O'Brien makes it clear that such
individualism
will not be tolerated: "There will be no loyalty, except loyalty to the Party.
Steven-Pinker-The-Blank-Slate 1
75 The Bauhaus designers and artists, too, were appreciators of perceptual psychology, particularly the contemporary Gestalt school.
76 But the consilience was lost as the two cultures drifted apart, and only recently have they begun to come back together.
I predict that the application of cognitive science and evolutionary psychology to the arts will become a growth area in criticism and scholarship.
The other point of contact may be more important still. Ultimately what draws us to a work of art is not just the sensory experience of the medium but its emotional content and insight into the human condition. And these tap into the timeless tragedies of our biological predicament: our mortality, our finite knowledge and wisdom, the differences among us, and our conflicts of interest with friends, neighbors, relatives, and lovers. All are topics of the sciences of human nature.
The idea that art should reflect the perennial and universal qualities of the human species is not new. Samuel Johnson, in the preface to his edition of Shakespeare's plays, comments on the lasting appeal of that great intuitive psychologist:
Nothing can please many, and please long, but just representations of general nature. Particular manners can be known to few, and therefore few only can judge how nearly they are copied. The irregular combinations of fanciful invention may delight a-while, by that novelty of which the common satiety of life sends us all in quest; but the pleasures of sudden wonder are soon exhausted, and the mind can only repose on the stability of truth.
Today we may be seeing a new convergence of explorations of the human condition by artists and scientists -- not because scientists are trying to take over the humanities, but because artists and humanists are beginning to look to the sciences, or at least to the scientific mindset that sees us as a species with a complex psychological endowment. In explaining this connection I cannot hope to compete with the words of the artists themselves, and I will conclude with the overtures of three fine novelists.
Iris Murdoch, haunted by the origins of the moral sense, comments on its endurance in fiction:
We make, in many respects though not in all, the same kinds of moral judgments as the Greeks did, and we recognize good or decent people in times and literatures remote from our own. Patroclus, Antigone, Cordelia, Mr. Knightley, Alyosha. Patroclus' invariable kindness. Cordelia's truthfulness. Alyosha telling his father not to be afraid of hell. It is just as important that Patroclus should be kind to the captive {419} women as that Emma should be kind to Miss Bates, and we feel this importance in an immediate and natural way in both cases in spite of the fact that nearly three thousand years divide the writers. And this, when one reflects on it, is a remarkable testimony to the existence of a single durable human nature. 77
A. S. Byatt, asked by the editors of the New York Times Magazine for the best narrative of the millennium, picked the story of Scheherazade:
The stories in "The Thousand and One Nights" . . . are stories about storytelling without ever ceasing to be stories about love and life and death and money and food and other human necessities. Narration is as much a part of human nature as breath and the circulation of the blood. Modernist literature tried to do away with storytelling, which it thought vulgar, replacing it with flashbacks, epiphanies, streams of consciousness. But storytelling is intrinsic to biological time, which we cannot escape. Life, Pascal said, is like living in a prison from which every day fellow prisoners are taken away to be executed. We are all, like Scheherazade, under sentences of death, and we all think of our lives as narratives, with beginnings, middles, and ends. 78
John Updike, also asked for reflections at the turn of the millennium, commented on the future of his own profession. "A writer of fiction, a professional liar, is paradoxically obsessed with what is true," he wrote, and "the unit of truth, at least for a fiction writer, is the human animal, belonging to the species Homo sapiens, unchanged for at least 100,000 years. "
? ? ? ? ? ? ? ? ? ? ? ? Evolution moves more slowly than history, and much slower than the technology of recent centuries; surely sociobiology, surprisingly maligned in some scientific quarters, performs a useful service in investigating what traits are innate and which are acquired. What kind of cultural software can our evolved hard-wiring support? Fiction, in its groping way, is drawn to those moments of discomfort when society asks more than its individual members can, or wish to, provide. Ordinary people experiencing friction on the page is what warms our hands and hearts as we write. . . .
To be human is to be in the tense condition of a death-foreseeing, consciously libidinous animal. No other earthly creature suffers such a capacity for thought, such a complexity of envisioned but frustrated possibilities, such a troubling ability to question the tribal and biological imperatives.
So conflicted and ingenious a creature makes an endlessly interesting {420} focus for the meditations of fiction. It seems to me true that Homo sapiens will never settle into any Utopia so complacently as to relax all its conflicts and erase all its perversity-breeding neediness. 79
Literature has three voices, wrote the scholar Robert Storey: those of the author, the audience, and the species. 80 These novelists are reminding us of the voice of the species, an essential constituent of all the arts, and a fitting theme with which to wrap up my own story.
<< {421} >>
THE VOICE OF THE SPECIES
The Blank Slate was an attractive vision. It promised to make racism, sexism, and class prejudice factually untenable. It appeared to be a bulwark against the kind of thinking that led to ethnic genocide. It aimed to prevent people from slipping into a premature fatalism about preventable social ills. It put a spotlight on the treatment of children, indigenous peoples, and the underclass. The Blank Slate thus became part of a secular faith and appeared to constitute the common decency of our age.
But the Blank Slate had, and has, a dark side. The vacuum that it posited in human nature was eagerly filled by totalitarian regimes, and it did nothing to prevent their genocides. It perverts education, childrearing, and the arts into forms of social engineering. It torments mothers who work outside the home and parents whose children did not turn out as they would have liked. It threatens to outlaw biomedical research that could alleviate human suffering. Its corollary, the Noble Savage, invites contempt for the principles of democracy and of "a government of laws and not of men. " It blinds us to our cognitive and moral shortcomings. And in matters of policy it has elevated sappy dogmas above the search for workable solutions.
The Blank Slate is not some ideal that we should all hope and pray is true. No, it is an anti-life, anti-human theoretical abstraction that denies our common humanity, our inherent interests, and our individual preferences. Though it has pretensions of celebrating our potential, it does the opposite, because our potential comes from the combinatorial interplay of wonderfully complex faculties, not from the passive blankness of an empty tablet. Regardless of its good and bad effects, the Blank Slate is an empirical hypothesis about the functioning of the brain and must be evaluated in terms of whether or not it is true. The modern sciences of mind, brain, genes, and evolution are increasingly showing that it is not true. The result is a rearguard effort to salvage the Blank Slate by disfiguring science and intellectual life: {422} denying the possibility of objectivity and truth, dumbing down issues into dichotomies, replacing facts and logic with political posturing.
The Blank Slate became so entrenched in intellectual life that the prospect of doing without it can be deeply unsettling. In topics from childrearing to sexuality, from natural foods to violence, ideas that seemed immoral even to question turn out to be not just questionable but probably wrong. Even people with no ideological ax to grind can feel a sense of vertigo when they learn of such taboos being broken: "O brave new world that has such people in it! " Is science leading to a place where prejudice is all right, where children may be neglected, where Machiavellianism is accepted, where inequality and violence are met with resignation, where people are treated like machines?
Not at all! By unhandcuffing widely shared values from moribund factual dogmas, the rationale for those values can only become clearer. We understand why we condemn prejudice, cruelty to children, and violence against women, and can focus our efforts on how to implement the goals we value most. We thereby protect those goals against the upheavals of factual understanding that science perennially delivers.
Abandoning the Blank Slate, in any case, is not as radical as it might first appear. True, it is a revolution in many
? ? ? ? ? ? ? ? ? ? sectors of modern intellectual life. But except for a few intellectuals who have let their theories get the better of them, it is not a revolution in the world views of most people. I suspect that few people really believe, deep down, that boys and girls are interchangeable, that all differences in intelligence come from the environment, that parents can micromanage the personalities of their children, that humans are born free of selfish tendencies, or that appealing stories, melodies, and faces are arbitrary social constructions. Margaret Mead, an icon of twentieth-century egalitarianism, told her daughter that she credited her own intellectual talent to her genes, and I can confirm that such split personalities are common among academics. 1 Scholars who publicly deny that intelligence is a meaningful concept treat it as anything but meaningless in their professional lives. Those who argue that gender differences are a reversible social construction do not treat them that way in their advice to their daughters, their dealings with the opposite sex, and their unguarded gossip, humor, and reflections on their lives.
Acknowledging human nature does not mean overturning our personal world views, and I would have nothing to suggest as a replacement if it did. It means only taking intellectual life out of its parallel universe and reuniting it with science and, when it is borne out by science, with common sense. The alternative is to make intellectual life increasingly irrelevant to human affairs, to turn intellectuals into hypocrites, and to turn everyone else into anti- intellectuals.
Scientists and public intellectuals are not the only people who have pondered how the mind works. We are all psychologists, and some people, without {423} the benefit of credentials, are great psychologists. Among them are poets and novelists, whose business, as we saw in the preceding chapter, is to create "just representations of general nature. " Paradoxically, in today's intellectual climate novelists may have a clearer mandate than scientists to speak the truth about human nature. Sophisticated people sneer at feel-good comedies and saccharine romances in which all loose ends are tied and everyone lives happily ever after. Life is nothing like that, we note, and we look to the arts for edification about the painful dilemmas of the human condition.
Yet when it comes to the science of human beings, this same audience says: Give us schmaltz! "Pessimism" is considered a legitimate criticism of observations of human nature, and people expect theories to be a source of sentimental uplift. "Shakespeare had no conscience; neither do I," said George Bernard Shaw. This was not a confession of psychopathy but an affirmation of a good playwright's obligation to take every character's point of view seriously. Scientists of human behavior have the same obligation, and it does not require them to turn off their consciences in the spheres in which they must be exercised.
Poets and novelists have made many of the points of this book with greater wit and power than any academic scribbler could hope to do. They allow me to conclude the book by revisiting some of its main themes without merely repeating them. What follows are five vignettes from literature that capture, for me, some of the morals of the sciences of human nature. They underscore that the discoveries of those sciences should be faced not with fear and loathing but with the balance and discernment we use when we reflect on human nature in the rest of our lives.
~
The Brain -- is wider than the Sky -- For -- put them side by side --
The one the other will contain
With ease -- and you -- beside --
The Brain is deeper than the sea -- For -- hold them -- Blue to Blue -- The one the other will absorb --
As Sponges -- Buckets -- do --
The Brain is just the weight of God -- For -- Heft them -- Pound for Pound -- And they will differ -- if they do --
As Syllable from Sound --
The first two verses of Emily Dickinson's "The Brain Is Wider Than the Sky" express the grandeur in the view of the mind as consisting in the activity of the brain. 2 Here and in her other poems, Dickinson refers to "the brain," not {424} "the soul" or even "the mind," as if to remind her readers that the seat of our thought and experience is a
hunk of matter. Yes, science is, in a sense, "reducing" us to the physiological processes of a not-very-attractive three- pound organ. But what an organ! In its staggering complexity, its explosive combinatorial computation, and its limitless ability to imagine real and hypothetical worlds, the brain, truly, is wider than the sky. The poem itself proves it. Simply to understand the comparison in each verse, the brain of the reader must contain the sky and absorb
? ? ? ? the sea and visualize each one at the same scale as the brain itself.
The enigmatic final verse, with its startling image of God and the brain being hefted like cabbages, has puzzled readers since the poem was published. Some read it as creationism (God made the brain), others as atheism (the brain thought up God). The simile with phonology -- sound is a seamless continuum, a syllable is a demarcated unit of it -- suggests a kind of pantheism: God is everywhere and nowhere, and every brain incarnates a finite measure of divinity. The loophole "if they do" suggests mysticism -- the brain and God may somehow be the same thing -- and, of course, agnosticism. The ambiguity is surely intentional, and I doubt that anyone could defend a single interpretation as the correct one.
I like to read the verse as suggesting that the mind, in contemplating its place in the cosmos, at some point reaches its own limitations and runs into puzzles that seem to belong in a separate, divine realm. Free will and subjective experience, for example, are alien to our concept of causation and feel like a divine spark inside us. Morality and meaning seem to inhere in a reality that exists independent of our judgments. But that separateness may be the illusion of a brain that makes it impossible for us not to think they are separate from us. Ultimately we have no way of knowing, because we are our brains and have no way of stepping outside them to check. But if we are thereby trapped, it is a trap that we can hardly bemoan, for it is wider than the sky, deeper than the sea, and perhaps as weighty as God.
~
Kurt Vonnegut's story "Harrison Bergeron" is as transparent as Dickinson's poem is cryptic. Here is how it begins:
The year was 2081, and everybody was finally equal. They weren't only equal before God and the law. They were equal every which way. Nobody was smarter than anybody else. Nobody was better looking than anybody else. Nobody was stronger or quicker than anybody else. All this equality was due to the 211th, 212th, and 213th Amendments to the Constitution, and to the unceasing vigilance of agents of the United States Handicapper General. 3 {425}
The Handicapper General enforces equality by neutralizing any inherited (hence undeserved) asset. Intelligent people have to wear radios in their ears tuned to a government transmitter that sends out a sharp noise every twenty seconds (such as the sound of a milk bottle struck with a ball-peen hammer) to prevent them from taking unfair advantage of their brains. Ballerinas are laden with bags of birdshot and their faces are hidden by masks so that no one can feel bad at seeing someone prettier or more graceful than they. Newscasters are selected for their speech impediments. The hero of the story is a multiply gifted teenager forced to wear headphones, thick wavy glasses, three hundred pounds of scrap iron, and black caps on half his teeth. The story is about his ill-fated rebellion.
Subtle it is not, but "Harrison Bergeron" is a witty reductio of an all too common fallacy. The ideal of political equality is not a guarantee that people are innately indistinguishable. It is a policy to treat people in certain spheres (justice, education, politics) on the basis of their individual merits rather than the statistics of any group they belong to. And it is a policy to recognize inalienable rights in all people by virtue of the fact that they are sentient human beings. Policies that insist that people be identical in their outcomes must impose costs on humans who, like all living things, vary in their biological endowment. Since talents by definition are rare, and can be fully realized only in rare circumstances, it is easier to achieve forced equality by lowering the top (and thereby depriving everyone of the fruits of people's talents) than by raising the bottom. In Vonnegut's America of 2081 the desire for equality of outcome is played out as a farce, but in the twentieth century it frequently led to real crimes against humanity, and in our own society the entire issue is often a taboo.
Vonnegut is a beloved author who has never been called a racist, sexist, elitist, or Social Darwinist. Imagine the reaction if he had stated his message in declarative sentences rather than in a satirical story. Every generation has its designated jokers, from Shakespearean fools to Lenny Bruce, who give voice to truths that are unmentionable in polite society. Today part-time humorists like Vonnegut, and full-time ones like Richard Pryor, Dave Barry, and the writers of The Onion, are continuing that tradition.
~
Vonnegut's dystopian fantasy was played out as a story-length farce, but the most famous of such fantasies was played out as a novel-length nightmare. George Orwell's 1984 is a vivid depiction of what life would look like if the repressive strands of society and government were extrapolated into the future. In the half-century since the novel was published, many developments have been condemned because of their associations to Orwell's world: government euphemism, national identity cards, surveillance cameras, personal data on the Internet, and even, in the first television commercial for the {426} Macintosh computer, the IBM PC. No other work of fiction has had such an impact on people's opinions of real-world issues.
? ? ? Nineteen Eighty-four was unforgettable literature, not just a political screed, because of the way Orwell thought through the details of how his society would work. Every component of the nightmare interlocked with the others to form a rich and credible whole: the omnipresent government, the eternal war with shifting enemies, the totalitarian control of the media and private life, the Newspeak language, the constant threat of personal betrayal.
Less widely known is that the regime had a well-articulated philosophy. It is explained to Winston Smith in the harrowing sequence in which he is strapped to a table and alternately tortured and lectured by the government agent O'Brien. The philosophy of the regime is thoroughly postmodernist, O'Brien explains (without, of course, using the word). When Winston objects that the Party cannot realize its slogan, "Who controls the past controls the future; who controls the present controls the past," O'Brien replies:
You believe that reality is something objective, external, existing in its own right. You also believe that the nature of reality is self-evident. When you delude yourself into thinking that you see something, you assume that everyone else sees the same thing as you. But I tell you, Winston, that reality is not external. Reality exists in the human mind, and nowhere else. Not in the individual mind, which can make mistakes, and in any case soon perishes; only in the mind of the Party, which is collective and immortal. 4
O'Brien admits that for certain purposes, such as navigating the ocean, it is useful to assume that the Earth goes around the sun and that there are stars in distant galaxies. But, he continues, the Party could also use alternative astronomies in which the sun goes around the Earth and the stars are bits of fire a few kilometers away. And though O'Brien does not explain it in this scene, Newspeak is the ultimate "prisonhouse of language," a "language that thinks man and his 'world. '"
O'Brien's lecture should give pause to the advocates of postmodernism. It is ironic that a philosophy that prides itself on deconstructing the accoutrements of power should embrace a relativism that makes challenges to power impossible, because it denies that there are objective benchmarks against which the deceptions of the powerful can be evaluated. For the same reason, the passages should give pause to radical scientists who insist that other scientists' aspirations to theories with objective reality (including theories about human nature) are really weapons to preserve the interests of the dominant class, gender, and race. 5 Without a notion of objective truth, {427} intellectual life degenerates into a struggle of who can best exercise the raw force to "control the past. "
A second precept of the Party's philosophy is the doctrine of the super-organism:
Can you not understand, Winston, that the individual is only a cell? The weariness of the cell is the
vigor of the organism. Do you die when you cut your fingernails? 6
The doctrine that a collectivity (a culture, a society, a class, a gender) is a living thing with its own interests and belief system lies behind Marxist political philosophies and the social science tradition begun by Durkheim. Orwell is showing its dark side: the dismissal of the individual -- the only entity that literally feels pleasure and pain -- as a mere component that exists to further the interests of the whole. The sedition of Winston and his lover Julia began in the pursuit of simple human pleasures -- sugar and coffee, white writing paper, private conversation, affectionate lovemaking.
O'Brien makes it clear that such individualism will not be tolerated: "There will be no loyalty, except loyalty to the Party. There will be no love, except the love of Big Brother. "7
The Party also believes that emotional ties to family and friends are "habits" that get in the way of a smoothly functioning society:
Already we are breaking down the habits of thought that have survived from before the Revolution. We have cut the links between child and parent, and between man and man, and between man and woman. No one dares trust a wife or a child or a friend any longer. But in the future there will be no wives and no friends. Children will be taken from their mothers at birth, as one takes eggs from a hen. The sex instinct will be eradicated. . . . There will be no distinction between beauty and ugliness. 8
It is hard to read the passage and not think of the current enthusiasm for proposals in which enlightened mandarins would reengineer childrearing, the arts, and the relationship between the sexes in an effort to build a better society. Dystopian novels, of course, work by grotesque exaggeration. Any idea can be made to look terrifying in caricature, even if it is reasonable in moderation. I do not mean to imply that a concern with the interests of society or in improving human relationships is a step toward totalitarianism. But satire can show how popular ideologies may have forgotten downsides -- in this case, how the notion that language, thought, and emotions are social conventions
{428} creates an opening for social engineers to try to reform them. Once we become aware of the downsides, we no longer have to treat the ideologies as sacred cows to which factual discoveries must be subordinated.
? ? ? ? ? ? ? And finally we get to the core of the Party's philosophy. O'Brien has refuted every one of Winston's arguments, dashed every one of his hopes. He has informed him, "If you want a picture of the future, imagine a boot stamping on a human face -- forever. " Toward the end of this dialogue, O'Brien reveals the proposition that makes the whole nightmare possible (and whose falsehood, we may surmise, will make it impossible).
As usual, the voice had battered Winston into helplessness. Moreover he was in dread that if he persisted in his disagreement O'Brien would twist the dial again. And yet he could not keep silent. Feebly, without arguments, with nothing to support him except his inarticulate horror of what O'Brien had said, he returned to the attack.
"I don't know -- I don't care. Somehow you will fail. Something will defeat you. Life will defeat you. " "We control life, Winston, at all its levels. You are imagining that there is something called human nature which will be outraged by what we do and will turn against us. But we create human nature. Men are infinitely malleable. "9
~
The three works I have discussed are didactic and unanchored in any existing time and place. The remaining two are different. Both are rooted in a culture, a locale, and an era. Both savor their characters' language, milieu, and philosophies of life. And both authors warned their readers not to generalize from the stories. Yet both authors are famous for their insight into human nature, and I believe I am doing them no injustice by presenting episodes from their works in that light.
Mark Twain's Adventures of Huckleberry Finn is an especially perilous source for lessons because it begins with the following order of the author: "Persons attempting to find a motive in this narrative will be prosecuted; persons attempting to find a moral in it will be banished; persons attempting to find a plot in it will be shot. " That has not deterred a century of critics from noting its dual power. Huckleberry Finn shows us both the foibles of the antebellum South and the foibles of human nature, as seen through the eyes of two noble savages who sample them as they float down the Mississippi River.
Huckleberry Finn revels in many human imperfections, but perhaps the most tragicomic is the origin of violence in a culture of honor. The culture of honor is really a psychology of honor: a package of emotions that includes a loyalty to kin, a hunger for revenge, and a drive to maintain a reputation for toughness and valor. When sparked by other human sins -- envy, lust, self-deception {429} -- they can fuel a vicious cycle of violence, as each side finds itself unable to abjure revenge against the other. The cycle can become amplified in certain places, among them the American South.
Huck met up with the culture of honor on two occasions in quick succession. The first was when he stowed away on a barge manned by a "rough-looking lot" of hard-drinking men. After one of them was about to belt out the fifteenth verse of a raunchy song, an altercation of relatively trivial origin broke out, and two men squared off to fight.
[Bob, the biggest man on the boat] jumped up in the air and cracked his heels together again and shouted out: "Whoo-oop! I'm the original iron-jawed, brass-mounted, copper-bellied corpse-maker from the wilds of Arkansaw! Look at me! I'm the man they call Sudden Death and General Desolation! Sired by a hurricane, dam'd by an earthquake, half-brother to the cholera, nearly related to the smallpox on the mother's side! Look at me! I take nineteen alligators and a bar'l of whisky for breakfast when I'm in robust health, and a bushel of rattlesnakes and a dead body when I'm ailing. I split the everlasting rocks with my glance, and I squench the thunder when I speak! Whoo-oop! Stand back and give me room according to my strength! Blood's my natural drink and the wails of the dying is music to my ear. Cast your eye on me, gentlemen! and lay low and hold your breath, for I'm 'bout to turn myself loose! ". . .
Then the man that had started the row. . . jumped up and cracked his heels together three times before he lit again . . . , and he began to shout like this: "Whoo-oop! bow your neck and spread, for the kingdom of sorrow's a coming! Hold me down to the earth, for I feel my powers a-working! . . . I put my hand on the sun's face and make it night in the earth; I bite a piece out of the moon and hurry the seasons; I shake myself and crumble the mountains! Contemplate me through leather -- don't use the naked eye! I'm the man with a petrified heart and biler-iron bowels! The massacre of isolated communities is the pastime of my idle moments, the destruction of nationalities the serious business of my life! The boundless vastness of the great American desert is my inclosed property, and I bury the dead on my own premises! . . . Whoo-oop! bow your neck and spread, for the Pet Child of Calamity's a'coming! "10
? ? ? They circled and flailed at each other and knocked each other's hats off, until Bob said, as Huck describes it,
. . . never mind, this warn't going to be the last of this thing, because he was a man that never forgot and never forgive, and so The Child better {429} look out for there was a time a-coming, just as sure as he was a living man, that he would have to answer to him with the best blood in his body. The Child said no man was willinger than he for that time to come, and he would give Bob fair warning, now, never to cross his path again, for he could never rest till he had waded in his blood, for such was his nature, though he was sparing him now on account of his family, if he had one. 11
And then a "little black-whiskered chap" sent them both sprawling. With black eyes and red noses, they shook hands, said they had always respected each other, and agreed to let bygones be bygones.
Later in the chapter Huck swims ashore and stumbles onto the cabin of a family called the Grangerfords. Huck is frozen in his tracks by menacing dogs, until a voice from the window beckons him to enter the cabin slowly. He opens the door and finds himself staring down the barrels of three shotguns. When the Grangerfords see that Huck is not a Shepherdson, the family with whom they are feuding, they welcome him to live with them. Huck is captivated by their genteel life: their lovely furnishings, their elegant dress, and their refined manners, especially the patriarch, Col. Grangerford. "He was a gentleman all over, and so was his family. He was well born, as the saying is, and that's worth as much in a man as it is in a horse. "
Three of the six Grangerford sons had been killed in the feud, and the youngest survivor, Buck, has befriended Huck. When the two boys go for a walk and Buck shoots at a Shepherdson boy, Huck asks why he wants to kill someone who has done nothing to hurt him. Buck explains the concept of a feud:
"Well," says Buck, "a feud is this way: A man has a quarrel with another man, and kills him; then that other man's brother kills him; then the other brothers on both sides goes for one another; then the cousins chip in -- and by and by everybody's killed off and there ain't no more feud. But it's kind of slow and takes a long time. "
"Has this one been going on long, Buck? "
"Well, I should reckon! It started thirty years ago, or som'ers along there. There was trouble 'bout something and then a lawsuit to settle it, and the suit went agin one of the men and so he up and shot the man that won the suit -- which he would naturally do, of course. Anybody would. "
"What was the trouble about, Buck? -- land? "
"I reckon maybe -- I don't know. "
"Well, who done the shooting? Was it a Grangerford or a Shepherdson? " {431}
"Laws, how do I know? It was so long ago. " "Don't anybody know? "
"Oh, yes, pa knows, I reckon, and some of the other old people; but they don't know now what the row was about in the first place. "12
Buck adds that the feud is carried along by the two families' sense of honor: "There ain't a coward amongst them Shepherdsons -- not a one. And there ain't no cowards amongst the Grangerfords either. "13 The reader anticipates
trouble, and it comes soon enough. A Grangerford girl runs off with a Shepherdson boy, the Grangerfords head off in hot pursuit, and all the Grangerford males are killed in an ambush. "I ain't a'going to tell all that happened," says Huck; "it would make me sick again if I was to do that. I wished I hadn't ever come ashore that night to see such things. "14
In the course of the chapter Huck has met up with two instances of the Southern culture of honor. Among the low- lifes it amounted to hollow bluster and was played for laughs; among the aristocrats it led to the devastation of two families and played out as tragedy. I think Twain was commenting on the twisted logic of violence and how it cuts across our stereotypes of refined and coarse classes of people. Indeed, the moral reckoning does not just cut across the classes but inverts them: the riffraff resolve their pointless dispute with face-saving verbiage; the gentlemen pursue their equally pointless one to a dreadful conclusion.
Though thoroughly Southern, the perverse psychology of the Grangerford-Shepherdson feud is familiar from the history and ethnography of just about any region of the world. (In particular, Huck's introduction to the Grangerfords was hilariously replayed in Napoleon Chagnon's famous account of his baptism into anthropological fieldwork, in which he stumbled into a feuding Yanomamo? village and found himself trapped by dogs and staring down the shafts of poison arrows. ) And it is familiar in the cycles of violence that continue to be played out by gangs, militias, ethnic groups, and respectable nation-states. Twain's depiction of the origins of endemic violence in an entrapping psychology of honor has a timelessness that will, I predict, make it outlast fashionable theories of the causes and cures of violence.
? ? ? ? ? ? ~
The final theme I wish to reprise is that the human tragedy lies in the partial conflicts of interest that are inherent to all human relationships. I suppose I could illustrate it with just about any great work of fiction. An immortal literary text expresses "all the principal constants of conflict in the condition of man," wrote George Steiner about Antigone; "Ordinary people experiencing friction on the page is what warms our hands and hearts as we write," observed John Updike. But one novel caught my eye by flaunting the idea in its title: Isaac Bashevis Singer's Enemies, A Love Story. 15 {432}
Singer, like Twain, protests too much against the possibility that his readers might draw morals from the slice of life he presents. "Although I did not have the privilege of going through the Hitler holocaust, I have lived for years in New York with refugees from this ordeal. I therefore hasten to say that this novel is by no means the story of the typical refugee, his life, and struggle. . . . The characters are not only Nazi victims but victims of their own personalities and fates. " In literature the exception is the rule, Singer writes, but only after noting that the exception is rooted in the rule. Singer has been praised as a keen observer of human nature, not least because he imagines what happens when fate puts ordinary characters in extraordinary dilemmas. This is the conceit behind his book and the superb 1989 film adaptation, directed by Paul Mazursky and featuring Anjelica Huston and Ron Silver.
Herman Broder lives in Brooklyn in 1949 with his second wife, Yadwiga, a peasant girl who worked for his parents as a servant when they lived in Poland. A decade earlier his first wife, Tamara, had taken their two children to visit her parents, and while they were separated the Nazis invaded Poland. Tamara and the children were shot; Herman survived because Yadwiga hid him in her family's hayloft. At the end of the war he learned of his family's fate and married Yadwiga, and they found their way to New York.
While in the refugee camps, Herman had fallen in love with Masha, whom he meets again in New York and with whom he carries on a consuming affair (later in the book he will marry her, too). Yadwiga and Masha are, in part, male fantasies: the first pure but simple, the second ravishing but histrionic. Herman's conscience prevents him from leaving Yadwiga; his passion prevents him from leaving Masha. This brings much misery all around, but Singer does not let us hate Herman too much because we see how the capricious horror of the Holocaust has left him a fatalist with no confidence that his decisions can affect the course of his life. Moreover, Herman is amply punished for his duplicity by a life of high anxiety, which Singer portrays with comic, at times sadistic, relish.
The cruel joke continues when Herman learns that he has even more of too much of a good thing. It turns out that his first wife survived the Nazi bullet and escaped to Russia; she has moved to New York and is staying with her pious elderly uncle and aunt. Every Jew in the postwar period knows of emotional reunions of the survivors of Holocaust- ravaged families, but the reunion of a husband and a wife whom he had given up for dead is a scene of almost unimaginable poignancy. Herman enters the apartment of Reb Abraham:
Abraham: A miracle from heaven, Broder, a miracle . . . Your wife has returned. [Abraham leaves. Tamara enters. ]
tamara: Hello, Herman. {433}
Herman: I didn't know that you were alive.
tamara: That's something you never knew.
Herman: It's as if you've risen from the dead.
tamara: We were dumped in an open pit. They thought we were all dead. But I crawled over some corpses and escaped at night. How is it my uncle didn't know where you were -- we had to put an advertisement in the paper?
Herman: I don't have my own apartment. I live with someone else.
tamara: What do you do? Where do you live?
Herman: I didn't know you were alive and --
tamara [smiles]: Who is the lucky woman who has taken my place?
Herman [stunned; then replies]: She was our servant. You knew her . . .
The other point of contact may be more important still. Ultimately what draws us to a work of art is not just the sensory experience of the medium but its emotional content and insight into the human condition. And these tap into the timeless tragedies of our biological predicament: our mortality, our finite knowledge and wisdom, the differences among us, and our conflicts of interest with friends, neighbors, relatives, and lovers. All are topics of the sciences of human nature.
The idea that art should reflect the perennial and universal qualities of the human species is not new. Samuel Johnson, in the preface to his edition of Shakespeare's plays, comments on the lasting appeal of that great intuitive psychologist:
Nothing can please many, and please long, but just representations of general nature. Particular manners can be known to few, and therefore few only can judge how nearly they are copied. The irregular combinations of fanciful invention may delight a-while, by that novelty of which the common satiety of life sends us all in quest; but the pleasures of sudden wonder are soon exhausted, and the mind can only repose on the stability of truth.
Today we may be seeing a new convergence of explorations of the human condition by artists and scientists -- not because scientists are trying to take over the humanities, but because artists and humanists are beginning to look to the sciences, or at least to the scientific mindset that sees us as a species with a complex psychological endowment. In explaining this connection I cannot hope to compete with the words of the artists themselves, and I will conclude with the overtures of three fine novelists.
Iris Murdoch, haunted by the origins of the moral sense, comments on its endurance in fiction:
We make, in many respects though not in all, the same kinds of moral judgments as the Greeks did, and we recognize good or decent people in times and literatures remote from our own. Patroclus, Antigone, Cordelia, Mr. Knightley, Alyosha. Patroclus' invariable kindness. Cordelia's truthfulness. Alyosha telling his father not to be afraid of hell. It is just as important that Patroclus should be kind to the captive {419} women as that Emma should be kind to Miss Bates, and we feel this importance in an immediate and natural way in both cases in spite of the fact that nearly three thousand years divide the writers. And this, when one reflects on it, is a remarkable testimony to the existence of a single durable human nature. 77
A. S. Byatt, asked by the editors of the New York Times Magazine for the best narrative of the millennium, picked the story of Scheherazade:
The stories in "The Thousand and One Nights" . . . are stories about storytelling without ever ceasing to be stories about love and life and death and money and food and other human necessities. Narration is as much a part of human nature as breath and the circulation of the blood. Modernist literature tried to do away with storytelling, which it thought vulgar, replacing it with flashbacks, epiphanies, streams of consciousness. But storytelling is intrinsic to biological time, which we cannot escape. Life, Pascal said, is like living in a prison from which every day fellow prisoners are taken away to be executed. We are all, like Scheherazade, under sentences of death, and we all think of our lives as narratives, with beginnings, middles, and ends. 78
John Updike, also asked for reflections at the turn of the millennium, commented on the future of his own profession. "A writer of fiction, a professional liar, is paradoxically obsessed with what is true," he wrote, and "the unit of truth, at least for a fiction writer, is the human animal, belonging to the species Homo sapiens, unchanged for at least 100,000 years. "
? ? ? ? ? ? ? ? ? ? ? ? Evolution moves more slowly than history, and much slower than the technology of recent centuries; surely sociobiology, surprisingly maligned in some scientific quarters, performs a useful service in investigating what traits are innate and which are acquired. What kind of cultural software can our evolved hard-wiring support? Fiction, in its groping way, is drawn to those moments of discomfort when society asks more than its individual members can, or wish to, provide. Ordinary people experiencing friction on the page is what warms our hands and hearts as we write. . . .
To be human is to be in the tense condition of a death-foreseeing, consciously libidinous animal. No other earthly creature suffers such a capacity for thought, such a complexity of envisioned but frustrated possibilities, such a troubling ability to question the tribal and biological imperatives.
So conflicted and ingenious a creature makes an endlessly interesting {420} focus for the meditations of fiction. It seems to me true that Homo sapiens will never settle into any Utopia so complacently as to relax all its conflicts and erase all its perversity-breeding neediness. 79
Literature has three voices, wrote the scholar Robert Storey: those of the author, the audience, and the species. 80 These novelists are reminding us of the voice of the species, an essential constituent of all the arts, and a fitting theme with which to wrap up my own story.
<< {421} >>
THE VOICE OF THE SPECIES
The Blank Slate was an attractive vision. It promised to make racism, sexism, and class prejudice factually untenable. It appeared to be a bulwark against the kind of thinking that led to ethnic genocide. It aimed to prevent people from slipping into a premature fatalism about preventable social ills. It put a spotlight on the treatment of children, indigenous peoples, and the underclass. The Blank Slate thus became part of a secular faith and appeared to constitute the common decency of our age.
But the Blank Slate had, and has, a dark side. The vacuum that it posited in human nature was eagerly filled by totalitarian regimes, and it did nothing to prevent their genocides. It perverts education, childrearing, and the arts into forms of social engineering. It torments mothers who work outside the home and parents whose children did not turn out as they would have liked. It threatens to outlaw biomedical research that could alleviate human suffering. Its corollary, the Noble Savage, invites contempt for the principles of democracy and of "a government of laws and not of men. " It blinds us to our cognitive and moral shortcomings. And in matters of policy it has elevated sappy dogmas above the search for workable solutions.
The Blank Slate is not some ideal that we should all hope and pray is true. No, it is an anti-life, anti-human theoretical abstraction that denies our common humanity, our inherent interests, and our individual preferences. Though it has pretensions of celebrating our potential, it does the opposite, because our potential comes from the combinatorial interplay of wonderfully complex faculties, not from the passive blankness of an empty tablet. Regardless of its good and bad effects, the Blank Slate is an empirical hypothesis about the functioning of the brain and must be evaluated in terms of whether or not it is true. The modern sciences of mind, brain, genes, and evolution are increasingly showing that it is not true. The result is a rearguard effort to salvage the Blank Slate by disfiguring science and intellectual life: {422} denying the possibility of objectivity and truth, dumbing down issues into dichotomies, replacing facts and logic with political posturing.
The Blank Slate became so entrenched in intellectual life that the prospect of doing without it can be deeply unsettling. In topics from childrearing to sexuality, from natural foods to violence, ideas that seemed immoral even to question turn out to be not just questionable but probably wrong. Even people with no ideological ax to grind can feel a sense of vertigo when they learn of such taboos being broken: "O brave new world that has such people in it! " Is science leading to a place where prejudice is all right, where children may be neglected, where Machiavellianism is accepted, where inequality and violence are met with resignation, where people are treated like machines?
Not at all! By unhandcuffing widely shared values from moribund factual dogmas, the rationale for those values can only become clearer. We understand why we condemn prejudice, cruelty to children, and violence against women, and can focus our efforts on how to implement the goals we value most. We thereby protect those goals against the upheavals of factual understanding that science perennially delivers.
Abandoning the Blank Slate, in any case, is not as radical as it might first appear. True, it is a revolution in many
? ? ? ? ? ? ? ? ? ? sectors of modern intellectual life. But except for a few intellectuals who have let their theories get the better of them, it is not a revolution in the world views of most people. I suspect that few people really believe, deep down, that boys and girls are interchangeable, that all differences in intelligence come from the environment, that parents can micromanage the personalities of their children, that humans are born free of selfish tendencies, or that appealing stories, melodies, and faces are arbitrary social constructions. Margaret Mead, an icon of twentieth-century egalitarianism, told her daughter that she credited her own intellectual talent to her genes, and I can confirm that such split personalities are common among academics. 1 Scholars who publicly deny that intelligence is a meaningful concept treat it as anything but meaningless in their professional lives. Those who argue that gender differences are a reversible social construction do not treat them that way in their advice to their daughters, their dealings with the opposite sex, and their unguarded gossip, humor, and reflections on their lives.
Acknowledging human nature does not mean overturning our personal world views, and I would have nothing to suggest as a replacement if it did. It means only taking intellectual life out of its parallel universe and reuniting it with science and, when it is borne out by science, with common sense. The alternative is to make intellectual life increasingly irrelevant to human affairs, to turn intellectuals into hypocrites, and to turn everyone else into anti- intellectuals.
Scientists and public intellectuals are not the only people who have pondered how the mind works. We are all psychologists, and some people, without {423} the benefit of credentials, are great psychologists. Among them are poets and novelists, whose business, as we saw in the preceding chapter, is to create "just representations of general nature. " Paradoxically, in today's intellectual climate novelists may have a clearer mandate than scientists to speak the truth about human nature. Sophisticated people sneer at feel-good comedies and saccharine romances in which all loose ends are tied and everyone lives happily ever after. Life is nothing like that, we note, and we look to the arts for edification about the painful dilemmas of the human condition.
Yet when it comes to the science of human beings, this same audience says: Give us schmaltz! "Pessimism" is considered a legitimate criticism of observations of human nature, and people expect theories to be a source of sentimental uplift. "Shakespeare had no conscience; neither do I," said George Bernard Shaw. This was not a confession of psychopathy but an affirmation of a good playwright's obligation to take every character's point of view seriously. Scientists of human behavior have the same obligation, and it does not require them to turn off their consciences in the spheres in which they must be exercised.
Poets and novelists have made many of the points of this book with greater wit and power than any academic scribbler could hope to do. They allow me to conclude the book by revisiting some of its main themes without merely repeating them. What follows are five vignettes from literature that capture, for me, some of the morals of the sciences of human nature. They underscore that the discoveries of those sciences should be faced not with fear and loathing but with the balance and discernment we use when we reflect on human nature in the rest of our lives.
~
The Brain -- is wider than the Sky -- For -- put them side by side --
The one the other will contain
With ease -- and you -- beside --
The Brain is deeper than the sea -- For -- hold them -- Blue to Blue -- The one the other will absorb --
As Sponges -- Buckets -- do --
The Brain is just the weight of God -- For -- Heft them -- Pound for Pound -- And they will differ -- if they do --
As Syllable from Sound --
The first two verses of Emily Dickinson's "The Brain Is Wider Than the Sky" express the grandeur in the view of the mind as consisting in the activity of the brain. 2 Here and in her other poems, Dickinson refers to "the brain," not {424} "the soul" or even "the mind," as if to remind her readers that the seat of our thought and experience is a
hunk of matter. Yes, science is, in a sense, "reducing" us to the physiological processes of a not-very-attractive three- pound organ. But what an organ! In its staggering complexity, its explosive combinatorial computation, and its limitless ability to imagine real and hypothetical worlds, the brain, truly, is wider than the sky. The poem itself proves it. Simply to understand the comparison in each verse, the brain of the reader must contain the sky and absorb
? ? ? ? the sea and visualize each one at the same scale as the brain itself.
The enigmatic final verse, with its startling image of God and the brain being hefted like cabbages, has puzzled readers since the poem was published. Some read it as creationism (God made the brain), others as atheism (the brain thought up God). The simile with phonology -- sound is a seamless continuum, a syllable is a demarcated unit of it -- suggests a kind of pantheism: God is everywhere and nowhere, and every brain incarnates a finite measure of divinity. The loophole "if they do" suggests mysticism -- the brain and God may somehow be the same thing -- and, of course, agnosticism. The ambiguity is surely intentional, and I doubt that anyone could defend a single interpretation as the correct one.
I like to read the verse as suggesting that the mind, in contemplating its place in the cosmos, at some point reaches its own limitations and runs into puzzles that seem to belong in a separate, divine realm. Free will and subjective experience, for example, are alien to our concept of causation and feel like a divine spark inside us. Morality and meaning seem to inhere in a reality that exists independent of our judgments. But that separateness may be the illusion of a brain that makes it impossible for us not to think they are separate from us. Ultimately we have no way of knowing, because we are our brains and have no way of stepping outside them to check. But if we are thereby trapped, it is a trap that we can hardly bemoan, for it is wider than the sky, deeper than the sea, and perhaps as weighty as God.
~
Kurt Vonnegut's story "Harrison Bergeron" is as transparent as Dickinson's poem is cryptic. Here is how it begins:
The year was 2081, and everybody was finally equal. They weren't only equal before God and the law. They were equal every which way. Nobody was smarter than anybody else. Nobody was better looking than anybody else. Nobody was stronger or quicker than anybody else. All this equality was due to the 211th, 212th, and 213th Amendments to the Constitution, and to the unceasing vigilance of agents of the United States Handicapper General. 3 {425}
The Handicapper General enforces equality by neutralizing any inherited (hence undeserved) asset. Intelligent people have to wear radios in their ears tuned to a government transmitter that sends out a sharp noise every twenty seconds (such as the sound of a milk bottle struck with a ball-peen hammer) to prevent them from taking unfair advantage of their brains. Ballerinas are laden with bags of birdshot and their faces are hidden by masks so that no one can feel bad at seeing someone prettier or more graceful than they. Newscasters are selected for their speech impediments. The hero of the story is a multiply gifted teenager forced to wear headphones, thick wavy glasses, three hundred pounds of scrap iron, and black caps on half his teeth. The story is about his ill-fated rebellion.
Subtle it is not, but "Harrison Bergeron" is a witty reductio of an all too common fallacy. The ideal of political equality is not a guarantee that people are innately indistinguishable. It is a policy to treat people in certain spheres (justice, education, politics) on the basis of their individual merits rather than the statistics of any group they belong to. And it is a policy to recognize inalienable rights in all people by virtue of the fact that they are sentient human beings. Policies that insist that people be identical in their outcomes must impose costs on humans who, like all living things, vary in their biological endowment. Since talents by definition are rare, and can be fully realized only in rare circumstances, it is easier to achieve forced equality by lowering the top (and thereby depriving everyone of the fruits of people's talents) than by raising the bottom. In Vonnegut's America of 2081 the desire for equality of outcome is played out as a farce, but in the twentieth century it frequently led to real crimes against humanity, and in our own society the entire issue is often a taboo.
Vonnegut is a beloved author who has never been called a racist, sexist, elitist, or Social Darwinist. Imagine the reaction if he had stated his message in declarative sentences rather than in a satirical story. Every generation has its designated jokers, from Shakespearean fools to Lenny Bruce, who give voice to truths that are unmentionable in polite society. Today part-time humorists like Vonnegut, and full-time ones like Richard Pryor, Dave Barry, and the writers of The Onion, are continuing that tradition.
~
Vonnegut's dystopian fantasy was played out as a story-length farce, but the most famous of such fantasies was played out as a novel-length nightmare. George Orwell's 1984 is a vivid depiction of what life would look like if the repressive strands of society and government were extrapolated into the future. In the half-century since the novel was published, many developments have been condemned because of their associations to Orwell's world: government euphemism, national identity cards, surveillance cameras, personal data on the Internet, and even, in the first television commercial for the {426} Macintosh computer, the IBM PC. No other work of fiction has had such an impact on people's opinions of real-world issues.
? ? ? Nineteen Eighty-four was unforgettable literature, not just a political screed, because of the way Orwell thought through the details of how his society would work. Every component of the nightmare interlocked with the others to form a rich and credible whole: the omnipresent government, the eternal war with shifting enemies, the totalitarian control of the media and private life, the Newspeak language, the constant threat of personal betrayal.
Less widely known is that the regime had a well-articulated philosophy. It is explained to Winston Smith in the harrowing sequence in which he is strapped to a table and alternately tortured and lectured by the government agent O'Brien. The philosophy of the regime is thoroughly postmodernist, O'Brien explains (without, of course, using the word). When Winston objects that the Party cannot realize its slogan, "Who controls the past controls the future; who controls the present controls the past," O'Brien replies:
You believe that reality is something objective, external, existing in its own right. You also believe that the nature of reality is self-evident. When you delude yourself into thinking that you see something, you assume that everyone else sees the same thing as you. But I tell you, Winston, that reality is not external. Reality exists in the human mind, and nowhere else. Not in the individual mind, which can make mistakes, and in any case soon perishes; only in the mind of the Party, which is collective and immortal. 4
O'Brien admits that for certain purposes, such as navigating the ocean, it is useful to assume that the Earth goes around the sun and that there are stars in distant galaxies. But, he continues, the Party could also use alternative astronomies in which the sun goes around the Earth and the stars are bits of fire a few kilometers away. And though O'Brien does not explain it in this scene, Newspeak is the ultimate "prisonhouse of language," a "language that thinks man and his 'world. '"
O'Brien's lecture should give pause to the advocates of postmodernism. It is ironic that a philosophy that prides itself on deconstructing the accoutrements of power should embrace a relativism that makes challenges to power impossible, because it denies that there are objective benchmarks against which the deceptions of the powerful can be evaluated. For the same reason, the passages should give pause to radical scientists who insist that other scientists' aspirations to theories with objective reality (including theories about human nature) are really weapons to preserve the interests of the dominant class, gender, and race. 5 Without a notion of objective truth, {427} intellectual life degenerates into a struggle of who can best exercise the raw force to "control the past. "
A second precept of the Party's philosophy is the doctrine of the super-organism:
Can you not understand, Winston, that the individual is only a cell? The weariness of the cell is the
vigor of the organism. Do you die when you cut your fingernails? 6
The doctrine that a collectivity (a culture, a society, a class, a gender) is a living thing with its own interests and belief system lies behind Marxist political philosophies and the social science tradition begun by Durkheim. Orwell is showing its dark side: the dismissal of the individual -- the only entity that literally feels pleasure and pain -- as a mere component that exists to further the interests of the whole. The sedition of Winston and his lover Julia began in the pursuit of simple human pleasures -- sugar and coffee, white writing paper, private conversation, affectionate lovemaking.
O'Brien makes it clear that such individualism will not be tolerated: "There will be no loyalty, except loyalty to the Party. There will be no love, except the love of Big Brother. "7
The Party also believes that emotional ties to family and friends are "habits" that get in the way of a smoothly functioning society:
Already we are breaking down the habits of thought that have survived from before the Revolution. We have cut the links between child and parent, and between man and man, and between man and woman. No one dares trust a wife or a child or a friend any longer. But in the future there will be no wives and no friends. Children will be taken from their mothers at birth, as one takes eggs from a hen. The sex instinct will be eradicated. . . . There will be no distinction between beauty and ugliness. 8
It is hard to read the passage and not think of the current enthusiasm for proposals in which enlightened mandarins would reengineer childrearing, the arts, and the relationship between the sexes in an effort to build a better society. Dystopian novels, of course, work by grotesque exaggeration. Any idea can be made to look terrifying in caricature, even if it is reasonable in moderation. I do not mean to imply that a concern with the interests of society or in improving human relationships is a step toward totalitarianism. But satire can show how popular ideologies may have forgotten downsides -- in this case, how the notion that language, thought, and emotions are social conventions
{428} creates an opening for social engineers to try to reform them. Once we become aware of the downsides, we no longer have to treat the ideologies as sacred cows to which factual discoveries must be subordinated.
? ? ? ? ? ? ? And finally we get to the core of the Party's philosophy. O'Brien has refuted every one of Winston's arguments, dashed every one of his hopes. He has informed him, "If you want a picture of the future, imagine a boot stamping on a human face -- forever. " Toward the end of this dialogue, O'Brien reveals the proposition that makes the whole nightmare possible (and whose falsehood, we may surmise, will make it impossible).
As usual, the voice had battered Winston into helplessness. Moreover he was in dread that if he persisted in his disagreement O'Brien would twist the dial again. And yet he could not keep silent. Feebly, without arguments, with nothing to support him except his inarticulate horror of what O'Brien had said, he returned to the attack.
"I don't know -- I don't care. Somehow you will fail. Something will defeat you. Life will defeat you. " "We control life, Winston, at all its levels. You are imagining that there is something called human nature which will be outraged by what we do and will turn against us. But we create human nature. Men are infinitely malleable. "9
~
The three works I have discussed are didactic and unanchored in any existing time and place. The remaining two are different. Both are rooted in a culture, a locale, and an era. Both savor their characters' language, milieu, and philosophies of life. And both authors warned their readers not to generalize from the stories. Yet both authors are famous for their insight into human nature, and I believe I am doing them no injustice by presenting episodes from their works in that light.
Mark Twain's Adventures of Huckleberry Finn is an especially perilous source for lessons because it begins with the following order of the author: "Persons attempting to find a motive in this narrative will be prosecuted; persons attempting to find a moral in it will be banished; persons attempting to find a plot in it will be shot. " That has not deterred a century of critics from noting its dual power. Huckleberry Finn shows us both the foibles of the antebellum South and the foibles of human nature, as seen through the eyes of two noble savages who sample them as they float down the Mississippi River.
Huckleberry Finn revels in many human imperfections, but perhaps the most tragicomic is the origin of violence in a culture of honor. The culture of honor is really a psychology of honor: a package of emotions that includes a loyalty to kin, a hunger for revenge, and a drive to maintain a reputation for toughness and valor. When sparked by other human sins -- envy, lust, self-deception {429} -- they can fuel a vicious cycle of violence, as each side finds itself unable to abjure revenge against the other. The cycle can become amplified in certain places, among them the American South.
Huck met up with the culture of honor on two occasions in quick succession. The first was when he stowed away on a barge manned by a "rough-looking lot" of hard-drinking men. After one of them was about to belt out the fifteenth verse of a raunchy song, an altercation of relatively trivial origin broke out, and two men squared off to fight.
[Bob, the biggest man on the boat] jumped up in the air and cracked his heels together again and shouted out: "Whoo-oop! I'm the original iron-jawed, brass-mounted, copper-bellied corpse-maker from the wilds of Arkansaw! Look at me! I'm the man they call Sudden Death and General Desolation! Sired by a hurricane, dam'd by an earthquake, half-brother to the cholera, nearly related to the smallpox on the mother's side! Look at me! I take nineteen alligators and a bar'l of whisky for breakfast when I'm in robust health, and a bushel of rattlesnakes and a dead body when I'm ailing. I split the everlasting rocks with my glance, and I squench the thunder when I speak! Whoo-oop! Stand back and give me room according to my strength! Blood's my natural drink and the wails of the dying is music to my ear. Cast your eye on me, gentlemen! and lay low and hold your breath, for I'm 'bout to turn myself loose! ". . .
Then the man that had started the row. . . jumped up and cracked his heels together three times before he lit again . . . , and he began to shout like this: "Whoo-oop! bow your neck and spread, for the kingdom of sorrow's a coming! Hold me down to the earth, for I feel my powers a-working! . . . I put my hand on the sun's face and make it night in the earth; I bite a piece out of the moon and hurry the seasons; I shake myself and crumble the mountains! Contemplate me through leather -- don't use the naked eye! I'm the man with a petrified heart and biler-iron bowels! The massacre of isolated communities is the pastime of my idle moments, the destruction of nationalities the serious business of my life! The boundless vastness of the great American desert is my inclosed property, and I bury the dead on my own premises! . . . Whoo-oop! bow your neck and spread, for the Pet Child of Calamity's a'coming! "10
? ? ? They circled and flailed at each other and knocked each other's hats off, until Bob said, as Huck describes it,
. . . never mind, this warn't going to be the last of this thing, because he was a man that never forgot and never forgive, and so The Child better {429} look out for there was a time a-coming, just as sure as he was a living man, that he would have to answer to him with the best blood in his body. The Child said no man was willinger than he for that time to come, and he would give Bob fair warning, now, never to cross his path again, for he could never rest till he had waded in his blood, for such was his nature, though he was sparing him now on account of his family, if he had one. 11
And then a "little black-whiskered chap" sent them both sprawling. With black eyes and red noses, they shook hands, said they had always respected each other, and agreed to let bygones be bygones.
Later in the chapter Huck swims ashore and stumbles onto the cabin of a family called the Grangerfords. Huck is frozen in his tracks by menacing dogs, until a voice from the window beckons him to enter the cabin slowly. He opens the door and finds himself staring down the barrels of three shotguns. When the Grangerfords see that Huck is not a Shepherdson, the family with whom they are feuding, they welcome him to live with them. Huck is captivated by their genteel life: their lovely furnishings, their elegant dress, and their refined manners, especially the patriarch, Col. Grangerford. "He was a gentleman all over, and so was his family. He was well born, as the saying is, and that's worth as much in a man as it is in a horse. "
Three of the six Grangerford sons had been killed in the feud, and the youngest survivor, Buck, has befriended Huck. When the two boys go for a walk and Buck shoots at a Shepherdson boy, Huck asks why he wants to kill someone who has done nothing to hurt him. Buck explains the concept of a feud:
"Well," says Buck, "a feud is this way: A man has a quarrel with another man, and kills him; then that other man's brother kills him; then the other brothers on both sides goes for one another; then the cousins chip in -- and by and by everybody's killed off and there ain't no more feud. But it's kind of slow and takes a long time. "
"Has this one been going on long, Buck? "
"Well, I should reckon! It started thirty years ago, or som'ers along there. There was trouble 'bout something and then a lawsuit to settle it, and the suit went agin one of the men and so he up and shot the man that won the suit -- which he would naturally do, of course. Anybody would. "
"What was the trouble about, Buck? -- land? "
"I reckon maybe -- I don't know. "
"Well, who done the shooting? Was it a Grangerford or a Shepherdson? " {431}
"Laws, how do I know? It was so long ago. " "Don't anybody know? "
"Oh, yes, pa knows, I reckon, and some of the other old people; but they don't know now what the row was about in the first place. "12
Buck adds that the feud is carried along by the two families' sense of honor: "There ain't a coward amongst them Shepherdsons -- not a one. And there ain't no cowards amongst the Grangerfords either. "13 The reader anticipates
trouble, and it comes soon enough. A Grangerford girl runs off with a Shepherdson boy, the Grangerfords head off in hot pursuit, and all the Grangerford males are killed in an ambush. "I ain't a'going to tell all that happened," says Huck; "it would make me sick again if I was to do that. I wished I hadn't ever come ashore that night to see such things. "14
In the course of the chapter Huck has met up with two instances of the Southern culture of honor. Among the low- lifes it amounted to hollow bluster and was played for laughs; among the aristocrats it led to the devastation of two families and played out as tragedy. I think Twain was commenting on the twisted logic of violence and how it cuts across our stereotypes of refined and coarse classes of people. Indeed, the moral reckoning does not just cut across the classes but inverts them: the riffraff resolve their pointless dispute with face-saving verbiage; the gentlemen pursue their equally pointless one to a dreadful conclusion.
Though thoroughly Southern, the perverse psychology of the Grangerford-Shepherdson feud is familiar from the history and ethnography of just about any region of the world. (In particular, Huck's introduction to the Grangerfords was hilariously replayed in Napoleon Chagnon's famous account of his baptism into anthropological fieldwork, in which he stumbled into a feuding Yanomamo? village and found himself trapped by dogs and staring down the shafts of poison arrows. ) And it is familiar in the cycles of violence that continue to be played out by gangs, militias, ethnic groups, and respectable nation-states. Twain's depiction of the origins of endemic violence in an entrapping psychology of honor has a timelessness that will, I predict, make it outlast fashionable theories of the causes and cures of violence.
? ? ? ? ? ? ~
The final theme I wish to reprise is that the human tragedy lies in the partial conflicts of interest that are inherent to all human relationships. I suppose I could illustrate it with just about any great work of fiction. An immortal literary text expresses "all the principal constants of conflict in the condition of man," wrote George Steiner about Antigone; "Ordinary people experiencing friction on the page is what warms our hands and hearts as we write," observed John Updike. But one novel caught my eye by flaunting the idea in its title: Isaac Bashevis Singer's Enemies, A Love Story. 15 {432}
Singer, like Twain, protests too much against the possibility that his readers might draw morals from the slice of life he presents. "Although I did not have the privilege of going through the Hitler holocaust, I have lived for years in New York with refugees from this ordeal. I therefore hasten to say that this novel is by no means the story of the typical refugee, his life, and struggle. . . . The characters are not only Nazi victims but victims of their own personalities and fates. " In literature the exception is the rule, Singer writes, but only after noting that the exception is rooted in the rule. Singer has been praised as a keen observer of human nature, not least because he imagines what happens when fate puts ordinary characters in extraordinary dilemmas. This is the conceit behind his book and the superb 1989 film adaptation, directed by Paul Mazursky and featuring Anjelica Huston and Ron Silver.
Herman Broder lives in Brooklyn in 1949 with his second wife, Yadwiga, a peasant girl who worked for his parents as a servant when they lived in Poland. A decade earlier his first wife, Tamara, had taken their two children to visit her parents, and while they were separated the Nazis invaded Poland. Tamara and the children were shot; Herman survived because Yadwiga hid him in her family's hayloft. At the end of the war he learned of his family's fate and married Yadwiga, and they found their way to New York.
While in the refugee camps, Herman had fallen in love with Masha, whom he meets again in New York and with whom he carries on a consuming affair (later in the book he will marry her, too). Yadwiga and Masha are, in part, male fantasies: the first pure but simple, the second ravishing but histrionic. Herman's conscience prevents him from leaving Yadwiga; his passion prevents him from leaving Masha. This brings much misery all around, but Singer does not let us hate Herman too much because we see how the capricious horror of the Holocaust has left him a fatalist with no confidence that his decisions can affect the course of his life. Moreover, Herman is amply punished for his duplicity by a life of high anxiety, which Singer portrays with comic, at times sadistic, relish.
The cruel joke continues when Herman learns that he has even more of too much of a good thing. It turns out that his first wife survived the Nazi bullet and escaped to Russia; she has moved to New York and is staying with her pious elderly uncle and aunt. Every Jew in the postwar period knows of emotional reunions of the survivors of Holocaust- ravaged families, but the reunion of a husband and a wife whom he had given up for dead is a scene of almost unimaginable poignancy. Herman enters the apartment of Reb Abraham:
Abraham: A miracle from heaven, Broder, a miracle . . . Your wife has returned. [Abraham leaves. Tamara enters. ]
tamara: Hello, Herman. {433}
Herman: I didn't know that you were alive.
tamara: That's something you never knew.
Herman: It's as if you've risen from the dead.
tamara: We were dumped in an open pit. They thought we were all dead. But I crawled over some corpses and escaped at night. How is it my uncle didn't know where you were -- we had to put an advertisement in the paper?
Herman: I don't have my own apartment. I live with someone else.
tamara: What do you do? Where do you live?
Herman: I didn't know you were alive and --
tamara [smiles]: Who is the lucky woman who has taken my place?
Herman [stunned; then replies]: She was our servant. You knew her . . .
