Tuesday, May 16, 2017
Benjamin Law: Gaysia
Reading this delightful, if harmless, item left me filled with emotions. There were those the book intended to inspire--sympathy, hope, pity, and awe--but I also experienced plenty that were likely less intended: jealousy, judgement, and bitterness. Law's breezy, aphoristic style only occasionally betrays the effort of coming up with original ways to describe his experiences (one of my favorite examples: "I spent the evening rushing to the toilet every hour, close to tears, leaking what felt like hot soup. It was if my guts had become a faucet of horror, passionately rejecting something evil inside me [274]). His way with words, his access to the resources necessary for such a journey, his constant reference to his skinny, youthful body and "criminally handsome boyfriend", all overlaid the reading with a hunger on the part of this reader that was uncomfortable and cowing. It was a good book. He seems like a good guy. I'm happy for him. I am.
Monday, May 15, 2017
Al-Baqarah
1: I'm only on the first verse of this book, it is only
three letters long: الم, and I have spent nearly thirty minutes pondering
it. Suffice it to say that the
Al-Muqattaat have captured my attention and imagination, and I am eager to see
what they reveal. They beckon me in the
same way that the void does, with the promise to reveal.
2: I refuse to get my hopes up that that this book will
actually offer a sunnatullah, an explanation of the actual mechanics of
things. But I am not above imagining if
it did.
3: The insistence on unrequited spending of one's essence
already sets this book at odds with the majority of The Bible, which makes
worship far more transactional. Who is
the We, here, however, and why are they capitalized?
4: I believe in nothing else than what has been revealed to
me from my essence.
5: To make an attempt at applying this verse seems premature
in this reading, but it could not be more in line with my own current thoughts
about the definition of success. To
perceive and love the individual expression of a universal truth that one has
come to name "I" (Rabb), and to extrapolate that perception and love
into all reality (HUDA).
7: Here is a familiar thought, however. This might as well have come directly from 1
Corinthians 3. And I take the same
exception with it as I do with that verse: if it is Allah who has veiled their
insight, in what way is their suffering of their own desert?
8: A second mention of the divinity of the letter B, one
that causes me to doubt the objectivity--though not the usefulness--of the Sufi
translation I have received. This
addition seems to be a liberty, and one with no perceptible corrolary in other
translations or in the original Arabic.
10: Another verse with a strong corollary in Thessalonians
2:10. It is out of line with what seems
to be the Sufi interpretation of the Divine to say that it punishes one by
amplifying imperfection. Especially
insofar as the sin in question is one of inability, not error.
11: This is a rather loaded verse. I shudder to think how many harmful and
mutually contradictory stances it could be used to justify.
12-15 This is an interesting way to begin a sacred
text. The Bible reserves these
admonitions for Paul to deliver after corruption has reared its head, not as an
introduction before the religion has even begun to exist.
16: I love this verse.
There are those who we rather be right than happy, and those who would
rather have comfort than truth. I hope
that I am on the right, or at least the profitable, side of each of these
equations.
17: Another beautiful and edifying observation. There are those who can only see what is
outside them, which is the same as seeing nothing at all.
20: I am becoming simultaneously more and less skeptical of
this translation. The substitution of
"His Names Sami and Basir" for "hearing and sight" seems at
once to be a liberty of interpretation, and a faithful nod to the layers of the
language.
22: Whereas the liberties taken here are rather more without
linguistic justification. To add that
setting up rivals to Allah is to fall into shirq is not at all present in the
original text. It is becoming necessary
to reference two other versions of this book while reading Hulusi's
"translation" because he is so unreliable in marking his additions.
23: But this extra effort is more than made up for by the
attention he gives to perils of translation, such as his lengthy treatment here
of دُون
25: Again, one of Hulusi's seeming liberties relates to the addition of Shirq. There is no justification for the addition here, and it is a bald insertion of the assumption that purification is freedom from duality (a supportable liberty) and the corresponding transfer of that modifier from its original referent (أَزواجٌ) to another (وَهُم), which is entirely unsupportable. And again, this seeming linguistic carelessness is balanced by a stimulating explication of the shades of meaning arising from the former. If I were blessed with أَزواجٌ, it wouldn't matter to me in what sense of the word it came to me.
26: Certainly a parallel with 1 Cor 2:14, and compatible also with various Buddhist approaches. The most fascinating implication, though, is Husuli's non-translation of رَبِّهِم, which in the other texts I'm referencing is "lord"but here appears simply as "Rabb". According to his glossary, it is not simply the object of one's worship, but one's divinity in a precise sense: the unique way in which the divine is expressed in oneself. It's maddening to be at once furious with Hulusi for his seeming arrogance, and fascinated by what he reveals. I would be unable to forgive this linguistic heresy if it were not so fascinating.
27: Here, Hulusi's interpretation requires no linguistic acrobatics to be justified, and one begins to see where he got it, though I still look at him askance for inserting it elsewhere. The central conceit is that Allah is not a "He" or even an "It", but rather the state of perfect indivisibility. The "shirq" (I wish I knew how to write this in Arabic) that he keeps inserting elsewhere into the text is the corruption of duality, an idea which finds a very natural home in this verse.
28: This verse is ripe with layers of meaning, coming from the possible meanings of تَكفُرونَ. One translation renders it "disbelieve", another "be unfaithful". Hulusi, in what is becoming a familiar fashion, goes further and injects "deny that that names of Allah comprise your essence". Insofar as for him, the self is an expression of Allah, this makes perfect sense. For this reader, admittedly susceptible to such an approach, it still doesn't justify the alterations made to the text. I'm still fascinated by the puzzle of Hulusi's parenthetical (why are some of his additions parenthetical, and others treated as though there are in the original text?) fixation on the letter B.
29: And the subtleties of هُوَwould most definitely be overlooked if I had been relying on one of these other translations, without Hulusi's announcement that this is one of the Names of which he speaks. Indeed, without his commentary, inexcusably invasive though it is, the Quran would indeed sound much like a generic religious text to me. No wonder that all Muslims insist it can't be read in English. Perhaps I can begin to ease up on him a bit.
30: Here's another place where other translations ("viceroy" and "successive authority") would have been meaningless without Hulusi's linguistically unjustifiable insertion of "conscious beings who will live with the awareness of the names".
31: There's a shift here that seems to mark a transition from invective to narrative. If the preceding can be called an introduction, it's a very different one than is found in many other religious texts, and feels more well thought out. A potentially revealing detail is that the Names which Adam is taught (and of which he is composed, according to Hulusi) get a feminine pronoun, while the referents of those names get a masculine pronoun.
32: It will be interesting to see if this is the final word in the opposition between men and angels, or if it's setting up a lengthier conflict. At any rate, the angels in the Quran are much more flavorful than those in the Bible or Torah. I like Hulusi's choice to leave العَليمُ الحَكيمُ untranslated. The other translations I'm referencing render them "knowing" and "wise", which feels flat by comparison.
33: And Adam being invested with both the knowledge of the Names and entrusted with their transmission is another huge departure from the Biblical Adam, who is rather a schlub.
34: Here's the beginning of the conflict. So much to unpack in this verse. Iblis' sin is similar to that of Satan in that it comes from his arrogance, but there are two telling distinctions. Satan is framed as rebelling against God; Iblis is (so far at least) rebelling more against man. Further, framing of egoism as the source of the conflict carries more meaning here, insofar that the first 30 verses have taken care to set up Allah as a manifestation of unity, and to caution against belief in separateness, division, and individuality. Against this background, Iblis' problem is not that he wanted to be greater than others, as Satan did; Iblis problem is that he believes that such a thing--hierarchy, comparison, and separateness from the all--is even possible.
35: So much here as well. The We is an important pronoun choice, as opposed to the I of the Bible, and more in keeping with the theme of multiplicity, infinity, and unity. The sudden appearance of Adam's spouse, who seems to be given neither an origin, a name, nor a gender, lends itself to Hulusi's interpretation that it is not some "other" that he is to dwell with in peace; it is his life and condition.
36: The "all of you" here is frustrating in its seeming lack of referent. Does it refer to Adam and his "other"? or is Satan included in the going down? One tempting interpretation is that the one with whom Adam shares his condition and life in 35 is an aspect of himself, and the going down here is separation from that self. By a similar token, what is the relationship between Satan and the Iblis of 34? Is Allah not the only one with multiple names here?
37: Quite a turnaround from the Genesis account. Adam is forgiven for his transgression, but not freed from its consequence: a separation from the paradisaical condition of unity.
38: I'm getting used to Hulusi's habit of leaving words with subtlety that would be damaged in translation untranslated. This treatment of هُدًى here prompts a little digging. The word in question is translated as "guidance" in the other two translations I'm referencing, but it seems to also carry the sense of "gift" according to the dictionary. Hulusi, of course, takes it to mean the comprehension of one's own reality, which would cover both meanings.
39: This is a verse where the three translations (Hulusi's and two other more conventional ones) diverge on a key point: the meaning of أَصحابُ. Hulusi renders it "abide", and the other, unattributed translations choose "inmate" and "companion", a wide semantic gap. From a strictly dictionary definition, a better translation might be "owners", which widens the gap even further. I begin to forgive Hulusi for his liberties, insofar as its clear that all translation of the Quran must necessarily be an interpretation. At least Hulusi is more or less transparent about it.
40: Wait, what? Children of Israel? This is highly unexpected. I had heard that Abraham et al were revered by Islam, but the writing of this book clearly took place in, and was intended for, nobody living in what we today call Israel. I wonder if Muslim people consider themselves Children of Israel even today? This is a point on which I expect far more to be revealed as I progress.
41: Another verse in which Hulusi's explanations are helpful but not to be taken too seriously. His treatment of "what I have revealed" as the Quran, and "that which is with you" as the Torah makes perfect sense, but by no means the only possible interpretation. And his translation of وَإِيّايَ فَاتَّقونِ as "protect yourself from me" is far more ominous than the "fear me" and "be wary of me" in other translations.
42: This verse is one of which the translations are far more consistent, and a very nice general rebuke of cognitive dissonance.
43: I am again appreciative of the choice here to leave الصَّلاةَ untranslated, for it seems to carry more meaning than just "prayer". It's tempting to view this as the Islamic equivalent of Acts 15:28,29--namely, a simplification of what is required for believers. By a similar token, "To bow with those who bow" asks to be taken as a parallel to Hebrews 10:25, although naturally Hulusi's explanation is far more metaphysical.
44: Perhaps I'm in a certain frame of mind as I read these verses, because I am again beset by the parallel to Acts 17:11. It's interesting that the voice here keeps summoning Paul, rather than any Hebrew prophet. At any rate, here is another marvelous and highly applicable verse.
45: I'm pleased with my decision to read this translation alongside two others, insofar as the interposition of "this is difficult for the ego" is entirely Hulusi's invention, but not clearly indicated as such.
46: Although the Sufi idea that Allah is a manifestation of one's Rabb is certainly a welcome one here, and no doubt casts the entire book in a light that I can appreciate, it's becoming exceendingly clear that it is not a mainstream Muslim idea. I wonder if the Bible could benefit from a similar reading. I certainly cannot overstate how appealing the idea of knowing my Rabb is.
47: Again, the Children of Israel are addressed, although their blessing is knowledge in the Sufi approach, not prosperity.
48: The idea that the day of judgement is the day of death, rather than the advent of a divine war, is certainly appealing in its obviousness and simplicity.
49: Whereas both of the other translations I'm referencing render رَبِّكُم as "Lord", here it is left as "Rabb", which in the Sufi perspective is not an external force, but the unique way in which the Names are manifested in you as an individual. This approach opens up and degausses a whole range of interpretations, both of the Quran and of the Bible.
50: And it is in this verse that Hulusi's Sufi approach gains a little credence. The most straightforward translation renders بِكُمُ as "for you", which is in line with the Pentateuch's narrative. But Hulusi gives the much more wordy and metaphysical "by manifesting the forces of Allah's names in your essence" for the same word. The answer to this dichotomy is revealed in the third translation (I wish the translators of the other two were not anonymous so I could refer to them more properly). It is there rendered "with you", and given the footnote "through your entering it". The word itself is far beyond my ability to parse in this context, given its widely various meanings (a quantifier meaning "how much", a noun meaning "muteness", and a seemingly all purpose preposition), but the average of the three translations seems to imply something like "through you, by means of you", which is certainly in line with Hulusi's ideas.
51: Another example of how the Quran is claiming the origin stories of the Pentateuch for itself. Insofar as Abraham's descendants never returned to anywhere near Ur, this seems pretty anacrhonistic.
52: But of course the people were not grateful for very long.
53: Another chance for me to appreciate Hulusi leaving وَالفُرقانَ untranslated as "Furqan". Its rendering as "criterion" in the other translations is rather opaque.
54: A rare example of the other translations taking a liberty that Hulusi does not. أَنفُسَكُم is quite clearly "yourselves", so to kill the ego within ones self is a very reasonable interpretation.
55: Well this is a departure from the Pentateuch's version. The Israelites did not say any such thing according to Exodus, and the rays from Moses' face were an unavoidable side effect of his divine encounter, rather than a conscious punishment.
56: "Give thanks" is clearly a better translation of تَشكُرونَ than Hulusi's "evaluate", both here and in 52.
57: Interesting that the blessings (shade, quail, manna) were provided to "you", but the errors were committed by "they". This is consistent across translations, though it is not clear what it might mean. What is clear is that nothing is exempt from Hulusi's metaphoric lens, and even the most straightforward and seemingly literal of narratives become metaphysical in his hands.
58: One of the potentially most interesting elements of this project will be the extent to which the narrative of the Quran supplements or elaborates on the narrative of the Pentateuch, as here. There is no mention in the latter of the children of Israel stopping for succor at Jericho, and the detail adds weight to their later, bloodier return.
59: But one leaves this moment dissatisfied with the knowledge that there was an incident at (what may have been) Jericho, but that the Pentateuch doesn't mention it, and the Quran is maddeningly vague. Hulusi, of course, is not interested in the narrative at all, and even goes so far as to suppose that the sky itself here is merely a metaphor for the amygdala. Rather a stretch, if you ask me.
60: A fascinating intersection of Exodus, Al-Baqara, and Josephus here. The former two are rather in agreement on what happened, though I don't recall Exodus including the detail that each of the tribes had its own stream of fresh water. Tacitus, however, relies on the more mundane Hebrew oral tradition that Moses simply followed a herd of wild asses to where there was water just under the ground.
61: More interesting pronoun shenanigans here, enough to make one wonder how person designation works in Arabic: the ingrates referring to "your" Lord, rather than "our"s, and another sudden shift from second person to third as in 57, this time without any correlation between time or judgement.
62: Whooooa this verse could be seen as a game changer, and certainly a welcome divergence from Christian dogma. Even non-Muslims who call upon the Names of Allah (and there are many) are considered saved here. This needs deeper scrutiny.
63: Two interesting things here: firstly, that the Torah is charactarized not as God's promise, but as the Israelites' promise, accepted by God. And secondly that the mountain itself was raised up (in all three translations to which I am referring here). In what sense? In the sense that the mountain itself is a testimony? Or more literally? When faced with such a dichotomy, it is a fair bet that Hulusi would choose the former.
64: خاسِرينَ is a very telling choice of epithet for nonbelievers. Reliably (by which I mean all three translations agree) translated as "losers", it speaks to the way that the errant have been treated so far here: not as wicked enemies, but as pitiable misguided.
65: A tempting question in light of this verse is why Muslims do not keep the Sabbath in the same way as the Jews did. There is no distinction drawn so far between Jews and Muslims as an audience for this book.
66: Was the punishment here simply the spurning mentioned in 65? It certainly seems to be referring to a specific event, lost to time and history, rather than a general practice.
67: A semantically difficult verse. What is the relationship between the Jews' question and Moses' answer? At any rate, it is clear that up until this point the idea of sacrifice was rather alien to the Hebrew exiles. And it is no doubt from this verse that the entire book takes its name, so one is tempted to view "sacrifice" as a continuing theme.
68: Another moment where I'm quite fond of Hulusi's leaving Rabb untranslated. No doubt the vast majority of Jews and Muslims would take issue with his interpretation of it as one's own personal relationship with the divine, but the determiner "your" instead of "our" here and below certainly supports Hulusi's interpretation, albeit circumstantially.
69: The fact that Moses came back with a specific answer indicates that the questions were not, at Hulusi would have it, unnecessary.
70: The almost obsessive narrowing of the field says something about the Jews' desire to be as precise as possible, and also about Allah's willingness to indulge them.
71: It is almost as if they were not satisfied until the task was sufficiently difficult, and there was a real risk of failure. It is very human to not see the value in something unless it is difficult.
72: Another incident seemingly not recorded in the Pentateuch. Unless the Egyptian killed by Moses is the murder in question here, but that seems a rather tenuous connection. What murder could be referred to here, for which the entire tribe bore accountability? Or is Allah indeed talking directly to Moses here?
73: Certainly I need to readjust my perception of this book. I've been reading it as a declaration from Allah to the ancient Jews, misled by references to Israel et al. But I need to recalibrate my pronoun references. "You" here seems to be Arabs of Jewish descent, and the book is not a retelling of history, a la the Pentateuch, but a contemporary admonition given long afterward., in the seventh century. This opens up the possibility that these verses are in fact referring to the death of Jesus--which still begs the question who the "We" refers to, since Muhammad himself is not a candidate during that time period. More pronoun trouble, though. What is the "it" with which they were to strike the "dead" man? Hulusi's assumption that "it" refers to a part of the sacrificed cow is echoed in other interpretations, but is not helpful. I suspect that if the meaning of this cow is revealed, the name of the book itself would become clear.
74: What a wonderfully evocative verse. The stones that gave forth their water to Moses, the stones that rolled away to reveal Jesus' empty tomb, even the stony hearts of the target audience here give way before the piercing insight of Allah.
75: Certainly not the last time this accusation could be leveled against the audience of this book.
76: A very specific indictment of those who learn and understand, but do not disseminate their understanding.
77: The concealment itself here is thesin.
78: Hulusi chooses to add the transliterated "ummiyyiina" (أُمِّيّونَ) here, which leads me to try and explicate the meaning. One other translation renders it simply "them", as hulusi does here, while another choose the more specific "unlettered ones". Various dictionaries render it "illiterate" or "uneducated", which gives credence to the latter translation, and explains why Hulusi felt it necessary to elaborate.
79: The condemnation here, then, is not of those who don't know. Indeed, ignorance is forgiven earlier in verse 62. But ignorance with a protestation of knowledge--that is what brings "woe".
80: So many of these people around, even today.
81: And the fire that they wish to avoid, whatever it is, is exactly the fire in which they will end up dwelling.
82: Whereas those who dwell in the righteousness of their Rabb will not be rewarded at some future point, but have already been rewarded by living in the paradise of truth. But this is entirely my extrapolation.
83: Prayer and charity remain among the pillars of Islamic practice, but the key here is not the practices themselves, but the keeping of one's word to Allah.
84: Another reference to an unrecorded covenant, but one that makes it more clear that "you" are the Jews who settled at Medinah. The specific promises made, however, are irrelevant. It is the adherence to one's word, both individually and institutionally, that has been the focus of this entire section.
85: The Day of Resurrection is treated as a known dogma here, without further explication. Such a promise enters into religious thought sometime after Jesus' death, and is so clearly established by this time that it's seen as self-evident.
86: The idea of an afterlife, on the surface, seems incompatible with a Day of Resurrection.
87: It is my personal belief that the line of Rasuls (again helpfully untranslated by Hulusi) has never stopped. Who are they today, though? Each translation and dictionary has a different rendering of رَسولٌ--apostle, prophet, messenger--so Hulusi wisely leaves it here in the original.
25: Again, one of Hulusi's seeming liberties relates to the addition of Shirq. There is no justification for the addition here, and it is a bald insertion of the assumption that purification is freedom from duality (a supportable liberty) and the corresponding transfer of that modifier from its original referent (أَزواجٌ) to another (وَهُم), which is entirely unsupportable. And again, this seeming linguistic carelessness is balanced by a stimulating explication of the shades of meaning arising from the former. If I were blessed with أَزواجٌ, it wouldn't matter to me in what sense of the word it came to me.
26: Certainly a parallel with 1 Cor 2:14, and compatible also with various Buddhist approaches. The most fascinating implication, though, is Husuli's non-translation of رَبِّهِم, which in the other texts I'm referencing is "lord"but here appears simply as "Rabb". According to his glossary, it is not simply the object of one's worship, but one's divinity in a precise sense: the unique way in which the divine is expressed in oneself. It's maddening to be at once furious with Hulusi for his seeming arrogance, and fascinated by what he reveals. I would be unable to forgive this linguistic heresy if it were not so fascinating.
27: Here, Hulusi's interpretation requires no linguistic acrobatics to be justified, and one begins to see where he got it, though I still look at him askance for inserting it elsewhere. The central conceit is that Allah is not a "He" or even an "It", but rather the state of perfect indivisibility. The "shirq" (I wish I knew how to write this in Arabic) that he keeps inserting elsewhere into the text is the corruption of duality, an idea which finds a very natural home in this verse.
28: This verse is ripe with layers of meaning, coming from the possible meanings of تَكفُرونَ. One translation renders it "disbelieve", another "be unfaithful". Hulusi, in what is becoming a familiar fashion, goes further and injects "deny that that names of Allah comprise your essence". Insofar as for him, the self is an expression of Allah, this makes perfect sense. For this reader, admittedly susceptible to such an approach, it still doesn't justify the alterations made to the text. I'm still fascinated by the puzzle of Hulusi's parenthetical (why are some of his additions parenthetical, and others treated as though there are in the original text?) fixation on the letter B.
29: And the subtleties of هُوَwould most definitely be overlooked if I had been relying on one of these other translations, without Hulusi's announcement that this is one of the Names of which he speaks. Indeed, without his commentary, inexcusably invasive though it is, the Quran would indeed sound much like a generic religious text to me. No wonder that all Muslims insist it can't be read in English. Perhaps I can begin to ease up on him a bit.
30: Here's another place where other translations ("viceroy" and "successive authority") would have been meaningless without Hulusi's linguistically unjustifiable insertion of "conscious beings who will live with the awareness of the names".
31: There's a shift here that seems to mark a transition from invective to narrative. If the preceding can be called an introduction, it's a very different one than is found in many other religious texts, and feels more well thought out. A potentially revealing detail is that the Names which Adam is taught (and of which he is composed, according to Hulusi) get a feminine pronoun, while the referents of those names get a masculine pronoun.
32: It will be interesting to see if this is the final word in the opposition between men and angels, or if it's setting up a lengthier conflict. At any rate, the angels in the Quran are much more flavorful than those in the Bible or Torah. I like Hulusi's choice to leave العَليمُ الحَكيمُ untranslated. The other translations I'm referencing render them "knowing" and "wise", which feels flat by comparison.
33: And Adam being invested with both the knowledge of the Names and entrusted with their transmission is another huge departure from the Biblical Adam, who is rather a schlub.
34: Here's the beginning of the conflict. So much to unpack in this verse. Iblis' sin is similar to that of Satan in that it comes from his arrogance, but there are two telling distinctions. Satan is framed as rebelling against God; Iblis is (so far at least) rebelling more against man. Further, framing of egoism as the source of the conflict carries more meaning here, insofar that the first 30 verses have taken care to set up Allah as a manifestation of unity, and to caution against belief in separateness, division, and individuality. Against this background, Iblis' problem is not that he wanted to be greater than others, as Satan did; Iblis problem is that he believes that such a thing--hierarchy, comparison, and separateness from the all--is even possible.
35: So much here as well. The We is an important pronoun choice, as opposed to the I of the Bible, and more in keeping with the theme of multiplicity, infinity, and unity. The sudden appearance of Adam's spouse, who seems to be given neither an origin, a name, nor a gender, lends itself to Hulusi's interpretation that it is not some "other" that he is to dwell with in peace; it is his life and condition.
36: The "all of you" here is frustrating in its seeming lack of referent. Does it refer to Adam and his "other"? or is Satan included in the going down? One tempting interpretation is that the one with whom Adam shares his condition and life in 35 is an aspect of himself, and the going down here is separation from that self. By a similar token, what is the relationship between Satan and the Iblis of 34? Is Allah not the only one with multiple names here?
37: Quite a turnaround from the Genesis account. Adam is forgiven for his transgression, but not freed from its consequence: a separation from the paradisaical condition of unity.
38: I'm getting used to Hulusi's habit of leaving words with subtlety that would be damaged in translation untranslated. This treatment of هُدًى here prompts a little digging. The word in question is translated as "guidance" in the other two translations I'm referencing, but it seems to also carry the sense of "gift" according to the dictionary. Hulusi, of course, takes it to mean the comprehension of one's own reality, which would cover both meanings.
39: This is a verse where the three translations (Hulusi's and two other more conventional ones) diverge on a key point: the meaning of أَصحابُ. Hulusi renders it "abide", and the other, unattributed translations choose "inmate" and "companion", a wide semantic gap. From a strictly dictionary definition, a better translation might be "owners", which widens the gap even further. I begin to forgive Hulusi for his liberties, insofar as its clear that all translation of the Quran must necessarily be an interpretation. At least Hulusi is more or less transparent about it.
40: Wait, what? Children of Israel? This is highly unexpected. I had heard that Abraham et al were revered by Islam, but the writing of this book clearly took place in, and was intended for, nobody living in what we today call Israel. I wonder if Muslim people consider themselves Children of Israel even today? This is a point on which I expect far more to be revealed as I progress.
41: Another verse in which Hulusi's explanations are helpful but not to be taken too seriously. His treatment of "what I have revealed" as the Quran, and "that which is with you" as the Torah makes perfect sense, but by no means the only possible interpretation. And his translation of وَإِيّايَ فَاتَّقونِ as "protect yourself from me" is far more ominous than the "fear me" and "be wary of me" in other translations.
42: This verse is one of which the translations are far more consistent, and a very nice general rebuke of cognitive dissonance.
43: I am again appreciative of the choice here to leave الصَّلاةَ untranslated, for it seems to carry more meaning than just "prayer". It's tempting to view this as the Islamic equivalent of Acts 15:28,29--namely, a simplification of what is required for believers. By a similar token, "To bow with those who bow" asks to be taken as a parallel to Hebrews 10:25, although naturally Hulusi's explanation is far more metaphysical.
44: Perhaps I'm in a certain frame of mind as I read these verses, because I am again beset by the parallel to Acts 17:11. It's interesting that the voice here keeps summoning Paul, rather than any Hebrew prophet. At any rate, here is another marvelous and highly applicable verse.
45: I'm pleased with my decision to read this translation alongside two others, insofar as the interposition of "this is difficult for the ego" is entirely Hulusi's invention, but not clearly indicated as such.
46: Although the Sufi idea that Allah is a manifestation of one's Rabb is certainly a welcome one here, and no doubt casts the entire book in a light that I can appreciate, it's becoming exceendingly clear that it is not a mainstream Muslim idea. I wonder if the Bible could benefit from a similar reading. I certainly cannot overstate how appealing the idea of knowing my Rabb is.
47: Again, the Children of Israel are addressed, although their blessing is knowledge in the Sufi approach, not prosperity.
48: The idea that the day of judgement is the day of death, rather than the advent of a divine war, is certainly appealing in its obviousness and simplicity.
49: Whereas both of the other translations I'm referencing render رَبِّكُم as "Lord", here it is left as "Rabb", which in the Sufi perspective is not an external force, but the unique way in which the Names are manifested in you as an individual. This approach opens up and degausses a whole range of interpretations, both of the Quran and of the Bible.
50: And it is in this verse that Hulusi's Sufi approach gains a little credence. The most straightforward translation renders بِكُمُ as "for you", which is in line with the Pentateuch's narrative. But Hulusi gives the much more wordy and metaphysical "by manifesting the forces of Allah's names in your essence" for the same word. The answer to this dichotomy is revealed in the third translation (I wish the translators of the other two were not anonymous so I could refer to them more properly). It is there rendered "with you", and given the footnote "through your entering it". The word itself is far beyond my ability to parse in this context, given its widely various meanings (a quantifier meaning "how much", a noun meaning "muteness", and a seemingly all purpose preposition), but the average of the three translations seems to imply something like "through you, by means of you", which is certainly in line with Hulusi's ideas.
51: Another example of how the Quran is claiming the origin stories of the Pentateuch for itself. Insofar as Abraham's descendants never returned to anywhere near Ur, this seems pretty anacrhonistic.
52: But of course the people were not grateful for very long.
53: Another chance for me to appreciate Hulusi leaving وَالفُرقانَ untranslated as "Furqan". Its rendering as "criterion" in the other translations is rather opaque.
54: A rare example of the other translations taking a liberty that Hulusi does not. أَنفُسَكُم is quite clearly "yourselves", so to kill the ego within ones self is a very reasonable interpretation.
55: Well this is a departure from the Pentateuch's version. The Israelites did not say any such thing according to Exodus, and the rays from Moses' face were an unavoidable side effect of his divine encounter, rather than a conscious punishment.
56: "Give thanks" is clearly a better translation of تَشكُرونَ than Hulusi's "evaluate", both here and in 52.
57: Interesting that the blessings (shade, quail, manna) were provided to "you", but the errors were committed by "they". This is consistent across translations, though it is not clear what it might mean. What is clear is that nothing is exempt from Hulusi's metaphoric lens, and even the most straightforward and seemingly literal of narratives become metaphysical in his hands.
58: One of the potentially most interesting elements of this project will be the extent to which the narrative of the Quran supplements or elaborates on the narrative of the Pentateuch, as here. There is no mention in the latter of the children of Israel stopping for succor at Jericho, and the detail adds weight to their later, bloodier return.
59: But one leaves this moment dissatisfied with the knowledge that there was an incident at (what may have been) Jericho, but that the Pentateuch doesn't mention it, and the Quran is maddeningly vague. Hulusi, of course, is not interested in the narrative at all, and even goes so far as to suppose that the sky itself here is merely a metaphor for the amygdala. Rather a stretch, if you ask me.
60: A fascinating intersection of Exodus, Al-Baqara, and Josephus here. The former two are rather in agreement on what happened, though I don't recall Exodus including the detail that each of the tribes had its own stream of fresh water. Tacitus, however, relies on the more mundane Hebrew oral tradition that Moses simply followed a herd of wild asses to where there was water just under the ground.
61: More interesting pronoun shenanigans here, enough to make one wonder how person designation works in Arabic: the ingrates referring to "your" Lord, rather than "our"s, and another sudden shift from second person to third as in 57, this time without any correlation between time or judgement.
62: Whooooa this verse could be seen as a game changer, and certainly a welcome divergence from Christian dogma. Even non-Muslims who call upon the Names of Allah (and there are many) are considered saved here. This needs deeper scrutiny.
63: Two interesting things here: firstly, that the Torah is charactarized not as God's promise, but as the Israelites' promise, accepted by God. And secondly that the mountain itself was raised up (in all three translations to which I am referring here). In what sense? In the sense that the mountain itself is a testimony? Or more literally? When faced with such a dichotomy, it is a fair bet that Hulusi would choose the former.
64: خاسِرينَ is a very telling choice of epithet for nonbelievers. Reliably (by which I mean all three translations agree) translated as "losers", it speaks to the way that the errant have been treated so far here: not as wicked enemies, but as pitiable misguided.
65: A tempting question in light of this verse is why Muslims do not keep the Sabbath in the same way as the Jews did. There is no distinction drawn so far between Jews and Muslims as an audience for this book.
66: Was the punishment here simply the spurning mentioned in 65? It certainly seems to be referring to a specific event, lost to time and history, rather than a general practice.
67: A semantically difficult verse. What is the relationship between the Jews' question and Moses' answer? At any rate, it is clear that up until this point the idea of sacrifice was rather alien to the Hebrew exiles. And it is no doubt from this verse that the entire book takes its name, so one is tempted to view "sacrifice" as a continuing theme.
68: Another moment where I'm quite fond of Hulusi's leaving Rabb untranslated. No doubt the vast majority of Jews and Muslims would take issue with his interpretation of it as one's own personal relationship with the divine, but the determiner "your" instead of "our" here and below certainly supports Hulusi's interpretation, albeit circumstantially.
69: The fact that Moses came back with a specific answer indicates that the questions were not, at Hulusi would have it, unnecessary.
70: The almost obsessive narrowing of the field says something about the Jews' desire to be as precise as possible, and also about Allah's willingness to indulge them.
71: It is almost as if they were not satisfied until the task was sufficiently difficult, and there was a real risk of failure. It is very human to not see the value in something unless it is difficult.
72: Another incident seemingly not recorded in the Pentateuch. Unless the Egyptian killed by Moses is the murder in question here, but that seems a rather tenuous connection. What murder could be referred to here, for which the entire tribe bore accountability? Or is Allah indeed talking directly to Moses here?
73: Certainly I need to readjust my perception of this book. I've been reading it as a declaration from Allah to the ancient Jews, misled by references to Israel et al. But I need to recalibrate my pronoun references. "You" here seems to be Arabs of Jewish descent, and the book is not a retelling of history, a la the Pentateuch, but a contemporary admonition given long afterward., in the seventh century. This opens up the possibility that these verses are in fact referring to the death of Jesus--which still begs the question who the "We" refers to, since Muhammad himself is not a candidate during that time period. More pronoun trouble, though. What is the "it" with which they were to strike the "dead" man? Hulusi's assumption that "it" refers to a part of the sacrificed cow is echoed in other interpretations, but is not helpful. I suspect that if the meaning of this cow is revealed, the name of the book itself would become clear.
74: What a wonderfully evocative verse. The stones that gave forth their water to Moses, the stones that rolled away to reveal Jesus' empty tomb, even the stony hearts of the target audience here give way before the piercing insight of Allah.
75: Certainly not the last time this accusation could be leveled against the audience of this book.
76: A very specific indictment of those who learn and understand, but do not disseminate their understanding.
77: The concealment itself here is thesin.
78: Hulusi chooses to add the transliterated "ummiyyiina" (أُمِّيّونَ) here, which leads me to try and explicate the meaning. One other translation renders it simply "them", as hulusi does here, while another choose the more specific "unlettered ones". Various dictionaries render it "illiterate" or "uneducated", which gives credence to the latter translation, and explains why Hulusi felt it necessary to elaborate.
79: The condemnation here, then, is not of those who don't know. Indeed, ignorance is forgiven earlier in verse 62. But ignorance with a protestation of knowledge--that is what brings "woe".
80: So many of these people around, even today.
81: And the fire that they wish to avoid, whatever it is, is exactly the fire in which they will end up dwelling.
82: Whereas those who dwell in the righteousness of their Rabb will not be rewarded at some future point, but have already been rewarded by living in the paradise of truth. But this is entirely my extrapolation.
83: Prayer and charity remain among the pillars of Islamic practice, but the key here is not the practices themselves, but the keeping of one's word to Allah.
84: Another reference to an unrecorded covenant, but one that makes it more clear that "you" are the Jews who settled at Medinah. The specific promises made, however, are irrelevant. It is the adherence to one's word, both individually and institutionally, that has been the focus of this entire section.
85: The Day of Resurrection is treated as a known dogma here, without further explication. Such a promise enters into religious thought sometime after Jesus' death, and is so clearly established by this time that it's seen as self-evident.
86: The idea of an afterlife, on the surface, seems incompatible with a Day of Resurrection.
87: It is my personal belief that the line of Rasuls (again helpfully untranslated by Hulusi) has never stopped. Who are they today, though? Each translation and dictionary has a different rendering of رَسولٌ--apostle, prophet, messenger--so Hulusi wisely leaves it here in the original.
The Third Man
I love opera. As with most things that are either thought of as highbrow, not commonly listed as "favorite"s, or both, answering the painfully common and unimaginative "What kind of music do you like?" this way understandably opens me up to accusations of elitism, hipsterdom, and other doucheries. And accurate as the elitist label may be, my love of opera is as free and innocent of it as a sanitary napkin. I love opera, not because it's deep, profound, or meaningful; it's often not. I love it because it happens to combine several of the things I love in one form. I love vocal music, I love acting, I love set design, dance, costume, spectacle, and drama. A mere musical would successfully capture all of these things in one package, and I have quite a soft spot for those as well. But there is one additional element that opera (often) includes, and it happens to be my very favorite thing in the world: language. And so I love this casserole of some of my favorite things, not as an elitist, but rather in the more mundane way that I love seven layer nachos.
Which is a roundabout way of getting to the reason I love movies. Movies combine things that I love in the same way opera does. I love books, and I love visual art. A good movie has all the elements of a book--plot, character, setting, and maybe some meaning?--and those of a painting or photograph--mood, composition, metaphor--in one package. So naturally I like them.
Realizing this fact about why I like movies, as I did while viewing the undeniably brilliant The Third Man, also made me realize why I disagree so wholeheartedly with certain others who also love them: we do so for very different reasons. They seem to be able to look at the individual parts of a film and appreciate them, saying things like "It was beautifully shot" or "It created a very specific mood", things that one might easily say of a painting or photograph. But I don't watch a movie for just those things. I expect a film to do more than be beautiful. I expect to be able to gaze at and be lost in it as I would a painting, and also to read it as I would a book. That's why movies exist in my, and perhaps only in my, mind. To do what another form could not on its own.
So while The Third Man was Art, filled with careful and ingenious use of imagery, metaphor, composition, and mood, it was not literature. All the tools I use to view a painting, and none of those I use to read a book, were applicable here. Specifically, I was not able to take the individual elements of the work and tie them to each other. In a good book, things that seem to be out of place, such as a lengthy fourth act sequence following a minor character through the sewers, would actually be keys to understanding the whole thing. Here, however, they were merely the result of Orson Welles' agent doing her or his job well.
Which is a roundabout way of getting to the reason I love movies. Movies combine things that I love in the same way opera does. I love books, and I love visual art. A good movie has all the elements of a book--plot, character, setting, and maybe some meaning?--and those of a painting or photograph--mood, composition, metaphor--in one package. So naturally I like them.
Realizing this fact about why I like movies, as I did while viewing the undeniably brilliant The Third Man, also made me realize why I disagree so wholeheartedly with certain others who also love them: we do so for very different reasons. They seem to be able to look at the individual parts of a film and appreciate them, saying things like "It was beautifully shot" or "It created a very specific mood", things that one might easily say of a painting or photograph. But I don't watch a movie for just those things. I expect a film to do more than be beautiful. I expect to be able to gaze at and be lost in it as I would a painting, and also to read it as I would a book. That's why movies exist in my, and perhaps only in my, mind. To do what another form could not on its own.
So while The Third Man was Art, filled with careful and ingenious use of imagery, metaphor, composition, and mood, it was not literature. All the tools I use to view a painting, and none of those I use to read a book, were applicable here. Specifically, I was not able to take the individual elements of the work and tie them to each other. In a good book, things that seem to be out of place, such as a lengthy fourth act sequence following a minor character through the sewers, would actually be keys to understanding the whole thing. Here, however, they were merely the result of Orson Welles' agent doing her or his job well.
Monday, May 08, 2017
안철수의 생각 (제정임 엮음)
재목을 잘 탯했네요. 이 책을 읽어보니 "안철수는 생각만 하는 것 같다"는 생각이 든다. 안철수의 행동이란 책을 쓰기 어렵겠다. 제정임 기자의 칠문 마다 "하겠다", "하면 좋겠다", "고려해야 한다" 밖에 답 안 하는 것 같다. "했다"는 답이 어디 있을까요? 책에서 그렇기 뿐 만 아니라, 정치 운동에서도 안철수가 그런 비판을 받는다. 제정임 기자의 "지금까지 말씀하신 복지, 정의, 평화 다 좋은 얘긴데 당장 먹고살기 힘든 서민층, 저소득층 국민들에게는 살림살이에 과연 어떤 도움이 될까?"는 칠문에 통찰력이 있다 (163).
아쉽게도 책의 재목과 동일한 "생각"은 특별하지 않다. 사실 안철수의 생각 아니고 안철수가 무슨 잡지 기사나 자습서를 통해서 생각하게 된 거라고 할 수 있다. 생각이 나쁘지 않지만 약간 뻔하거나 진부한 생각이다. Bumper sticker를 봐서 자세를 취한 셈이다.
근데 그 일반화에 있는 제외 하나 있다. 다른 정치인, CEO들 언급하지 않는 내용이니까 현실로 안철수의 마음 속에서 나온 생각 아닐까요? 칠문의 냉용과 관련 없시, 안철수가 "창업기업이 실패한 후 재기가 힘든", "장여업을 하다가 망한", "한 번 실패로 그 사람을 완전 버려진" 사업가에 대한 얘기를 주먹을 끌 정도로 언급한다 (89, 95, 136). 눈에 뛴다. 툭하면 얘기하는 걸 보니 이 책에 있는 진실로 안철수의 생각 뿐인 것 같다.
안철수는 살기 힘든 저소득층, 효과가 없는 교육 과정, 부패의 소굴인 정부 등에 대한 다른 사람의 말을 반복 잘 하지만 그를 위해서 무슨 행동을 했을까요? 안철수의 독창적인 생각 하나 뿐 인 "한 번 망한 사업가들에게 다시 기회를 주자"는 제안은 진실로 누구에 괸심이 있는 지 드러내 보이는 것이다.
아쉽게도 책의 재목과 동일한 "생각"은 특별하지 않다. 사실 안철수의 생각 아니고 안철수가 무슨 잡지 기사나 자습서를 통해서 생각하게 된 거라고 할 수 있다. 생각이 나쁘지 않지만 약간 뻔하거나 진부한 생각이다. Bumper sticker를 봐서 자세를 취한 셈이다.
근데 그 일반화에 있는 제외 하나 있다. 다른 정치인, CEO들 언급하지 않는 내용이니까 현실로 안철수의 마음 속에서 나온 생각 아닐까요? 칠문의 냉용과 관련 없시, 안철수가 "창업기업이 실패한 후 재기가 힘든", "장여업을 하다가 망한", "한 번 실패로 그 사람을 완전 버려진" 사업가에 대한 얘기를 주먹을 끌 정도로 언급한다 (89, 95, 136). 눈에 뛴다. 툭하면 얘기하는 걸 보니 이 책에 있는 진실로 안철수의 생각 뿐인 것 같다.
안철수는 살기 힘든 저소득층, 효과가 없는 교육 과정, 부패의 소굴인 정부 등에 대한 다른 사람의 말을 반복 잘 하지만 그를 위해서 무슨 행동을 했을까요? 안철수의 독창적인 생각 하나 뿐 인 "한 번 망한 사업가들에게 다시 기회를 주자"는 제안은 진실로 누구에 괸심이 있는 지 드러내 보이는 것이다.
Monday, May 01, 2017
Edward Gibbon: The Decline and Fall of the Roman Empire
A little perspective goes a long way, and the nearly 2000 years of perspective contained in this masterwork have had a profound effect on me.
Without such perspective, it would be a forgivable mistake to think that the modern world is in its death throes. Trump, Duterte, 박근혜, 김종은, Marie Le Pen, Theresa May, Narendra Modi, Putin, et al ad seemingly infinitum, the allies of reason and humanity seem to be hopelessly outgunned and outnumbered. And yet I remain strangely unmoved. My American friends are rallying in great numbers and working themselves into a froth in resistance of the current president. "We must do something!" say they, but must we? Well meaning humans have been resisting dictators; working for the benefit of society; and building progressive, productive communities for 2000 years. And here we are. We have learned precisely nothing. Humans have evolved, as far as one can tell from Gibbon, exactly zero in 2000 years, and the forces that conspire to degrade and destroy anything virtuous and noble are the same as they have always been.
But Gibbon's service to the reader is greater than just granting perspective, which gift alone might lead to despair. His ambitious and painstaking portrait of the period in question seldom takes the liberty of drawing conclusions for the reader, and taken individually there would no doubt be myriad ways to interpret any single account. But seen as a whole, the patterns in the tapestry are clear even without Gibbon feeling compelled to trace them out for us. The impulses that corrupt and collapse human societies are repeated over and over again, and they number merely two.
The first is that which Gibbon emphasizes when he says, "In comparing the days of foreign with the ages of domestic hostility, we must pronounce that the latter have been far more ruinous to the city" (1250). This domestic hostility, which one might characterize as "division" is never far from Gibbon's pages. From the Arians and Athanasians, to the Greens and Blues, to even the Sunnis and Shias, Gibbon faithfully documents the human impulse to divide itself into arbitrary and petty factions. What Gibbon does not speculate upon is the source of this instinct, leaving it to the reader: an offer up on which, I have gleefully taken him.
I cannot speak for others, though the reader may see her or himself in what I observe. I can merely ask what is at the root of my own desire to define another human as an other human. On the surface, there is no necessity to group people according to us and them, my people and not. But it is a nearly irresistible urge. The (often) unconscious instinct is to assess any new person according to familiarity and similarity. To what extent does she or he resemble me, in terms of experience, appearance, or perspective? That level of me-ness then either reaches the threshold of comfort, or it does not. In the former case, they become a member of our set, and in the latter, a member of the set marked "other". The urge is so instinctive and irresistible, that one assumes a biological/evolutionary root for it, for which idea I'm sure scholarly support could be found. Insofar as this tirade has already taken a dry turn, I will refrain.
The question is not whether humans do this, or even why. The question is, in light of its well-documented--in Gibbon and in experience--destructive and outdated nature, whether we are capable of moving past it: learning to recognize the instinct when it is activated, and question it. For humanity as a whole, I suspect the answer is "Not in the next 500 years." But Gibbon's narrative suggests that another answer may be possible on the individual level.
Which brings me to the second destructive human instinct he reveals. He rightly observes that what destroys societies is what we might term "lateral division", the instinct to otherize and divide. Even those exterior forces which visit destruction on their neighbors--war, crusade, siege--are merely macro versions of the same phenomenon. But this depressing run through the taffy-puller of history, endlessly pulling apart and recombining gooey pink swaths of humanity, is not the only story Gibbon tells. He also preserves for our consideration the shining examples of a few who stood above and resisted this pull, those whom we might call virtuous: Marcus Aurelius, Belisarius, Diocletian, and many others to various degrees. And it is by contrast of these with their opposites, Theodora, Elagabalus, Phocas, and others just as numerous as their virtuous counterparts, that a force which corrupts the individual, just as lateral division corrupts the group, is revealed.
One factor contributing to Gibbon's enduring reputation is no doubt his objectivity. He does not spare religious figures from his contempt, and he does not scruple to give those thought of as barbarians in his time--Atilla, Timour, Zingis et al--their due. And it is in the description of this latter and his successors that Gibbon puts a nice point on what set them apart: "Firmly united for their own and the public interest, the three brothers and their families were content with dependent scepters; and Octai, by general consent, was proclaimed great khan, or emperor of the Mongols and Tartars" (1140). This golden standard of virtue stands out more brightly set against the dark fabric of "the returning selfishness of human nature", observed in these pages and our own lives far too frequently for me to recount (265). This instinct is related, but not identical to that which corrupts society at large; it is not a lateral division, but a vertical one, a raising up of oneself above another.
And this instinct is just as observable in our personal narratives as in Gibbon's historical one. Not only do we sort the rest of humanity into mine and theirs, but also into better and worse. Naturally the tendency is to conflate "mine" with "good" and the obverse, but it is not a perfect correspondence. Even within "mine", the instinct is to stratify the members with respect to our selves, above or below; better or worse.
Like the lateral instinct, this vertical division is ingrained in us so deeply it may as well be biological. It cannot be eliminated, so far as I can tell, but it can be resisted, questioned, and rejected. And as glorious as Gibbon's narrative is, he has embroidered a gem into the center of this tapestry that is worth as much or more than the rest put together; the perspective one gets from reading his book is a mere reflection of the perspective he gained in writing it. "Whatever is fortified will be attacked;" he observes, "and whatever is attacked may be destroyed" (1250). Insecurity leads to fear, and the instinct to fortify. Civically, this means building castles and walls. But social position has no such visible bulwarks. We acquire possessions, of course, but these only fortify our social persona to the extent that they mark us as richer, more tasteful, more creative, more stylish, or otherwise better than others. Hierarchy has no physical manifestation; it is a purely mental construct, and can only be seen in terms of comparison and judgement. If we resist this urge, if we refuse to believe our instinctive judgements and comparisons, we are actually refusing to fortify. And to extrapolate from Gibbon's observation, that which is not fortified cannot be attacked. It endures. It resists corruption. And it eventually dies. But perhaps it gets written down somewhere and remembered.
Without such perspective, it would be a forgivable mistake to think that the modern world is in its death throes. Trump, Duterte, 박근혜, 김종은, Marie Le Pen, Theresa May, Narendra Modi, Putin, et al ad seemingly infinitum, the allies of reason and humanity seem to be hopelessly outgunned and outnumbered. And yet I remain strangely unmoved. My American friends are rallying in great numbers and working themselves into a froth in resistance of the current president. "We must do something!" say they, but must we? Well meaning humans have been resisting dictators; working for the benefit of society; and building progressive, productive communities for 2000 years. And here we are. We have learned precisely nothing. Humans have evolved, as far as one can tell from Gibbon, exactly zero in 2000 years, and the forces that conspire to degrade and destroy anything virtuous and noble are the same as they have always been.
But Gibbon's service to the reader is greater than just granting perspective, which gift alone might lead to despair. His ambitious and painstaking portrait of the period in question seldom takes the liberty of drawing conclusions for the reader, and taken individually there would no doubt be myriad ways to interpret any single account. But seen as a whole, the patterns in the tapestry are clear even without Gibbon feeling compelled to trace them out for us. The impulses that corrupt and collapse human societies are repeated over and over again, and they number merely two.
The first is that which Gibbon emphasizes when he says, "In comparing the days of foreign with the ages of domestic hostility, we must pronounce that the latter have been far more ruinous to the city" (1250). This domestic hostility, which one might characterize as "division" is never far from Gibbon's pages. From the Arians and Athanasians, to the Greens and Blues, to even the Sunnis and Shias, Gibbon faithfully documents the human impulse to divide itself into arbitrary and petty factions. What Gibbon does not speculate upon is the source of this instinct, leaving it to the reader: an offer up on which, I have gleefully taken him.
I cannot speak for others, though the reader may see her or himself in what I observe. I can merely ask what is at the root of my own desire to define another human as an other human. On the surface, there is no necessity to group people according to us and them, my people and not. But it is a nearly irresistible urge. The (often) unconscious instinct is to assess any new person according to familiarity and similarity. To what extent does she or he resemble me, in terms of experience, appearance, or perspective? That level of me-ness then either reaches the threshold of comfort, or it does not. In the former case, they become a member of our set, and in the latter, a member of the set marked "other". The urge is so instinctive and irresistible, that one assumes a biological/evolutionary root for it, for which idea I'm sure scholarly support could be found. Insofar as this tirade has already taken a dry turn, I will refrain.
The question is not whether humans do this, or even why. The question is, in light of its well-documented--in Gibbon and in experience--destructive and outdated nature, whether we are capable of moving past it: learning to recognize the instinct when it is activated, and question it. For humanity as a whole, I suspect the answer is "Not in the next 500 years." But Gibbon's narrative suggests that another answer may be possible on the individual level.
Which brings me to the second destructive human instinct he reveals. He rightly observes that what destroys societies is what we might term "lateral division", the instinct to otherize and divide. Even those exterior forces which visit destruction on their neighbors--war, crusade, siege--are merely macro versions of the same phenomenon. But this depressing run through the taffy-puller of history, endlessly pulling apart and recombining gooey pink swaths of humanity, is not the only story Gibbon tells. He also preserves for our consideration the shining examples of a few who stood above and resisted this pull, those whom we might call virtuous: Marcus Aurelius, Belisarius, Diocletian, and many others to various degrees. And it is by contrast of these with their opposites, Theodora, Elagabalus, Phocas, and others just as numerous as their virtuous counterparts, that a force which corrupts the individual, just as lateral division corrupts the group, is revealed.
One factor contributing to Gibbon's enduring reputation is no doubt his objectivity. He does not spare religious figures from his contempt, and he does not scruple to give those thought of as barbarians in his time--Atilla, Timour, Zingis et al--their due. And it is in the description of this latter and his successors that Gibbon puts a nice point on what set them apart: "Firmly united for their own and the public interest, the three brothers and their families were content with dependent scepters; and Octai, by general consent, was proclaimed great khan, or emperor of the Mongols and Tartars" (1140). This golden standard of virtue stands out more brightly set against the dark fabric of "the returning selfishness of human nature", observed in these pages and our own lives far too frequently for me to recount (265). This instinct is related, but not identical to that which corrupts society at large; it is not a lateral division, but a vertical one, a raising up of oneself above another.
And this instinct is just as observable in our personal narratives as in Gibbon's historical one. Not only do we sort the rest of humanity into mine and theirs, but also into better and worse. Naturally the tendency is to conflate "mine" with "good" and the obverse, but it is not a perfect correspondence. Even within "mine", the instinct is to stratify the members with respect to our selves, above or below; better or worse.
Like the lateral instinct, this vertical division is ingrained in us so deeply it may as well be biological. It cannot be eliminated, so far as I can tell, but it can be resisted, questioned, and rejected. And as glorious as Gibbon's narrative is, he has embroidered a gem into the center of this tapestry that is worth as much or more than the rest put together; the perspective one gets from reading his book is a mere reflection of the perspective he gained in writing it. "Whatever is fortified will be attacked;" he observes, "and whatever is attacked may be destroyed" (1250). Insecurity leads to fear, and the instinct to fortify. Civically, this means building castles and walls. But social position has no such visible bulwarks. We acquire possessions, of course, but these only fortify our social persona to the extent that they mark us as richer, more tasteful, more creative, more stylish, or otherwise better than others. Hierarchy has no physical manifestation; it is a purely mental construct, and can only be seen in terms of comparison and judgement. If we resist this urge, if we refuse to believe our instinctive judgements and comparisons, we are actually refusing to fortify. And to extrapolate from Gibbon's observation, that which is not fortified cannot be attacked. It endures. It resists corruption. And it eventually dies. But perhaps it gets written down somewhere and remembered.
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