchmaker Professor Lucas!”
She threw her arms around him, and began to kiss him passionately.
“You know, Petra really did have a crush on you.”
“How do you know?”
“She told me.”
“When?”
“When she had us for dinner.”
“But I was there and it was a small apartment.”
“You were there in the apartment, but you were not there where we were having the conversation.”
“Oh, so you mean the minute I leave the room…”
“Don’t be angry! I was gathering valuable information… on your behalf, I might add! She had a crush on you, but she said her whole picture of you changed when she noticed how smudged your glasses were…
Don’t worry Lou! I think it’s cute! (She squeezed him.)
Unfathomable depths in his very own past! He thought to himself, as they headed toward the bedroom, that this would be another productive weekend on the academic front. Christ! Talk about the winds of change… What could possibly happen next?
This is an excerpt from the book--the entire first chapter. (You will also find part of a later chapter posted here--the second half of Chapter Six.) Of course, I am hoping that once you have read the first chapter, you will be more likely to buy the book--if only to find out what happens next. (Or how the characters managed to find themselves in the situations described in Chapter Six........)
Copyright © 2010 Mark J. Lovas; all rights reserved
Chapter One: How Petra Escaped from Her Kidnapper
How had this happened? He asked himself again and again. A wholly fruitless occupation, he knew, but one which came to him naturally. His life could be more miserable. He could be a student at this wretched institution. Come to think of it, what was he now? A middle-aged failure? Stuck at this third (fourth?) rate school in the midwest? No! Not stuck because he had only a one-year contract. Great! Living on thin ice in the middle of nowhere.
He needed a change. Maybe an affair? But his students were so fat, especially the ones with pretty faces. It never ceased to amaze him. He could fall in love. Until they stood up. Hips! They seemed to be altogether a different species from the slim visions of loveliness he’d seen in New York last summer. Then there was Veronica, his so-called girlfriend. Hmmmph. More like a live-in roommate, someone who used to sleep with him when dinosaurs roamed the earth. (Why was that anyway? He couldn’t imagine that marriage was any different? How could anything but having affairs make sense?) But when V. was angry! That was like jumping out of an airplane without a parachute. Was he afraid of her? No, not at all, and, what’s more, he wouldn’t be afraid to be locked in a cage with a hungry tiger.
Well, Veronica was different. She wasn’t fat, of course, and she wasn’t from the Midwest. And he was pretty sure that if he did have an affair, she would find out. So, that road was closed.
And these bills! What exactly does bankruptcy involve? Better not think about it.
What to do? What to do?
Fat! Then, Petra was fat—and sexy, and smart, and rich. Hmmm. Her father was important in the government “back home”, as she liked to put it. She’d been to school in Europe, and went there every summer, always traveled to exotic places on vacations. Now, she had money, or her father did. Why she was at this school he did not know. She was smart enough to go somewhere else, and certainly could afford to pay higher tuition. In fact, if someone were to kidnap her, her father would pay a lot for ransom! What an idea! What a stupid idea! Where would he put her? And Veronica would find out!
OK, he would just have to tell Veronica about it! Oh no, this is just too stupid.
And she was his student! That would be too much. People would come to him asking about her. And he was a lousy liar. She’d have to miss class, and he’d have to give her a make-up exam. What a pain! Well, wait a minute. Maybe he could kidnap her after class on Thursday, get the money over the weekend, and she could be back in class on Monday. Her father would pay big bucks to get his daughter back!
No. No. No. He was just losing it! Get your shit toether Lucas! Get back to work!
- - -
“Louis?” It was Veronica’s voice. Why was she home so early? God, he’d only just started to think seriously abut his work. She looked good too. (Better put that idea out of his mind.) “Hi. Home early?” “Yes, class was cancelled. The prof was sick” “Lucky you!’ “Lucky you!,” she said, as she put her arms around him. He was definitely losing his mind. This sort of thing didn’t happen any more. Well, even if it were a dream, he could enjoy it.
Later, she nestled in the crook of his arm. He was obvlivious to his surroundings, in a state of semi-consciousness not full understand by neuroscience. (Some leading lights of neuroscience assert that the state of the male brain currently occupied by Louis’s gray matter is unique in its absence of cognitive functioning, but feminist critics take a dim view of the claim that male cognitive functions reach a uniquely low level in the post coital-period.) At any rate, Louis’s consciousness was roused by a voice which seemed to speak to him from far, far away.
“Lou?
“Yeahhhh?”
“Have you ever wanted to have kids?”
(Oh my God! He should have seen this coming.)
“Uh, no, not really . . .”
She sat up.
“Are you serious? You don’t want kids?”
“Well, no. It’s not exactly that I don’t want kids.”
(Careful here Lucas. This is treacherous ground.)
“I’m not… in principle… opposed to having
kids. I just have trouble, realistically speaking,
imagining myself (or anyone vaguely resembling
me) as a father.”
‘Lou!”
He sat up.
“You are evading the question!”
“I am?”
He gulped.
(This was not supposed to happen today, not today. He could plead the demands of work. Wasn’t that Kafka’s excuse? But he knew this was going to hurt. Just when things seemed to be improving….)
“But Lou, you’re just sooooh adorable. You should have kids someday….”
(Whew! … He felt relieved. She’d thrown him a line with that little qualifier. The Lord be praised!)
“Yes, Ver, maybe you’re right; maybe I should think about kids . . .someday…”
(What had brought this one anyway? Was she pregnant?)
She leaned across his chest and held him.
“Lou, I am very fond of you.”
(God! What was she getting at? Maybe she was having an affair!—With a guy who had kids?)
She stared at him, glowing with the feverish intensity
of a nuclear reactor’s core (or so he imagined)
Relaxing her grip, she smiled and kissed him.
“I agree. Having kids with you would be a problem.
But that’s OK. I’m still young, and I can handle you.)
(What in the world was she talking about? He didn’t think this was a good time to tell her about his kidnapping idea.)
He had narrowly escaped a terrible fate. She still loved—err—was very fond of him, and apparently she wasn’t pregnant. He couldn’t believe his good fortune.
- - -
Lucas stood before his class, poised to deliver a lecture. My god, he thought, what a grimy bunch! The grunge look must have finally arrived at this benighted place. Or, maybe his glasses were smudged. Ever since he’d gotten these new non-reflective lenses, he’d been afraid to clean them. After cleaning them religiously for two months they’d become all scratched up and he’d had to return them to the eye doctor for a new coat of whatever it was, which took two goddamned weeks. His mother was right: we do all have our own cross to bear. Or, in his own case, right now, his own class.
No. They most definitely were a dirty bunch. They also seemed to be in constant motion. Maybe his hormones had slowed down. Probably that was scientifically incorrect. Oh well, he had to plunge ahead.
“Last time I was trying to explain the difference between two fundamentally different sorts of ethical theory. “ (Jeez! Why did he say trying? I know, because they are so dense. Oh no! Don’t say that.)
The girl in the tremendous whadya call it. He’d heard them called “suckers” in Texas, but he could never use that word. It seemed so obscene. “Lollypop” sounded sill. But watching her go at it gave him ideas. Jesus Christ Lucas!
The issue was not whether his students could comprehend the difference between two fundamentally different sorts of ethical theory. He knew that was hopeless. He himself often found the question confusing. But, there was this bit of terminology which people threw around as if there were a clear difference, and he felt a moral obligation to prepare his students (the innocent unbathed and unprepared louts) in case they ever met (or, even more disastrously, took a class from) one of his colleagues. Suddenly, he recalled that it was precisely this sort of thought which, when allowed to pass the barrier of his teeth, got him into trouble with Lisa. (Lisa came before Veronica, and was every bit as high strung as Veronica was mellow. When he thought of the difference between the two he felt as though he had narrowly averted another disaster.)
There were thirty people here today. (High turn-out when there’s no exam in sight.) Fifty people were registered for the class. He knew some of the people whose names appeared on the official roster weren’t taking the class, but it always seemed so odd, such a curious inflation of souls. Like Lieutenant Kiji or something.
(Lisa wouldn’t like that either!)
The serious girl had a question. (He was afraid of her. She might be a fundamentalist or a Catholic. She was so serious and so stupidly cheerful. He hated that sort. Always asking questions but incapable of understanding anything—Lisa would nx that thought too! Hey. He’d better stop this internal bookkeeping. It was impious to Saint Veronica.)
“Professor LOOO-KUSSS, last time you told us the opposite from what you are telling us today. You said that the GOOD theory was the DEE-ON-TOE-LOGICO and that the BAD theory was TEA-LEE-OH-LOGICO. I wrote it down in my notebook.’ (She gestured toward the historical record. God! What they didn’t write down. Maybe she wanted to be a lawyer or a judge. “Would the court reporter please read back to us the latest inanity from Professor Lucas? And Lucas, don’t go quoting Thoreau either! Not in my court.)
He distinctly recalled writing the words on the board, but that left open the question of how she had actually transcribed them into the historical record. (He didn’t want to know.)
“That’s not quite accurate. It would be more accurate to say that each theory has its own difficulties. Perhaps in your notes you will find that I raised objections to both?” (Was he a diplomat or what?)
He knew why she’d missed this. His presentation—(god, that sounded like something that happened in a car dealer’s showroom! But what he said never seem organized enough to b considered a proper lecture.) –Well, whatever it was, it had been interrupted by a question. (He id love questions—real questions—not this infernal bookkeeping bullshit) and there had been a heated debate about abortion or aids or condoms, and that had clearly wiped out whatever came after it in her memory bank. (He was quite sure that there was empirical evidence for that sort of thing—and he believed that altogether independently of what he had experienced when he first met Veronica.)
He turned on the auto pilot and attempted to locate yesterday’s snippet. (He could just imagine what her exam would look like. So strange. Seeing one’s words reproduced in a way that systematically destroys and distorts their original sense. And it is so easy to do. Omit a few words here. Delete a few thoughts there. Verbatim at odd intervals. Half gibberish. Spelling and grammar intolerable, of course, but just enough sense to remind one of the pristine original. Wasn’t this a punishment somewhere in Dante’s hell?) He tried to supply a new example. It must have been a good choice because the clever boy who sits on the left side of the room began to raise objections. He was fearless. Too bad he didn’t come to class regularly.
When the buzzer (ugly noise) sounded, he felt (as usual) relieved. Why did they have to swarm up after class? What could he possibly say to improve upon the splendid performance he’d just delivered? Hadn’t they been listening? Oh god. What now? Something was wrong. Then it hit him. Petra had not been in class. But she never misses class!
- - -
On the way home, he found himself looking forward to seeing Veronica. He was embarrassed to admit that this was unusual. But, right now anyway, things were good.
When he opened the door, she looked up at him, and on her face he saw something unfamiliar. Was it fear?
“What’s wrong?”
“One of your students has been kidnapped! You remember Petra Kral? She had us over for dinner. She’s from that mysterious country across the ocean. Remember?
(This was too weird. Who had been reading his mind? And how could he sue them for stealing his idea?)
They are demanding recognition for their political cause.
But who are “they”? What cause?
I couldn’t make it out exactly, but the guy who called said they represent a mistreated minority within Petra’s country. Her father is a representative of the oppressive ruling class?
Veronica, do you believe all this? I mean, it sounds like a bad joke.
No, I don’t know what I think. I think it’s weird, but I took notes when he called. Why didn’t he call her father? Why did they call here?
I don’t know why. He explained but it makes no sense. They want you to call her father.
(My god! This is too weird!)
But what am I going to tell him?
Look at my notes.
She handed him a legal pad.
(My god! It was complicated. Too many unfamiliar proper names! Just to read her notes he’d need a class in European History!)
He decided to call up the kidnappers.
“Hello.”
“Hello, this is Professor Lucas.”
“Ahhhh, Professor Lucas. I am so pleased that you have decided to help us.”
“Wait a minute! I didn’t say that.”
Then why did you call?
So I could get information to decide if I was going to help you.
Oh, Professor Lucas, this is a very delicate matter. I assure you that you will most definitely want to help us.
You mean once you’ve filled me in?
Of course. Everything will become transparent to you.
(Where had this kid gone to school? He insisted that the delicacy of the subject-matter required them to meet face-to-face.)
- - -
When Lucas opened the door, a smartly dressed young man beamed at him. (How could a goddamned kidnapper be so joyously happy? This made no sense.)
“Professor Lucas! I feel as though we’ve already met. I know all about you from what Petra has said!”
(Was she holding lengthy tete-a-tetes with her kidnappers?)
The young man proceeded into a lengthy disquisition which made his head spin. The story began a thousand years ago and involved land claims, blood ties, insults, imagined insults, and probably would have made a pretty good television movie with the right producer. But he couldn’t follow the plot at all, until it thickened, and the thickener was, predictably, money.
“So, Mr. Kral need only arrange an electronic funds transfer from his Swiss Bank Account to my own.”
(OK. Now, he ha him. Not a man of principle, but just an ordinary money-grubbing opportunist.)
“But why your account?”
“Because I am the official head of the organization which promotes the human rights of excluded minorities in our country.”
“Can you document that claim?” (Yes, would you please show me your membership card? No, not American Express or Central Europe Express, but the Central European Minorities Defense Fund Card—good in over 500 hotels and restaurant in Paris alone. Diplomats always meet in cities with decent restaurants.)
“Professor Lucas…. (The lad seemed to be ashamed of him.) You seem to have forgotten what I told you.”
(As a matter of fact, he had. There had been so many irrelevant details. Hmmmm. That sounded familiar. He’d heard that somewhere before. Oh yes, his students. That’s what they said about his lectures. No! Cancel that thought! Self-examination was not appropriate at this crucial juncture.)
What do you mean?
Ours is a secret society….
And with that he launched into another lengthy historical account.
Okay, he said, just give me your name, and I’ll call her dad. (Jeez! He sure hoped the dad had heard of them!)
But he hadn’t.
>>>
Lucas could tell that the guy was a real charmer. Even over the phone and across the ocean, the guy just oozed savoir-faire. “Oh yes, Professor Lucas, it is a genuine pleasure to speak with you. I have heard so much about you.”
(Yeah. Right! He could see it now. The entire Kral family, their sides splitting from laughter, at a five star restaurant in Paris. And at the center of attention is Petra, describing her philosophy professor in America. Oh well. Bringing a little joy into the desperate lives of the idle rich.)
“I’m afraid I’m calling with bad news.”
“Bad news?”
“Your daughter has been kidnapped.”
“She has?”
“Yes, by the Hloupy Independence Front.”
“The Hloupy Independence Front?”
“Yes”
“I’ve never heard of them.”
Jesus Christ! Where were his (errr, Veronica’s) notes when he needed them? He motioned to Ver to bring her notes. After a few minutes Kral interrupted him.
“Professor Lucas, I’m afraid this is all beginning to sound like a hoax.”
“A hoax?”
“Yes, the story you’ve told vague reminds me of a chapter of one of my books. It was totally fictitious. I can assure you.”
“But, I’ve seen the kidnapper!”
Lucas had scarcely gotten past specifying his height, age, and manner of speech when Kral interrupted and continued with a description of the youth which was so vivid that for a moment Lucas imagined he saw the wayward youth standing before his very eyes.
“So, you know the guy?”
“I do indeed. He has been attempting to woo Petra for a good number of years. I have forbidden their marriage. His true name is Tom.”
(The tumblers fell into place. Now he knew why Tom wanted to run up someone else’s phone bill. Didn’t want the papa to recognize him! The irty rat.
A hoax! And now a real kidnapping would never work!
“But what should I do?”
The father laughed. “Perhaps we should play along with him. Did he ask for electronic funds transfer?”
“Yes, how did you know?”
“Experience is our best teacher Professor Lucas. You should know that from your empiricist philosophers.”
(Just what he wanted to hear. And Christ! He had called this guy. Oh no! It was going to be on his bill.
Would it be rude if he asked Kral to call back?)
“Just what do you have in mind?”
“Your part in this adventure, Professor Lucas, will be rather small.”
(Right! Do I believe him?)
“You are to propose to Petra.”
(Oh my god! This is crazy!)
“But I won’t have to really marry her, right?”
(Oh shit! I’ve insulted the father. At least I didn’t say that his daughter is fat.)
“I mean I’m already spoken for…”
(Oh shit! Looking at Ver, he couldn’t tell what she was making of all of this.)
“Do not worry Professor Lucas. I understand that my daughter does not exactly correspond to your American standards of beauty.”
(Christ! She fits right in among the girls of the heartland! Some of them make her look downright thin. Well, she might fit in if only she did not dress in such a snappy way. No doubt Papa’s wealth pays for the latest fashion.)
“But, why, then, am I to propose?”
You must teach this youg fellow that he is not the only fish in the sea.
(Now that did sound scary. It did not sound like idle words. It might take deeds, and he was definitely not up for that. And what if she said yes? Oh my god.)
“How do you know it will work?”
“I know it will work. She has told me all about you. I believe that she has what they call a ‘crush’ on you.”
(At this point he exercised saintly self-control.)
“But excuse me, Mr. Kral, doesn’t that mean she might say yes?”
“I’m hoping so.”
(Nuttier and nuttier. And more and more dollars down the toilet to pay for the phone call!)
“Why? If I may ask.”
“Because I want that young buck to learn a thing or two.”
“I’m sorry Mr. Kral. I can’t do it. It’s just too dangerous.”
“Dangerous?”
(Kral was really perturbed. For an instant Lucas was reminded of the last time his truly beloved was angry.)
“Professor Lucas, my daughter tells me that you have considerable debt.” (How in the world?)
“Well, I wouldn’t say, absolutely considerable, but maybe only relatively speaking. It’s nothing compared to your yearly income or the national debt. But it is considerable from my point of view.”
That was the end of the story. He had no power to resist the proposal which Kral made. What would Veronica think? Nothing. She had predicted it. She was laughing to see him squirm.
But, even worse, what would Petra think?
Of course, she knew her old man, so she knew he’d offered to pay Lucas.
Veronica hugged him. “You were so cute on the phone!” (Cute?) Apparently, she liked to see him squirm. But he wasn’t about to complain. Witnessing his torture had ignited her. (Again? He couldn’t believe it. The Lord works in mysterious ways.)
>>>
Lucas called Petra up the next morning. He didn’t beat around the bush and neither did she. He asked her to marry him and she turned him down.
“Oh, Professor Lucas. I’m so sorry you’ve been drawn into this. You know I can’t say yes. I know my father put you up to this. You’ve just got to explain to him that Tom and I are in love.”
Oh Christ! Another long distance phone call!
(Now, wait a minute. She hasn’t really been kidnapped. And I haven’t married her. And Ver is randier than ever. If I go bankrupt, will that kill me?)
“Mr Kral! Yur daughter laughed at me when I proposed to her. She knew you put me up to it.”
“That’s my daughter!” (He sounded positively joyous. Had the entire world gone bonkers?)
“Well, what next, Mr. Kral?”
“I’m afraid the only thing to do is to let them marry.”
“Let them marry? I thought you were dead set against it?”
“Yes, but the ingenuity of the young man. And the way he even used a story from my book. It’s really very flattering. So, I’ve decided to give in.”
(And what about our financial agreement?)
“Now, Professor Lucas, I understand that as a university lecturer, you are poorly paid.”
(An understatement. Taxicab drivers in Toledo make more money.)
“But I insist that you attend the wedding, which will, of course, be held here. And, perhaps there is someone special you’d like to bring with you? Do not worry about expenses. My secretary will contact you, and you will receive all of the necessary funds. And do not worry about the bill for the transatlantic phone calls. All of your expenses will be paid for. You have helped me see the true path to my daughter’s future happiness.”
(Probably papa moneybags was kept awake all night with visions of the nutty professor as his son-in-law. After that a local boy looked pretty good, even if he is a bit of a hothead.)
“You are too generous!”
(Well, not really. Just generous enough if Kral pays the phone bill. As for the flight and the other costs associated with travel, who could say? He might end up deeper in debt. There’s always some extra expense for toothpaste or foot powder.)
Ø > >
“You’re quite a matchmaker Professor Lucas!”
She threw her arms around him, and began to kiss him passionately.
“You know, Petra really did have a crush on you.”
“How do you know?”
“She told me.”
“When?”
“When she had us for dinner.”
“But I was there and it was a small apartment.”
“You were there in the apartment, but you were not there where we were having the conversation.”
“Oh, so you mean the minute I leave the room…”
“Don’t be angry! I was gathering valuable information… on your behalf, I might add! She had a crush on you, but she said her whole picture of you changed when she noticed how smudged your glasses were…
Don’t worry Lou! I think it’s cute! (She squeezed him.)
Unfathomable depths in his very own past! He thought to himself, as they headed toward the bedroom, that this would be another productive weekend on the academic front. Christ! Talk about the winds of change… What could possibly happen next?
Chapter Six; Part Two
APOLOGY: Part Two of Chapter Six was inadvertently omitted from the published version.
of
A Neurotic in an Exotic Land
by
Mark J. Lovas
©Copyright 2010 by Mark J. Lovas; all rights reserved
She rolled over, and opened her eyes. She smiled. Well, really, on any given day, there really wasn’t much infor mation in the newspaper anyway. . . . not really . . . .
BAMM-BAMMM-BAMMMM
What was going on? Was it an earthquake? The expression on Jana’s face changed from pleasure to something else, something unhappy.
“Lou! Lou?”
Shit! It must be Veronika. But she had a key. Okay, it would be worse if she had just come in. But why couldn’t she phone first?
“Look, I’m sorry. It’s Veronika. She must have come for her clothes.”
Jana looked worried. She leaned over and kissed him, got out of bed, gathered together her clothes, and went into the bathroom.
Lou fumbled for his clothes, pulled on his pants, and stumbled toward the door.
He opened it just a bit. Veronika’s face was determined and impersonal.
“I’ve got to have my clothes.”
“Sure.”
“I called you first, but you didn’t answer.”
“I didn’t hear it.”
“I know. I can imagine why. “
“I was sleeping!”
“Right.” She marched into the room, and began to pack. Lou was glad that Jana was in the bathroom.
“Look, Ver, I’m really sorry about all of this.”
“I’m not. Sometimes, that’s the way it is. And I’m not going to waste my time with somebody who thinks so little about me that he can sleep with me one night and sleep with someone he’s just met in the same bed the very next day.”
Lou was stunned. He couldn’t see any inconsistency in his behavior. In fact, whenever Veronika was mad at him, he always found himself turned on. Like right now, in fact. And he couldn’t understand why Veronika would imagine that the fact that she turned him on would rule out the possibility that Jana also turned him on. He felt confused.
He heard Jana in the bathroom. He hoped she wouldn’t leave. He wanted to finish what they’d started when Ver interrupted them. He decided to go on the offensive.
“But, look Ver. You haven’t exactly been devoting all of your thoughts to me since you got here. I mean, what about the way you dressed Saturday morning? I mean with that short skirt you were wearing, if you told me that you had decided to sell yourself, I would have believed you”
She took a few quick steps toward and slapped him, with full force.
He nearly fell over.
“Lou, when you get right down to it, you really are primitive. And you have no idea, absolutely no idea, how you’ve managed to take my life away from me. I am so glad that all of this has happened. I can finally be free.”
That was hard to swallow. He sat on the bed. He knew what she was talking about. He wanted to say something about compromises, but he felt unsure. Maybe she was right. What could he say now? He wished she’d hurry up. He wished that Jana would join him in bed. He wished he could just forget everything.
Ver had finished packing. “Well, I suppose I will see you at the reception. But, just remember. I don’t owe you anything, and I’m still mad.”
She slammed he door.
Jana emerged from the bathroom with an extra heavy mask of makeup, as if she had prepared herself for battle with chemical or radioactive agents.
But she kissed him affectionately, so affectionately that he felt guilty for criticizing the way that she contaminated her face with harsh chemical agents. Apparently, being in the bathroom, or else hearing Ver’s voice had done something to her. She pushed him down onto the bed.
< < < < > > > >
Veronika called Martin. She wasn’t sure if she wanted to stay in a hotel. Fact is she’d miss Lou.
“Hello”
“Martin, So, you finally woke up.”
“Yes, my sweet. I miss you.”
“And I miss you Martin, you charmer….”
Where are you now?
“I had to get my things from the hotel.”
“And you’re bringing them here?
“Do you want me to?”
“You know I want you to.”
Well, at least that was settled. She smiled as she thought of Martin. But Lou made her so mad. Anyway, there were a few hours before the wedding. Time for lunch, and maybe time for something else as well.
< < < < > > > >
Jana was talking about the Dalai Lama. She considered him to be the perfect man. Except, of course, for the fact that Buddhist Monks were not supposed to have sex. His mind began to wander. Jana noticed it.
“Well, if I am not interesting for you, maybe I should leave.”
“But we just ordered food!”
“You can eat alone. You’re not child.”
“I’m sorry Jana.” He tried to hold her. She pushed him away.
“But, you know, it’s just all so surprising.”
She looked interested.
“I mean, meeting you . . .”
She was waiting.
“How could I be so lucky?”
“So you don’t listen to me? You’re lucky?”
A knock. The food. Maybe the interruption would save him. He wasn’t sure she was convinced. He wasn’t sure he was convinced. If he told her the truth, what he really thought about the Dalai Lama, she was out of here. If he didn’t tell her the truth, she’d probably be even madder.
“Well, you know that business about reincarnation is really crazy.”
“What do you mean?”
“I mean babies don’t deserve to suffer.”
“Oh, you are just a Westerner. It is not easy for Westerners to understand Asian culture.”
And you are a Westerner, too, he was thinking. How can you understand it? But she seemed, for the moment at least, satisfied….
They were hungry. The food (and wine) changed the mood. For a moment, he felt better, until he remembered that Veronika was probably with that slime Martin.
The guy was obviously nothing more than . . . .
When they finished eating, Jana turned to him. “I have to call Martin.”
Why Martin?
I don’t have clothes. He has my clothes.
Fine with me, Lucas thought. Who needs a wedding reception anyway? But Petra would be disappointed. And then there was Mr. You-Have-Shown-Me-The-True-Path-to-My-Daughter’s-Happiness… Probably wanted to make another offer . . .
Jana rang up her ex. Then she exploded into violent consonants, with a few choice vowels.
He says he bought all of my clothes anyway. Says they are his.
Really? Lucas was worried. Did this girl expect him to buy her clothes too?
“I’m going there. The pig.”
She phoned for a taxi.
“And the wedding? The reception?”
She smiled, “I will be there.”
But where will you put your clothes?
“I am bringing them here.” She said.
< < < > > > >
Veronika smiled at Martin. When was the last time she’d felt so good? Her body was tingling.
BAM-BAM-BAM BAM BAM
Martin jumped up. “I knew it. The bitch.”
Ver was shocked by the tone in his voice.
Martin put on a robe. “My love. I’m sorry. I’ll take care of this and be right back.”
He went downstairs.
Veronika stared at the ceiling. She felt unsatisfied. And she was not happy about the situation at all. If there was a girl downstairs now, another girl, there’d be yet another girl just around the corner. Okay, she could accept that if he’d just come back to bed, soon…. But this didn’t look like an isolated incident.
Downstairs, Martin didn’t want to let Jana in. but she forced her way inside. In fact, she kicked him in the groin. As he fell aside, she made her way upstairs.
Veronika was surprised when Jana stormed in.
“I want my clothes.”
She pulled out a suitcase and began packing.
Veronika sat up in bed, pulling the bedcovers up to her shoulders. She began to study this woman. Vulgar. She had a full figure, and a rather blank, dull, but pretty face. She did not like what this told her about the inner character of the man she had once been in love with. And she did not like the fact that her interest meant she still felt something for her.
Jana had no interest in Veronika. If Veronika was studying Jana, Jana took no interest in her. She didn’t ignore Ver. It was as if Ver were invisible, and she found it annoying.
Martin was back upstairs.
Jana finished packing. She took lipstick and wrote on the mirror, in large letters, “PIG!”. She turned triumphantly to Martin, and screamed “Pig” as she stormed out of the room.
Martin turned to Ver, “I’m really sorry about all this.”
Veronika tried to smile, “That’s okay; let’s get some lunch. I’d like some fresh air.”
* * * * *
That night, Lou did his best to stay away from Martin and Ver. He tried not to look at them. In the beginning of the evening, Jana danced with him. But, as she began to drink, he noticed she was staring at someone else. And, then, she excused herself.
He sat down at a table and poured himself a glass of wine. He didn’t see Ver or Martin anywhere. Petra looked happy. She was dancing with Tom. Mr. Kral was nowhere to be seen.
There were a few lovely ladies out on the dance floor.
Jana was back, pulling a rather large gorilla behind him. A gorilla in a tuxedo, but still a gorilla.
“This is Martin.”
(Another Martin? Lou was surprised, but he resisted the urge to comment upon the name.)
Martin shook Lou’s hand with an overly firm grip. His smile seemed relatively normal, but Lou was uncomfortable.
“Martin wants me to be in his new film!”. Jana was smiling.
Film?
Yes, Professor Lucas, Jana has incredible talent.
Lucas’s mind had wandered away from the subject of film. Yes, she was talented…
“What sort of film?”
Jana was bubbling over, “Martin is a famous director of erotic films!”.
Martin smiled in a controlled sort of way.
“I hope you won’t mind.”
(Mind? Why should he mind?)
This is a great opportunity for me!
(Yes. Lucas recalled the first time he’d seen Jana in a magazine. Why not a film? Easy come. Easy go.)
Yes. Of course. You must go.
She moved close to Lucas, hugged him, and began to kiss him. “But, I’ll be back….”
Fine. She’d be back. But by that time, where would he be? What the hell. It was as if he’d won a million dollars one day and then found out that he’d forgot to pay a big bill the next . . . and that the interest had been accumulating for a long time…. Nothing to do but have a drink, and another . . .
> > > < < <>
Friday, April 29, 2011
note about my profile
At the risk of distracting from Professor Lucas and his adventures,
please allow me to add a note to my "Profile"--which is too short to avoid
being in some way misleading.
I describe myself as performing "unpaid work in the home".
When I say I perform "work", I mean that I am making a real contribution to the well-being
of other human beings. Those other human beings happen to be my parents, but as I said
recently in a letter to the two Senators from the state of Texas, I have no doubt in my mind
that my mother and father have made a greater contribution to world understanding,
peace between nations, not to mention simple civility, than the US Congress.
Not that my parents are unique in that regard. On the contrary, I think most mischief in
the world is not due to people who get classed as relatively powerless.
In any case, I am serious about the appellation "unpaid worker in the home",
but I have been inspired to think this way by Nancy Folbre, an economist who
has many important things to say in this area.
I am now including a link to a short essay by Folbre:
Thursday, February 24, 2011
Publishers/Editors/Translators/Agents
To any potential agents, publishers, translators who may happen to be out there...
My book is available through "Wordclay", but I would prefer to make it available more widely,
with a better design, so I am hoping someday to meet an agent/publisher. I would also like to make it available in Europe, in countries where English is not the first language.
But, in the meantime, there is this blog and the sample chapters, and the link to Wordclay.
My book is available through "Wordclay", but I would prefer to make it available more widely,
with a better design, so I am hoping someday to meet an agent/publisher. I would also like to make it available in Europe, in countries where English is not the first language.
But, in the meantime, there is this blog and the sample chapters, and the link to Wordclay.
Friday, November 5, 2010
pre-publication version
(For Chapter One of the novel, or for the missing half of Chapter Four Please See the ARCHIVE for October--on the right side of this page..)
This is a pre-publication version of an article scheduled to appear in "Think; Philosophy for Everyone", a publication of Cambridge University Press. http://journals.cambridge.org/action/displayJournal?jid=THI
Citation or quotation should make use of the published version.
to appear in Think
The Difficulty of Understanding
Mark J. Lovas
Adam Smith, discussed the emotions of sympathy and empathy in his book The theory of moral sentiments, and thought they were the glue that holds society together. We are able to experience these emotions precisely because our emotions of love, of anger, of sadness, of fear are universal, based on inherited systems of the limbic system; we share them with each other… A strong argument can be made that morality is based on such empathetic emotions.
Keith Oatley, Emotions; A Brief History, (Oxford: Blackwell, 2004) p. 97
If emotions such as sympathy are to play the role Oatley envisages for them, they cannot be condescending; they must be based on some real understanding. This is an essay about the difficulty of understanding, and, consequently, the difficulty of sympathy. So, it is a challenge to any philosopher who seeks to understand morality by assigning a strong role to the emotions.
In what sense would or might universal emotions ground ethics? If well educated or properly socialized individuals share the same emotional reactions to the same action, then there would be a common ground for discussion and argument about what should be done. One would also expect a degree of regularity in the actions people took in response to a given situation.
However, the thesis being broached should contain an important qualification. The basic ways of responding, or the basic emotional reactions are shared. One might ask, however, whether emotions do not nevertheless vary between individuals. Are not some people more readily excitable and others calmer? You and I don’t have to love the same things or the same persons. Even if the fundamental ways in which we respond to a given situation are the same, where is the guarantee that we share positive and negative evaluations? What we like we move towards. What we hate we move away from. Surely some people love what I hate?
What if two people disagree about what is important, and their disagreement emerges unexpectedly? What if I lay primary stress on the autonomy of individuals, while you value intimacy? The linguist Anna Wierzbicka (Cross-Cultural Pragmatics, Second Edition; Mouton de Gruyter: London and Berlin 2003) has suggested that English speakers differ with Russian or Polish speakers on precisely these points. English speakers with our generic ‘you’ also favor a more generalized friendliness. For Polish-born Wierzbicka, English, lacking the two forms of ‘you’ common in other languages, fails to provide its speakers with a ready device to mark developing levels of intimacy.
I cannot do justice now to the details and complexities of Wierzbicka’s analysis, but let us think, for a moment, about the contrast between the values of intimacy and autonomy. With the stress on autonomy comes a notion of private space, something which can be violated, something we all want and have a right to. Wierzbicka illustrates this difference via a contrast between styles of leave taking: a lengthy process with the effusive insistence that the guest stay, versus a more abrupt and factual departure. Respecting someone’s autonomy, we accept their desire to leave. A culture which values intimacy creates lengthy partings with the formulaic, ‘Do you have to go?’, or the insistent ‘Stay longer!’.
Wierzbicka’s account raises many questions. In virtue of sharing a language, speakers share certain ways of negotiation in social space, pre-packaged chunks of behavior—how to begin or end conversations, how to come and go from a visit, and countless other ways of behaving. Yet we acquire these routines at an early age, in an unquestioning way. We might never become aware of them, or we may only become aware of them when we have moved to another country, or when speakers of another language come to visit us. This challenges our status as free people and self-knowers. An important part of how we relate to other people is acquired thoughtlessly, and without prior evaluation.
As an adult, once one becomes aware of a difference, one can think about it and evaluate it. Wierzbicka reports that at one point she consciously decided that she would not give up all of her Polish ways in favor of Anglo ones. In particular she could not join in the custom of small talk or the custom of asking “How are you?” without expecting a real answer. So, according to the picture of freedom as choosing between options, in making that decision she became freer—even if she chose to continue what she had previously done without awareness. Apart from introducing the idea of freedom, one might ask: was she better for having learned that English-speakers differ from Poles? If one is going to stick with the customs of childhood anyway, what is the point of recognizing that other people have different habits?
Is it a kind of achievement to recognize that others—others, who, I suppose, one respects and may even have affection for--have had a different childhood, and thus have come to structure their worlds differently? But, is this something positive when one continues to behave in the same way? Can the mere difference in one’s thinking itself be a sort of achievement? Perhaps, it undermines a certain naïve certainty. Perhaps it means a kind of tolerance.
But what of people who have not reached Wierzbicka’s level of awareness? Are their choices less free? People today move around the world all the time. We are faced with cultural difference both because we move and because others have moved to our homelands.
A generalized sympathy alone is not going to overcome the potential conflicts Wierzbicka is highlighting. On the contrary, other emotions come into play when two people with different routines of conversation or parting meet. The characteristic expression of a discovery here is the phrase ‘How rude!’. So, from this point of view, emotions are not the basic level where we find human universals—unless we speak of a universal reaction of hostility or discomfort in the face of a different culture.
I may, on the whole, sympathize with a friend, but fail to see that in a particular case, we differ because I value privacy where he or she values intimacy. In my relations to the friend there will be a mixture of incomprehension and good will. How far can the good will carry us? The case of different styles of leave-taking involves habits which are largely not conscious. What of our conscious thoughts and judgments?
I must not know what another person is thinking in order to sympathize with them—though that can be a source of sympathy. However, it seems wrong to suppose that another person thinks a thought, a proposition with a determinate content, and that I grasp exactly the same proposition. For an example, let the thought contain a demonstrative: ‘That was unfair’. I may know an action was unfair, and the immediacy with which I grasp its unfairness naturally leads us to say that I saw that it was unfair. Perhaps I see that the person who has experienced the unfairness equally well recognizes its unfairness. So there is a common point of reference for us: the unfairness of that act.
Sometimes our ability to feel sympathy is possible because we share a context and a judgment about what happened in it: we both saw the act and saw that it was unjust. Both of us being sufficiently sensitive to what was going on, there were no questions about whether we were responding to an indication of injustice which might, in another context, have been overridden. There is a kind of variability of the connections here which is a necessary feature of the very abstractness and undefinability of moral notions.
This variability might equally be spoken of in terms of infinity or creativity. Normally, I prefer to be kind, but, perhaps, with some friends or some students, if I am kind, then they will not understand the importance of some issue. So, on that occasion I must adopt a different posture, perhaps I must be stern. And my sternness will not be anger, though some might think it to be. My sternness might well be, with that particular person, on that particular occasion, just what is needed to do my duty by the person, and so to act fairly or justly.
And what happens if two thinkers fail to be present at the same time, in the same situation, and so fail to share a context? I must represent to you, my audience, sufficient details to allow you to come to see what I saw when I was in the context. That does not require that you come to the injustice of what was done through exactly the same path as I did. My words do not reproduce a second event of the same sort. They focus your mind upon salient features of the original event.
But is there mutual or common or universal salience? The features we care most about are abstract, hence can be reached from countless paths. Can I actually communicate to you what happened in the fullest sense so that you agree with me, so that your agreeing is substantial? You do not merely nod your head in order to move the conversation forward or because you are my friend, but because my account seems reasonable to you: you find it plausible that A did this to B, and you honestly believe that A’s doing this was a bad thing.
Here is a sort of doubt: not everything that I am in the habit of finding salient need be salient for you. We can perfectly well say as a matter of theory: two virtuous individuals will both recognize that something is bad. However, this ignores questions of variety and diversity. I make an assumption that some might challenge. I assume an important part of moral evaluation involves our emotions. In deciding what to do, I try to imagine how my actions will impact upon other people. I don’t wish to cause a friend needless embarrassment. I don’t wish to offend someone. But there is a question of emotional indeterminacy. One and the same event can be classified differently. There are psychologists who claim that neither facial expressions nor physiological reactions correspond in a one-to-one fashion with emotion terms of ordinary English. This places them at odds with psychologists and the philosophers influenced by them who suppose that universality is to be found in physiology or facial expressions. It also raises the question, as the psychologist Lisa Feldman Barrett has stressed, of why we are so sure that our emotion terms fit. (“Solving the Emotion Paradox”, Personality and Social Psychology Review, 206, Vol. 10, pp. 20-46.) Barrett herself introduces language to explain how we do it, but that solution itself will imply a degree of indeterminacy or miscommunication when people of different language backgrounds meet.
In the UK and the USA people appeal to the categories of privacy, private space, invasion of privacy. They can use these categories to explain what people do: ‘She moved away from the man on the park bench because he was too close. He was invading her privacy.’
If the linguists Aneta Pavlenko ( ‘Emotions and the body in Russian and English’, Pragmatics and Cognition Vol. 10 (2002) , pp. 207-241) and Anna Wierzbicka are to be believed, Poles and Russians don’t appeal to privacy in explaining or justifying behavior. They place a higher value upon other sorts of relationships between people. Where Anglo-America culture places a stress upon the value of autonomy and independence, where Polish culture prefers intimacy and cordiality. Perhaps the clearest expression of this difference is in the Anglo-American ideal of emotional neutrality, something which Pavlenko and Wierzbicka agree is lacking in Russian culture, which likes unrestrained public expressions of emotion.
If we grant that this difference is real, are we thereby committed to skepticism about the objectivity of morality? Do these views assume or imply moral relativism? The short answer is that the recognition of cultural differences is not identical with moral relativism. No one is saying that the Russians do what is ‘right for them’, and that Americans do what is ‘right for them’. However, our linguists do claim that there are differences in what is valued, differences in the role of emotion, differences in the importance given to the open display of emotions.
It might help to consider an example inspired by the research of Aneta Pavlenko. Here are two different reasons:
(A) I want to be left alone with my emotions.
(B) I want to be left alone because I have a right to privacy.
With (A) goes a further thought:
(A1) People need sometimes to give in to their emotions.
With (B) goes a further thought:
(B1) Everyone has a right to privacy. There are some things we need to do away from the public eye.
Now, here is a question. What difference does it make if we are avoiding the public eye or simply giving in to our emotions? It is not simply one situation or one particular explanation that is different. The difference is a broad one influencing a host of thoughts and a host of individual actions and every relationship. The difference is a fundamental one.
Even more troublesome from the standpoint of universality, if our linguists are right, then one culture can lack a concept that another has. Poles and Russians and many others don’t have the Anglo concept of privacy. We lack a Russian concept which Pavlenko attempts to capture with the phrase ‘soul space’. (However, we shouldn’t think, that ‘soul space’ is identical with ‘privacy’. They just happen to play a similar role as a reason in the example above.)
A quick response is to say that all such complex concepts can be de-composed into simple units, and that such units are universal, and so comprehensible to us. The problem however is Humpty Dumpty’s: all the king’s horses and all the king’s men cannot put the concept back together again once we‘ve taken it apart.
The Anglo perception is not of a world with a special place for exemption from the public view. It is the default setting in our Anglo conceptual scheme. To add it on as an extra is a distortion.
What is at issue here? Is it a question of privileging one’s own way of viewing things? As if I must be right when I say I feel this way? That is not the issue. I am not claiming that particular individuals have error-free access to their own emotions and thoughts. Nor am I claiming that if a given language contains certain categories that those categories must correspond to a deep, metaphysical reality. On the contrary, it seems clear from history that people can have false categories—e.g., ‘witch’ or ‘phlogiston’.
The point is that speakers of different languages can differ about what is important—and that the difference might be invisible. Had Wierzbicka never moved to Australia and started to ask questions about why people reacted to her as they did, she would never have recognized her habits.
Wierzbicka claims that Polish speakers value a certain intimacy, whereas English speakers value non-interference. This is a real difference, and if we attempt to parse Polish behavior by saying it is just like what we Anglo-Americans do/feel, only more so, we distort both what Polish speakers think and feel, and we miss a chance to notice that they really do live different lives. Culture makes a difference to how people live.
There is as well a sort of compromise position: With respect to these matters, you always win something and lose something. Or, there are always opportunity costs. Maybe that is illusory. Just maybe, when we do the right thing, there really was no other possibility—and no real possibility was missed. That is, in fact, I think a consequence of taking seriously the idea that there are moral facts and that there is moral knowledge. At a less grandiose and abstract level, maybe the Poles and Russians have noticed something that English-speakers tend to miss. Maybe they’ve developed a way of relating that is better. How would one know?
Perhaps there is a sort of subconscious argument here: If doing the right thing means not missing a possibility, and if I’ve never thought of a world without privacy, then I’ve missed a possibility, and maybe, just maybe I’ve been in someway wrong? But, surely I couldn’t be wrong about that!
The question of simple ideas is a question of understanding. Can I understand the other culture? I wanted to insist that simple paraphrases fail to capture the original thought. If the Japanese have a special way of relating to intimates and have given it a name, we cannot understand it simply by saying that it is like our friendship only more so. Why do I insist of keeping things together? I hinted at my reason above: it runs the risk of a sort of emotional imperialism or condescension. ‘Oh it’s just like our desire for intimacy, but more intense.’ But, No, it’s not as if there were some switch that was moved forms setting “8” to setting “12”. That is a misrepresentation of the difference. Perhaps an analogy can serve: contemporary dance is not simply classical ballet with looser rules about where the arms, shoulders, and torso can be located; it is a different style of dance, with different expressive possibilities.
Earlier we saw that Keith Oatley claimed emotions such as sympathy are central to morality. Oatley, a psychologist and novelist, has been inspired by the novelist George Eliot. Now, I would like to shift gears and consider just a bit of what George Eliot has to say about the emotions.
George Eliot wrote of the importance of living a life ‘… vivid and intense enough to have created a wide fellow-feeling with all that is human.’ (The Mill on the Floss, Oxford UP: Oxford and New York; 1860/1996, p. 498) This does not seem to be the Anglo view that our linguists find among Americans and English. Eliot is saying that if we have had an intense and vivid emotional life we become capable of expanded sympathy. In fact, one of the central tragedies of The Mill on the Floss is Tom’s incapacity to share the feelings of his sister, Maggie.
And now we are near a quite pretty suggestion. Earlier I seemed to be skeptical about the universality of emotion because I accepted the claim that different cultures might place different values on emotions or value different emotions, and that this difference might be reflected in language. Yet, now we see that a difference in language is not needed to produce an emotional and moral gap, a failure of human understanding.
Tom lacks the emotional capacities needed to understand his sister. And, to make the point more dramatic, we might say: it’s not just the psychopath who fails to feel what one would need to in order to act rightly. Tom is a character who satisfies certain social standards of respectability and is praised by his community, but he is often cruel to his sister. Moreover, it is Maggie’s moral and emotional depth which makes her a target of community criticism. Like Tom, Maggie’s community is, for the most part, simply incapable of accepting the complexity of her character. Toward the novel’s end, after hearing Maggie’s story, Dr. Kenn advises her,
The people who are the most incapable of a conscientious struggle such as yours, are precisely those who are likely to shrink from you; because they will not believe in your struggle. (The Mill on the Floss, p. 496)
Here in her narrator’s voice, Eliot describes how Maggie responds to Tom’s words:
There was a terrible cutting truth in Tom’s words--that hard rind of truth which is discerned by unimaginative, unsympathetic minds. (p. 393)
And here on the same page are Maggie’s thoughts about Tom:
… she said inwardly that he was narrow and unjust, that he was below feeling those mental needs which, were often the source of the wrong-doing or absurdity that made her life a planless riddle to him.
If we return to my earlier example, where two people can agree that something is unfair, the very schematic account I proposed there seems hollow. Maggie and her brother Tom might well agree that many things were wrong or bad, yet the grounds of their judgments would be different. For Tom there is the powerful force of public reputation. For Maggie there is always something like a primary ground of emotional sympathy. Maggie and Tom’s father goes bankrupt. For Tom this brings shame. For Maggie, there are fewer thoughts about how this will influence her life than there is sympathy for her father.
So too, if we recall Wierzbicka’s account of the Anglo mind, we can see Tom as the sort of person who will care about privacy in a formal way, while Maggie will be in need of a space where she can experience her emotions. That suggestion turns things around once more; even two people who share the same language and have shared childhood can be emotionally separated. Maggie’s emotional life looks more Russian than Anglo-American. Her misfortune is that her brother is closer to Wierzbicka’s portrait of an Anglo.
Can we draw any conclusions? No language or culture, and, indeed, one might add (though we have not discussed this point) not even the most creative and competent of teachers or mentors can give us some form of automatic and privileged insight. Your language may require you to notice some things and not others. But making a life for one’s self that is just and happy is so complicated a process that no matter what one’s initial endowment, there will be dangerous decision-points where the initial advantages come to seem quite trivial.
In Maggie’s case, she was condemned by people who, like her brother Tom, lacked imagination and sympathy. To see Maggie’s tragedy as solely or primarily due to some excess in her character is to ignore the role played by the community. Eliot knew well the power of community judgment:
Sane people did what their neighbors did, so that if any lunatics were at large, one might know and avoid them. (Middlemarch. Oxford: Oxford UP,1871/1996) p. 9)
We have touched on the ways in which language and culture can create difficulties or complications which hinder understanding. I have also suggested that people who share a culture and early childhood experiences may yet differ in the emotions they feel in ways that matter for moral judgment. Maggie is closer to moral reality than Tom. Her greater sensitivity brings with it a perception of what is important which Tom lacks.
Perhaps, too, we can derive another moral. If emotions matter to morality, it is not merely because they are universal and serve as a kind of foundation. There is as well a question of the depth or quality of emotion. George Eliot thought that art must enlarge one’s capacity for sympathy, or it would be worthless.
Mother Nature may have endowed us with the emotions which make morality possible, but their final destiny lies in cultural institutions which can develop those energetic creatures in diverse directions. That insight can already be found in Plato. What is new in the contemporary thinkers I have mentioned is an appreciation for the surprising granularity of the social or cultural. Society influences the individual not merely at the level of macro-institutions such as schools and political systems, but equally at the micro level of parting rituals and small talk.
Monday, October 18, 2010
update
If you are looking for the first chapter of the book (or the missing half chapter) please keep looking. They are here; you only need to scroll down....
This note is only of interest to anyone who might happen to be wondering about disappeared links.....
I have removed some non-functioning links. All were leading to the Journal of Mundane Behavior. I don't know if it's gone completely out of existence, or if it is to be found within the gated communities of for-pay journals that only universities can afford to pay for.....
If it ever comes back for free, I'll restore the links.
I wonder how much writing of quality is actually available for free on the web, and how much of it is only available if you pay outrageous prices......but the actual percentage doesn't matter, there's just too much good stuff that is not free.......Jeez Loueeez, it's not as if the web were created with public money, right? I mean the falsely named but publicly funded DOD (accurately D of War) built the damn internet, didn't they?
PS
Talking about absurdities, an article I wrote a few years back (22 July 2009 is the online publication date) that appeared in"Think" is being sold online for $45!!! I'm sure not getting the money!
http://journals.cambridge.org/action/display/Abstract?fromPage&online&aid=5969360
This note is only of interest to anyone who might happen to be wondering about disappeared links.....
I have removed some non-functioning links. All were leading to the Journal of Mundane Behavior. I don't know if it's gone completely out of existence, or if it is to be found within the gated communities of for-pay journals that only universities can afford to pay for.....
If it ever comes back for free, I'll restore the links.
I wonder how much writing of quality is actually available for free on the web, and how much of it is only available if you pay outrageous prices......but the actual percentage doesn't matter, there's just too much good stuff that is not free.......Jeez Loueeez, it's not as if the web were created with public money, right? I mean the falsely named but publicly funded DOD (accurately D of War) built the damn internet, didn't they?
PS
Talking about absurdities, an article I wrote a few years back (22 July 2009 is the online publication date) that appeared in"Think" is being sold online for $45!!! I'm sure not getting the money!
http://journals.cambridge.org/action/display/Abstract?fromPage&online&aid=5969360
Wednesday, October 13, 2010
Tuesday, September 7, 2010
dead links
If you are looking for an excerpt from the book, please keep looking. This is a message about dead links.
http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Journal_of_Mundane_Behavior
which is now defunct.
I had hoped JMB might come back on line, or that I might find the advertised writings. Thus far, unfortunately, neither has JMB returned nor have I found the missing essays. I do have a copy of "American Optimism Meets Slavic Fatalism" in PDF form as part of the entire JMB issue. But I don't know how to make that available here.
Monday, August 30, 2010
the Moloch of the market and publishing
On self-publishing my novel:
Recently I found myself adding a comment at “On Fiction” about some unpleasant experiences I had while trying to find a publisher for ‘A Neurotic in an Exotic Land.”
I was very disappointed when Keith Oatley seemed to write it all off as a case of forgivable human frailties. I have the greatest respect for Oatley and especially his book “Best Laid Plans”, but in this case I was very disappointed.
It is true that I was unable to supply the full details of my experience, but I couldn’t help but wishing I could employ the Slovak verb “bagatelizovat meaning to trivialize.
I think of this now because I recently came across a piece of writing by the Sociologist Loïc Wacquant which exactly made the point I should have liked to make at “On Fiction'
I quote from an interview with Wacquant titled “Critical Thought as Solvent of Doxa”
http://sociology.berkeley.edu/faculty/wacquant/
(itself worth reading)
Context: Waquant is describing how critical thought must oppose
“…the crushing of everything by the Moloch of the market, starting with the crushing of thought and all forms of cultural expression now threatened with violent death by the profit imperative and the unbridled pursuit of marketing success: consider that Mrs. Hillary Clinton received a seven-million dollar advance and the CEO of General Electric Jack Welsh got nine million for two execrable books that will be written by ghost writers in which the one will recount her life as First Lady and the other his experiences as a high-flying corporate tycoon, and that Amazon.com will sell barges of them before they are even printed, while talented writers, poets, and young researchers are unable to find houses willing to publish them for the sole reason that all editors must now raise their annual profit rates in line with those of the television and movie industries within which they have been integrated by the large cultural conglomerates.”
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