Up@dawn 2.0

Tuesday, December 27, 2022

Margaret Fuller

"The year 1835 was a turning point in Fuller’s life: she made Emerson’s acquaintance, and her father died, leaving the family in financial straits. It fell to Margaret to help support her widowed mother and her siblings, so she abandoned plans to write a Goethe biography and to travel abroad, and accepted a teaching job at Bronson Alcott’s experimental school, in Boston. The otherworldly Alcott neglected to pay her, however, so in 1837 Fuller became a schoolmistress in Providence. Her wages, thanks to rich patrons, were the annual salary of a Harvard professor, a thousand dollars. But striving to elevate the children of philistines was intolerable, and whenever she could she stayed with Waldo, as Emerson was called, and his put-upon wife, Lidian, at their manor in Concord. Her first visit lasted two weeks, and Waldo initially found his house guest conceited and intrusive. Two more discordant personalities—Waldo’s cool, cerebral, and ironic; Margaret’s noisy, histrionic, and sincere—would be hard to imagine. But, as the days wore on, her caustic wit made him laugh, and her conversation, he decided, was “the most entertaining” in America. By the time they parted, Matteson writes, Emerson was “rhapsodic.” Fuller’s presence, he gushed, atypically, “is like being set in a large place. You stretch your limbs & dilate to your utmost size.” Fuller was a passionate pedagogue—just not in the classroom. Alcott, who had also failed at teaching, reinvented himself profitably as a “conversationalist.” A “conversation” was an informal paid talk, in an intimate venue—a parlor rather than a hall—whose raison d’être, Matteson writes, was to unite the participants in “sympathetic communion around a shared idea.” Inspired by Alcott’s model, Fuller decided that she would offer a series of such talks, by subscription, to an all-woman audience, with the goals of challenging her “conversers” intellectually and also of giving them “a place where they could state their doubts and difficulties with hope of gaining aid from the experience or aspirations of others.” Many women, Marshall notes, “signed on just to hear Margaret Fuller talk,” and were too intimidated to join the discussion, but the “Conversations” that Fuller hosted in Boston between 1839 and 1844 have been called, collectively, the first consciousness-raising group. By this time, Emerson had formed the intellectual society that came to be known as the Transcendental Club. The transcendence he espoused was a rejection of established religion in favor of a Romantic creed in which faith was “one thing with Science, with Beauty, and with Joy.” A soul liberated from blind obedience to Christian dogma would be free to follow its own dictates, and to seek a direct experience of divinity in art and nature. The transcendental “gospel” suffused Fuller’s “Conversations,” but in a more heretical form. She was encouraging women to become free agents not only in relation to a deity but in their relations with men."

A Left-Handed Woman: Essays" by Judith Thurman: https://a.co/0OG1kzg

Saturday, November 26, 2022

Thursday, October 27, 2022

Pragmatic hope

  Although Immanuel Kant is best known for his work on epistemology and ethics, he is arguably the first philosopher to declare the central importance of a philosophy of hope. In his Critique of Pure Reason (1781), he claims there are three fundamental questions that philosophy should address:

  • What can I know? (Epistemology)
  • What should I do? (Ethics)
  • For what may I hope? (?)

Despite its fundamental importance, Kant’s third question went largely unheeded for over a century. Even today, the philosophy of hope is a minor topic in philosophy at best, especially when compared to epistemology and ethics. This is exemplified by the topic’s lack of its own label.

But hope becomes a central concern for a group of primarily American philosophers in the late-nineteenth and early-twentieth centuries aligned under the banner of pragmatism.

According to Louis Menard’s definitive history of the founding of pragmatism, The Metaphysical Club (2001), this focus on the philosophy of hope known as meliorism is sparked by three seismic events that upend the traditional religious answers to “For what may we hope?” These events are the US Civil War, Darwin’s Theory of Natural Selection, and the development of the Second Law of Thermodynamics.

Classical pragmatists respond to these events in a few different ways. While Chauncey Wright accepts a world of boundless change, he offers little hope or certainty beyond the constants of what he calls “cosmic weather.” Charles Sanders Peirce embraces a reality without foundations while believing humanity will progress toward a gradually perfecting and salvific existence.

But it’s in William James’ meliorism that we encounter a naturalized theism that accepts the tragic nature of a constantly changing reality while providing hope for a world in which eternally perfect unity is not guaranteed but, perhaps, remains possible.

This latter meliorism is what animates the hope of those with a pragmatist temperament similar to William James...

https://erraticus.co/2022/10/27/what-can-pragmatists-hope-for-in-a-boundless-world/

Sunday, September 4, 2022

Mann’s vision

School Is for Everyone

…An essential part of Horace Mann's vision was that public schools should be for everyone and that children of different class backgrounds should learn together. He pushed to draw wealthier students away from private schools, establish "normal schools" to train teachers (primarily women), have the state take over charitable schools and increase taxes to pay for it all.

He largely succeeded. By the early 20th century all states had free primary schools, underwritten by taxpayers, that students were required to attend.

And that's more or less how America became the nation we recognize today. The United States soon boasted one of the world's highest literacy rates among white people. It is hard to imagine how we could have established our industrial and scientific might, welcomed newcomers from all over the world, knit our democracy back together after the Civil War and become a wealthy nation with high living standards without schoolhouses…

https://www.nytimes.com/2022/09/01/opinion/us-school-history.html?smid=nytcore-ios-share&referringSource=articleShare

Friday, August 19, 2022

American Democracy Was Never Designed to Be Democratic

To look on the bright side for a moment, one effect of the Republican assault on elections—which takes the form, naturally, of the very thing Republicans accuse Democrats of doing: rigging the system—might be to open our eyes to how undemocratic our democracy is. Strictly speaking, American government has never been a government "by the people."

This is so despite the fact that more Americans are voting than ever before. In 2020, sixty-seven per cent of eligible voters cast a ballot for President. That was the highest turnout since 1900, a year when few, if any, women, people under twenty-one, Asian immigrants (who could not become citizens), Native Americans (who were treated as foreigners), or Black Americans living in the South (who were openly disenfranchised) could vote. Eighteen per cent of the total population voted in that election. In 2020, forty-eight per cent voted.

Some members of the loser's party have concluded that a sixty-seven-per-cent turnout was too high. They apparently calculate that, if fewer people had voted, Donald Trumpmight have carried their states. Last year, according to the Brennan Center for Justice, legislatures in nineteen states passed thirty-four laws imposing voting restrictions. (Trump and his allies had filed more than sixty lawsuits challenging the election results and lost all but one of them.)

In Florida, it is now illegal to offer water to someone standing in line to vote. Georgia is allowing counties to eliminate voting on Sundays. In 2020, Texas limited the number of ballot-drop-off locations to one per county, insuring that Loving County, the home of fifty-seven people, has the same number of drop-off locations as Harris County, which includes Houston and has 4.7 million people.

Virtually all of these "reforms" will likely make it harder for some people to vote, and thus will depress turnout—which is the not so subtle intention. This is a problem, but it is not the fundamental problem. The fundamental problem is that, as the law stands, even when the system is working the way it's designed to work and everyone who is eligible to vote does vote, the government we get does not reflect the popular will. Michael Kinsley's law of scandal applies. The scandal isn't what's illegal. The scandal is what's legal.

It was not unreasonable for the Framers to be wary of direct democracy. You can't govern a nation by plebiscite, and true representative democracy, in which everyone who might be affected by government policy has an equal say in choosing the people who make that policy, had never been tried. So they wrote a rule book, the Constitution, that places limits on what the government can do, regardless of what the majority wants. (They also countenanced slavery and the disenfranchisement of women, excluding from the electorate groups whose life chances certainly might be affected by government policy.) And they made it extremely difficult to tinker with those rules. In two hundred and thirty-three years, they have been changed by amendment only nine times. The last time was fifty-one years ago...

https://www.newyorker.com/magazine/2022/08/22/american-democracy-was-never-designed-to-be-democratic-eric-holder-our-unfinished-march-nick-seabrook-one-person-one-vote-jacob-grumbach-laboratories-against-democracy

Tuesday, August 16, 2022

Wendell Berry on Delight

 ...as a Force of Resistance to Consumerism, the Key to Mirth Under Hardship, and the Measure of a Rich Life

"I have always had a quarrel with this country not only about race but about the standards by which it appears to live," James Baldwin told Margaret Mead as they sat down together to reimagine democracy for a post-consumerist world. A generation later, the poet, farmer, and ecological steward Wendell Berry — a poet in the largest Baldwinian sense — picked up the time-escalated quarrel in his slim, large-spirited book The Hidden Wound (public library) to offer, without looking away from its scarring realities, a healing and conciliatory direction of resistance to a culture in which our enjoyment of life is taken from us by the not-enoughness at the hollow heart of consumerism, only to be sold back to us at the price of the latest product, and sold in discriminating proportion along lines of stark income inequality... (continues)

Maria Popova

Wednesday, August 10, 2022

A Big TV Hit Is a Conservative Fantasy Liberals Should Watch

America is as divided over its favorite prestige television shows as news sources.

...Millions of people watch "Yellowstone" for the horses and the majestic scenery. There's Beth Dutton's frequent nudity. There's the simple dialogue that does not ask much of the audience. Whatever brings its audience to the show, once they arrive, they are playacting within the vision of America that "Yellowstone" holds. The show suggests that elitism and power can be reconciled with our need to be both moral and self-interested. It is a seductive fantasy because it does not ask the audience to give up anything.

The nominal diversity of the show's cast implies that conservatives don't hate anyone, as long as everyone is willing to conform to their way of life. It acknowledges white land theft and Native American grievance, but it does not make a case for reparations. It accepts that Christopher Columbus was a colonizer but implies that the Duttons' good-enough ends justify the means. It accommodates feminism by making women the most vicious capitalist actors. And it depicts the police as feckless, but it does not want to abolish cops. It wants to choose the cops. That means a lot of guns. "Yellowstone" does not just have gunfights. It has all-out wars. There are military-grade weapons, aerial assaults, night-vision goggles and automatic rifles. When John Dutton cannot win, he starts shooting.

"Yellowstone" isn't ideologically driven, even if ideology is what makes it so comforting for conservative audiences. But in the end, the show shares a problem with Republican Party electoral politics: Neither offers a compelling vision of the future.

Republicans don't solve problems like climate change or economic inequality or water rights or housing costs or stagnant wages. With Donald Trump and Mitch McConnell's leadership, the G.O.P. does not even bother to sell a conservative story for America. Audiences looking for that vision in "Yellowstone" might find that cosmetic diversity needn't be scary, but they won't find much else. Like Republicans, the Dutton dynasty has one defense against demography and time: Buy guns and hoard stolen power. nyt

Monday, August 8, 2022

Solar panel politics

Bill McKibben's latest book explains how we engineered a crisis of the social environment and, in the process, ensured an existential crisis of the natural environment.

...
"Now consider the even deeper crisis of climate change, a crisis that presents the planet with a nontrivial chance that our civilizations could simply collapse in the decades ahead. What might we have done differently in the 1970s, even before we really understood the danger that carbon dioxide was posing? It turns out that in those oil shock years the Carter administration fixed on one key solution: massive government support for developing solar power. “A strong solar message and program,” the president’s domestic policy advisor Stuart Eizenstat told him, “will be important in trying to counter the hopelessness which polls are showing the public feels about energy. I’m quite convinced Congress and the American people want a Manhattan-type project on alternative energy development.” Carter agreed to the plan—indeed, he said a fifth of the country’s energy should come from solar power by 2000. He called for spending a billion dollars in fiscal year 1980 to create a Solar Bank, to fund research, and to provide homeowners with loans for putting up panels. He officially declared May 3, 1978, as Sun Day, calling “upon the American people to observe that day with appropriate activities and ceremonies that will demonstrate the potential of solar energy,” and directing “all appropriate Federal agencies to support this national observance.” He observed this first solar holiday by traveling to a mountaintop in Golden, Colorado, home to a federal solar research facility: “The question is no longer whether solar energy works,” he told a crowd (in a driving rain). “We know it works. The only question is how to cut costs so that solar power can be used more widely and so that it will set a cap on rising oil prices. In many places, solar heating is as economical today as power from nonrenewable sources.” He added, “Nobody can embargo sunlight. No cartel controls the sun. Its energy will not run out. It will not pollute the air; it will not poison our waters. It’s free from stench and smog. The sun’s power needs only to be collected, stored, and used.” And then a year later he did something even more important: on June 20, 1979, he invited dignitaries and reporters onto the roof of the White House to watch the installation of thirty solar hot-water heating panels. “A generation from now,” he said, “this solar heater can either be a curiosity, a museum piece, an example of a road not taken, or it can be a small part of one of the greatest and most exciting adventures ever undertaken by the American people.” In truth, it took much less than a generation to deliver the verdict: literal museum piece. Shortly after taking office, Reagan cut the renewable energy research budget by 85 percent and let the tax credits for solar panels expire; he did away with assistance for weatherizing homes and ended energy efficiency requirements for appliances; his national security advisor, Richard Allen, circulated an article insisting that the solar “energy crusade was little more than a continuation of the political wars of a decade ago by other means.… Where salvation was once to be gotten from the Revolution, now it will come from everyone’s best friend, the great and simplistic cure of all energy ills, the sun.” Instead, Reagan pushed hard for increased oil drilling in the United States, and for making sure that no pesky regulations got in the way. “First, we must decide that ‘less’ is not enough,” he said. “Next, we must remove government obstacles to energy production.… Putting the market system to work for these objectives is an essential first step for their achievement.” And so in 1986 the Reagan administration took the panels down from the White House roof and stored them away in a Virginia warehouse. A top White House official—the Washington Post speculated it was U.S. Attorney General Edwin Meese—thought the equipment was a “joke.” An official spokesman said, “Putting them back up would be very unwise, based on cost.” As it happens, I know a little about those panels. They were rescued from that Virginia warehouse by a faculty member at Unity College, a small school in a very rural corner of Maine, where for years they sat on the roof of the cafeteria, heating the water used in the kitchen. The college gave away or sold a few of them: I learned about them in 2008 when I visited the Sun-Moon Mansion, the headquarters of China’s largest solar hot-water company. Huang Ming, who’d founded the company, kept one of Carter’s panels in a place of honor in a small museum of renewable energy just off his executive offices. The panels, he said, had helped inspire him to create a business that was currently heating the water for a quarter billion of his countrymen—some Chinese cities, viewed from the air, look as if every single building has a solar hot-water heater on top. Anyway, Unity officials agreed to hand me a couple more of the historic panels, and so in 2010 I rented a van, hitched a trailer behind it, and began dragging them south toward the White House. It was a fun road trip—three students and a professor from Unity were along, so there were iPod playlists and lots of snacks. We hosted rallies in Boston, New York, and Baltimore—we’d pour a gallon of water in the top of the heater, point it at the sun, and eight or nine minutes later steam would be churning out: thirty-one years later these things worked as well as they did the day they went up. Our hope, of course, was that Barack Obama (whom we all had worked to elect) might symbolically reinstall one, up top of his new house. We thought it made sense: when the First Lady had planted the White House garden a year before, seed sales had gone up 30 percent. We thought that the gift might help the administration restart solar history after three decades. But no. Arriving in Washington, we were directed by administration officials to a side door at the Executive Office Building—the five of us were ushered by an intern in a blue blazer into the wood-paneled room where, once, the UN Charter had been drafted. This day, a trio of what the New York Times called “midlevel White House” officials met with us, in the single most frustrating example of bureaucratic obstruction I’ve ever gotten to witness close up. First they filibustered—long boilerplate explanations of how the administration was “building a bigger, better, smarter electric grid, all while creating new sustainable jobs.” I sat back and let the three students respond, and they were magnificent: “Thank you for your good work,” they said politely, over and over. “But no one really knows about it—certainly not our friends, who voted for Obama but are increasingly disillusioned. What better way to spread the word about what you’re up to than the high-profile move of putting solar panels back on the roof?” No, said the officials, but they refused to say why. Literally refused. The students asked, again and again, and the woman who was leading the conversation kept repeating the same phrase: “If reporters call and ask us, we will provide our rationale.” But they wouldn’t provide it to us, and they wouldn’t pose for a picture with the students, and they wouldn’t accept the old panel even to put in storage. Eventually we were back on the sidewalk, and the three college students were talking to reporters. They were in tears—of disappointment, but also I think of genuine perplexity. Amanda Nelson: “I didn’t expect I’d get to shake President Obama’s hand, but it was really shocking to me to find out that they really didn’t seem to care. They couldn’t even give us a statement.” Elliott Altomare: “We went in without any doubt about the importance of this. They handed us a pamphlet.” Measured the way activists measure things, it was entirely worth it: three stories in the Times, plenty of other coverage. We’d moved the needle a little further along. But I felt a little guilty about disillusioning these three students: they’d seen early on some of the cowardice and moral compromise inherent in holding power. And—for all my advanced years—I felt a little disillusioned too. It certainly made it easier to come back to the White House the next year and help organize the mass arrests on that same street corner that marked the start of the national fight over the Keystone XL Pipeline. In time we won that battle: we forced Obama to block KXL, the first loss of that kind Big Oil had ever suffered. And in time—safely into his second term—Obama did indeed put solar panels up on the White House roof. “The project, which helps demonstrate that historic buildings can incorporate solar energy and energy efficiency upgrades, is estimated to pay for itself in energy savings over the next eight years,” a spokesman said. In retrospect, it was pretty clear why Obama wanted nothing to do with those solar panels: they were tainted by their association with Carter. The 1980 election, thirty years later, still dominated our politics. We’d made a choice then, and that choice still held sway, even in the administration of our first Black president, a man who on the night of his nomination had said “this [is] the moment when the rise of the oceans [begins] to slow and our planet [begins] to heal.” But he calculated that we hadn’t yet reached the moment when we could move past that earlier moment in our political history. Read the quote from Obama again that I printed a few pages ago: “Through Clinton and even through how I thought about these issues when I first came into office, I think there was a residual willingness to accept the political constraints that we’d inherited from the post-Reagan era,” he said. “Probably there was an embrace of market solutions to a whole host of problems that wasn’t entirely justified.” Probably. INSTEAD OF MOVING toward solar energy in the Reagan years, we stepped on the gas pedal—literally—in our lifestyles, and on the brake—metaphorically—in the drive for something like social justice." (Continues)

The Flag, the Cross, and the Station Wagon: A Graying American Looks Back at His Suburban Boyhood and Wonders What the Hell Happened" by Bill McKibben: https://a.co/i7UwQMY

Saturday, August 6, 2022

Wokeness? CRT? No, just history

"It took an outsider—Charles Dickens, visiting on a lecture tour in 1842 during the last stages of “Indian removal”—to actually register the sadness of it all; he described the Native Americans’ “strong attachment to the familiar scenes of their infancy, and in particular to the burial-places of their kindred; and of their great reluctance to leave them.” What I’m trying to say is: my life, and the life of other people like me, was built in very real part on the suffering of others. That’s not wokeness, and that’s not “critical race theory.” That’s history. And the fact that, to some extent, we’ve stopped doing these things doesn’t mean we get to ignore the effects of earlier actions. As Richard Rothstein observed in his classic account of segregation, The Color of Law, “let bygones be bygones” is not a very noble principle if you came out on top."

The Flag, the Cross, and the Station Wagon: A Graying American Looks Back at His Suburban Boyhood and Wonders What the Hell Happened" by Bill McKibben: https://a.co/ex04une

the glory of American history

"By the time a generation had gone to war, with all the hardship it endured, deference to the monarch had not just dissolved but had turned into a hatred of kings, and of the hierarchies they represented. Such psychological upheaval carries costs, of course—you can find in it the roots of the anti-intellectualism that continues to mar our society, the antagonism toward “elites” that translated into, say, Donald Trump’s attacks on scientists like Dr. Fauci or his declaration that “I love the poorly educated.” But Trump, for all his pretense of “draining the swamp,” was actually the embodiment of those old hierarchies, the exception to the American rule. He was the man who sat (at least in his bathroom) on a golden throne; who said, of our nation’s problems, “I alone” can solve them; who insisted that the Constitution gave him “the right to do whatever I want.” The man who installed his family members in positions of high power, and who used occasions of state to line his pockets. And if he and his compatriots tried to use the imagery of the American Revolution to consolidate power (a “tea party” to fight against equal access to medical care, an “insurrection” to prevent the counting of votes), then at least for the moment the tradition of our egalitarian history still managed to hold. It was Jamie Raskin—grandson of a Russian Jewish émigré plumber, now a congressman from Maryland—who concluded Trump’s impeachment trial for that insurrection with an account of those early days of the Republic, of “our great revolutionary struggle against the kings, and queens, and the tyrants … Because for most of the rest of human history, it had been the kings and queens and tyrants and nobles lording it over the common people. Could political self-government work in America, was the question.” He quoted from Thomas Paine: “Tyranny, like hell, is not easily conquered, but we have this saving consolation: the more difficult the struggle, the more glorious in the end will be our victory.” Raskin didn’t win that legal battle, of course—the bootlickers of the Republican Party protected Trump from prosecution, and they may yet try to install him back on the throne. (How easy to imagine Lindsay Graham or Mitch McConnell in a powdered wig, packing the family silver to flee to London with the other loyalists.) But, at least for the moment, the basic outline of American history shuddered but held. That anger at arbitrary power, that refusal to allow one person to lord it over another or over the whole—that is the glory of American history, and it dates back, if you want a date, to those days and years immediately following the stand on the Green. It’s why I’ve never wanted to give up the flag."

"The Flag, the Cross, and the Station Wagon: A Graying American Looks Back at His Suburban Boyhood and Wonders What the Hell Happened" by Bill McKibben: https://a.co/aUoIjXO

the responsibilities of intelligence

"Deductive neatness and intellectual clarity make thought’s work easier, but for the most part miss the point that our thinking must attend to our lives and must therefore to some degree meet those lives on their own terms. When Dewey worried about “the problems of philosophers,” he was not abandoning metaphysical questions and moral theory. He was worried about philosophers who intentionally excommunicate themselves from the flow of ordinary experience and give themselves carte blanche to engage in an intellectually elitist activity that is bent more on keeping unlike minds out than on attending to the reflective needs of a culture. Metaphysics, ethics, and aesthetics are quite natural functions of human experience. Problems do not arise when we engage in these pursuits, but only when thought does not return to primary experience and make a difference in how we envision and confront our own futures. To use our philosophical abilities in other ways is to neglect the responsibilities of intelligence."

Philosophy Americana: Making Philosophy at Home in American Culture (American Philosophy Book 18)" by Douglas R. Anderson: https://a.co/8lcwB7I

Hard-core meliorists, insane angels

"Following James and Dewey, these American scholars are hard-core meliorists. We are attentive to the ills around us. We think about things; we are committed to goods as ends-in-view. Hence the appropriateness of the tag “insane angels.” We are utopian with our eyes open. That is, as Erin McKenna suggests, we seek to improve things along the way, not to construct some magic, fixed, end-state world.21 We are, one might say, working utopians. Our bringing of “heaven” to Earth is always a finite and fallible project, as Emerson recognizes when he points out that when not in our angelic modes, we easily become “moping dogs.” Both our strangeness—our cultural insanity—and our angelic practices are underwritten by our passion for thinking, writing, and talking. We are practitioners of philosophy. This is not something I think we should deny or dismiss as unimportant. This is where our passions and our abilities lie. I have emphasized the fact that we are teachers because it is a fact often obscured when we describe our profession. But this does not mean that we are not also philosophers and scholars with an angelic passion for some particular strains of literature, history, and reflective thought. We think and write with an eye toward transforming ourselves, each other, and our culture. And though I opened this chapter with a concern for our invisibility, I do not want to underestimate the impact we can have, even when we as individuals remain invisible to our culture. Almost all thinkers in the American tradition have been realists in the same way. This includes James, whom Dewey rightly identifies as a realist in this respect—that our ideas have real effects in the world, they make a difference. The transactions among ideas, actions, and habits constitute a natural process whose powers should not be underestimated. Philosophy understood this way is never “just talk.” Talking turns out to be an important medium of transformation."

"Philosophy Americana: Making Philosophy at Home in American Culture (American Philosophy Book 18)" by Douglas R. Anderson: https://a.co/9HIaeVt

Philosophy Americana and experience

"Interestingly, within the pragmatic tradition, it was Charles Peirce, whose work is most traditionally oriented, who explicitly defended the claim that philosophers should describe themselves to their readers. “The reader,” he said, “has a right to know how the author’s opinions were formed” (CP, 1:3).8 For Peirce, philosophy is a historical conversation, and a key piece of this semiotic process is understanding the place from which one speaks (see MS 842). Thus, if one has grown up with Beethoven and Aaron Copland, one should maintain their acquaintance. So, too, if one has grown up on the Ramones and Blondie, on the Temptations and the Shirelles, on R.E.M. and Matchbox 20, or on Thelonius Monk and Charlie Parker. These are not to be abandoned at the doorstep of philosophy. We need to keep them with us to inform, instruct, and be transformed by our philosophical lives. All of these features of our experiences help constitute the very language of outlooks on the world... This maintenance of our experiential home, it seems to me, is a sort of baseline for what I am calling philosophy Americana. For those of us in dominant sectors of this culture, such maintenance is reasonably easy but needs to be undertaken precisely because we often forget that ours is only one dimension of “America.” For those like Anzaldúa who are not in the dominant sectors, such maintenance is always a difficult and politically oppositional task, but a task the rest of us, through listening, can come to make easier: I will no longer be made to feel ashamed of existing. I will have my voice: Indian, Spanish, white. I will have my serpent’s tongue—my woman’s voice, my sexual voice, my poet’s voice. I will overcome the tradition of silence.10 Philosophy Americana will thrive only insofar as there is a genuine conversation among our philosophical outlooks, a conversation in which we listen closely not only to each other’s arguments, but also to the stories we tell about and from the perspectives of our experiential homes. Acknowledging Inheritance In the opening paragraph of “Nominalist and Realist,” Emerson spoke an experiential truth: “I cannot often enough say, that a man is only a relative and representative nature. Each is a hint of the truth, but far enough from being that truth, which he [or she] yet quite newly and inevitably suggests to us” (CW, 3:133). If we embrace our inheritances individually, American philosophy will continue to reawaken itself. It will both imbibe and express, from our representative angles of vision, the richness of our own history and culture, the depth of our despairs and the wealth of our expectations. Margaret Fuller’s Woman in the Nineteenth Century met with ridicule and resistance in professional philosophical circles. But it was spoken directly from her experience and it spoke honestly of her own possibilities. As Donna Dickenson points out, Emerson’s “Nature (1836) took seven years to clear an edition of 500 copies. Fuller’s Woman in the Nineteenth Century sold out an edition twice that size in one week.”11 It was popular philosophy because it captured and expressed experiences lived by many women of the nineteenth century, and for the same reasons it has become important philosophy. We now take Fuller’s awakening call seriously across the culture, even if we do not yet read her work as often as we should, or meet her demands. As noted earlier, American philosophers and philosophers in America, just as the culture at large, have been blind to a variety of representative perspectives and have left a number of needs unattended. Only recently have we really begun to believe that American philosophy north of Mexico speaks Spanish. In 1980 Spanish was not recognized in most graduate programs in philosophy in the United States as a legitimate philosophical language. Only Greek, Latin, German, and French were acceptable. Fond as I am of these languages and their philosophical importance, the exclusion of Spanish, especially in our culture, was more sin than mistake. Not only did we overlook the significant work of Unamuno and Ortega y Gasset, but we completely ignored and, for the most part, continue to ignore a wealth of aesthetic and political writings from Central and South America. Moreover, a large part of Hispanic thought and experience in the United States was rendered invisible to philosophy in America. For philosophy Americana, Spanish must become a required subject. We need to learn Spanish just as we need to learn rural and urban vernacular speech to grasp more of the breadth and depth of our cultural outlooks—our various autochthonous responses to this land. We learn these languages, again, because someone lives in them and is at home in them—they are the bearers of experience even if language itself is not fully adequate to experience. “By the end of this [the twentieth] century, Spanish speakers will comprise the biggest minority group in the U.S.,” says Anzaldúa, “a country whose students in high schools and colleges are encouraged to take French classes because French is considered more ‘cultured.’”12 The force of Anzaldúa’s argument is grounded in the experiences she has suffered. Bringing one’s own experience into philosophical reflection nevertheless bears several dangers. It can easily become self-engrossed, self-serving, or even maudlin. It can distract our focus from argumentation and structure in such a way as to become merely descriptive, to be uninstructive. Moreover, as we know, it can become exclusionary, suggesting that the personal version of experience has a corner on the market of ideal experiences. Such were common complaints against pragmatism at the outset of the twentieth century. What those who complained failed to recognize was the cultural embeddedness of and their personal commitment to their own versions of philosophy. As Dewey notes, “It is an old story that philosophers, in common with theologians and social theorists, are as sure that personal habits and interests shape their opponents’ doctrines as they are that their own beliefs are ‘absolutely’ universal and objective in quality” (MW, 4:113). Personal experience does not validate or invalidate beliefs, but it is the place from which they arise and the place to which they return. Though I hope to avoid these failures of hubris and reductionism, I remain fallible and fallibilistic. My hope is to build out from experience; to be inclusive, not exclusive. But inclusion itself must be launched from somewhere—to try to be neutral or to try to repress one’s experiential origins strikes me as an exercise in bad faith, the very thing that will undermine any philosophical outlook. No particular experience can include all other experiences, but in establishing one’s angle of vision, one establishes the premises for reaching out toward others’ experiences, for creating communication. Not a casual conversation but a thick exchange of thought and feeling.

Philosophy Americana: Making Philosophy at Home in American Culture (American Philosophy Book 18)" by Douglas R. Anderson: https://a.co/1FTNF1g

Torturing democracy

Saturday, July 30, 2022

Walden & the Natural World of Transcendentalism

LISTEN. This show originally aired on July 6, 2017. Radio Open Source.

Henry David Thoreau, our specimen of American genius in nature, wrote famously short, and long.  “Simplify,” in a one-word sentence of good advice.  But then 2-million words on 7-thousand pages in his quotable lifetime journal.  

It’s one of many odd points to notice about Thoreau at his 200th birthday: that the non-stop writer was equally a man of action, a scientist and a high-flying poet whose imagination saw that “the bluebird carries the sky on his back;” and still a workman with callused hands, at home in the wild, a walker four hours a day on average, in no particular direction.  His transcendentalism was all about the blossoming intersection of nature-study and introspection, fact and idea, detail and ideals.  In his pine grove, on his river, at his pond, the outdoor Thoreau.

N. C. Wyeth (1882-1945) Walden Pond Revisited, 1942

What does a Transcendentalist do, we were asking in the first of three bicentennial Thoreau shows?  All the answers are to be found in the canoe trip that became a masterpiece, titled: A Week on the Concord and Merrimack Rivers. What the Transcendentalist does is soar – between water below and sky above; between this day and eternity, between Nature, and human society.

We start our journey at the South Bridge Boat House near Thoreau’s house on Main Street in Concord, just upstream from the Concord River itself.  A naturalist philosopher in the Thoreau lineage, Alex Strong from Maine, is one of our guides.  During our trip down Thoreau’s “little Nile”,  Alex tells us about what the strapping, young 22 year old was learning on his voyage: 

He was learning about big-N Nature when he was studying the Perch, studying when flowers bloomed, where the bees were. The notes he took, the meticulous notes, weren’t just about the little details; they’re about understanding the whole picture and keeping nature sacred while understanding it, in all its finite mundane details.

Next up, the still-water Walden, a pond in Concord, Massachusetts where Henry Thoreau wrote his great book in a cabin by the shore. In 1845 Walden was a woodlot next to the new railway where the 28-year-old poet went to “suck out the marrow of life,” whatever it turned out to be. Our guide to the pond and the book, the young philosopher John Kaag had been in and out of the Walden water the other morning before we got there.

 

Photo by Michael J. Lutch

While we’re here, at Walden, we decided to stop and consider the statuesque, very tall, dark-green, almost black, pine trees all around Walden Pond, trees that Thoreau came to consider cousins, virtually human.  Richard Higgins, widely traveled in Concord today, has written a book on Thoreau and the Language of Trees, and he has no doubt that Thoreau spoke it fluently, from the heart.

Finally, we conclude with a Thoreauvian meditation on walking. Real walkers are born, not made, Thoreau liked to say.  “If you are ready to leave father and mother, and brother and sister, and wife and child and friends, and never see them again, — if you have paid your debts, and made your will, and settled all your affairs, and are a free man, then you are ready for a walk.”  These days the woods and the bookstores are full of such walkers.  Andrew Forsthoefel made his reputation in public radio walking 4000 miles from Philadelphia to San Francisco, with a sign that said “walking to listen” and recording back-road stories. And then there’s the literary traveler Paul Theroux, of Cape Cod and Hawaii, of the Mosquito Coast and The Great Railway Bazaar. He has spent a lifetime on trains, and in kayaks, and a lot of it on his own two feet in China, in our own Deep South and specially in Africa.  In our conversation, Theroux extends Thoreau’s idea that walking is in-born, into some more than others.

See a full transcript of this show on Medium.


Guest List
John Kaag
professor of philosophy at UMass Lowell and author of American Philosophy: A Love Story
Alejandro Strong
philosophy teacher, wilderness guide and founder at Apeiron Expeditions
Paul Theroux
travel writer, novelist, essayist and author of The Tao of Travel: Enlightenments from Lives on the Road
Richard Higgins
author of Thoreau and the Language of Trees
Andrew Forsthoefel
radio producer and author of Walking to Listen: 4,000 Miles Across America, One Story at a Time

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Thursday, July 21, 2022

I Am An American Philosopher: Naoko Saito – Society for the Advancement of American Philosophy

Naoko Saito is Professor in the Graduate School of Education at the University of Kyoto. She is the author of The Gleam of Light: Moral Perfectionism and Education in Dewey and Emerson (2005) and American Philosophy in Translation (2019). She is co-editor, with Naomi Hodgson, of Philosophy as Translation and the Understanding of Other Cultures (2018), and co-editor with Paul Standish of Stanley Cavell and Philosophy as Translation: The Truth is Translated (2017), Stanley Cavell and the Education of Grownups (2012) and Education and the Kyoto School of Philosophy: Pedagogy for Human Transformation (2012). She is a past recipient of SAAP's Ila and John Mellow Prize and the Joseph L. Blau Prize.

What does American philosophy mean to you?

My area of research is American philosophy and philosophy of education, with a special focus on John Dewey's pragmatism, Ralph Waldo Emerson's and Henry David Thoreau's American transcendentalism, and Stanley Cavell's ordinary language philosophy. I feel that education in the East and the West today is in need of a language and a mode of action that can resist not only the economic tide of globalization but also threats posed by anxieties of inclusion—by this phrase I mean, for example, those tensions brought into focus by the past presidency of Donald Trump and by Brexit. In response to this need, in my publications, I attempt to reconstruct Deweyan pragmatism in dialogue with other American voices: those of Emerson, Thoreau, and Cavell, all of whom show strains of Eastern thought in their work. Their moral perfectionism helps Dewey address more sensitively the problem of alterity in globalization and saves him from the limitations of American democracy.

How did you become an American philosopher?

Over the past thirty years I have been working as a mediator in cross-cultural settings, especially between Japan and Anglo-American and European cultures. My academic research, international research activities, teaching and professional work are inseparable from these experiences. My area of specialization is philosophy of education and American philosophy, especially insofar as this relates to intercultural understanding and education for citizenship in a globalized world.

These interests derive in part from my first degree, when I majored in American Studies. Postgraduate studies with Israel Scheffler and Hilary Putnam at Harvard led me to a deep interest in philosophy of education, especially in Dewey's democratic philosophy of education. Later studies with Cavell furthered my interest in the transcendentalism of Emerson, culminating in my Ph.D. from Columbia University in October 2000.

Since 2001 I have been working closely with Paul Standish at UCL IOE, which has enabled me to expand my research activities into continental philosophies and connections with European scholars. Most recently, I have developed close research connections on American philosophy with Richard Bernstein at the New School for Social Research and with Sami Pihlström at the University of Helsinki. These international connections are at the heart of my research and teaching activities in cross-dialogue in philosophy and education.

How would you describe your current research?

My book, American Philosophy in Translation (2019), is the product of many years spent reading and studying American philosophy. Mostly I have done this from a remote part of the world—far from America across the Pacific Ocean – and, like so many others, in a language that is not my own. I came to the idea of this book, and to thematizing these issues in terms of translation, partly through a sense that there was something still to be released in American thought and pragmatism, and that an outsider's viewpoint might actually be beneficial. It is through the experience of standing on the precarious border between inside and outside that I hit upon the related ideas of translation, transcendence and transformation—following Henry David Thoreau's closing remarks in Walden:

The light which puts out our eyes is darkness to us. Only that day dawns to which we are awake. There is more day to dawn. The sun is but a morning star.

The account offered in my book is driven by my strong attraction to the best assets of American culture, assets that seem, to this outsider's eye and ear, to have been stifled in stereotypical forms of American discourse. The book is an endeavor to attend in a fresh way to the voices of Dewey, Emerson, Thoreau and Cavell.

What do you do when you're not doing American philosophy?

I suppose my "hobby" is international networking. Before the spread of COVID-19, I was traveling abroad to see people and organize conferences, involving people from different fields and across generations. Since traveling abroad has become difficult, I have been organizing and attending international meetings online.

What's your favorite work in American philosophy? What should we all be reading?

Definitely Stanley Cavell, Ralph Waldo Emerson and Henry David Thoreau! For example, Thoreau's Walden, and Cavell's The Claim of Reason: Wittgenstein, Skepticism, Morality, and Tragedy (1979) and The Senses of Walden (1992).

Saito-Interview-FinalDownload

https://american-philosophy.org/i-am-an-american-philosopher-interview-series/i-am-an-american-philosopher-naoko-saito/

MALA 6050 (Topics in Science and Reason) - Americana: Streams of Experience in American Culture

Coming to MTSU, Jy '24-   B term (7/1-8/9) web assisted (Tuesdays 6-9:10pm in JUB 202) w/Phil Oliver