Dr. Frankenstein was a dodo.
The American political scene is miserable.
Even I want to have a drink with Hemmingway.
“He drank wine at lunch but it did not affect him and he had not prepared for the lunch by drinking before it.” (Hemmingway, A Movable Feast, speaking about F. Scott Fitzgerald.)
I finished both Frankenstein and A Movable Feast on Halloween. While Shelley and Hemmingway weren’t writing about politics, I’m pressing their works into service, trying to answer the question of what ever shall we do?
The Elephants
Jon Haidt has a brilliant metaphor about how our minds work. (See last week’s post for more detail.) In brief, our subconscious mind might be likened to an Elephant: powerful, low-resolution, reactive. The “rider” (conscious mind) is our press department, justifying and explaining the instinctual, emotional, and gut-level actions of the elephant. The actions and opinions are there first, and the infographics are selected to back them up.
This shatters the idea that we read, deliberate, and then arrive at a conclusion. It’s the opposite.
We can change our minds, but only when we feel comfortable enough to sit in one place to listen. Overwhelming an opponent with facts rarely works. Check out the plethora of “____Destroys (opposing view)” on YouTube. Do the Owned ever look convinced? Or simply outgunned, and already plotting a 3 AM “oh that’s what I should have said?” revenge?
Has your mind ever been changed by a clever post on Facebook?
Peterson Kicks Frankenstein
I spend a lot of time thinking about how other elephants work. But sometimes the best way is to understand how mine works. Shelley’s Frankenstein provided clues.
Halfway through The Godfather, I realized that Michael Corleone wasn’t the good guy. The same happened here. After a bit of Dr. Frankenstein’s drivel about how he was the most miserable person on the planet, the light dawned on me again. What a useless guy.
What would Jordan Peterson say to Frankenstein? Imagine that therapy session.
“Well bucko, you’ve dabbled in a thing you don’t understand, trying to play God and all that, eh? You went and build a bloody monster, and then just walked away from it? How’s that working out for you, pal? Oh, a mental health day is fine, but three months of checking out and shirking responsibility after you brought a creature to life, unleased on the world? What did you think would happen?
Then, when the Monster was rejected by society, resentment built to a murderous level. When he had meaning and purpose, he was fine, but without, what did you think he’d do? And here you sit, wallowing in misery, overusing the word “wretch”, hoping things will just sort of…fix themselves. But guess what, buddy, they don’t. They never do.
It’s no wonder that everything around you went to ruin. If you adopt vengeance as your god, and shirk responsibility, and keep wallowing, what do you think will happen?
And we haven’t even gotten to the role of science and ethics…”
A Nameless Dread, Blamed
What difference does a difference of opinion make? Why do we get so spun up about it? Fresh off the Frankenstein read, I’ve got a new idea. It’s outlined with the election as an example, but could be used for anything.
If my “team” loses, the future becomes a monster, roaming in the dark, uncontrollable, ready to wrap icy fingers around my neck. But it wasn’t created by accident.
Somebody built it.
That somebody is the friend who voted for It’s construction, the colleague who thinks differently.
Suddenly, there’s an architect to my (imagined) destruction. I can’t call a weather department if there’s rain on my parade. But I can take issue with Dr. Frankenstein.
How could you do this?
The arrival of a monster (governments, the Future, big systems) is beyond my scope. But the humanity and weakness of Dr. Frankenstein (swing voters) is in my arena, and within earshot.
The nameless has a named creator.
But when the creator is the focus, not the thing that must be wrestled with, something strange happens. The dread can be tarred with a thousand slurs, but is still out there, and as such, inexhaustible. I can send a thousand infographics, Shelley can use a thousand adjectives, and yet the well of horror remains bottomless if it’s unaddressed at the spring.
The monster must be contended with.
Frankenstein delights me as a fitting stand-in. He’s brilliant, but weak. He unravels the secrets of life and death, yet can’t admit his part. He labors mightily on destruction, then hides his head in the sand, paralyzed by inaction when it’s needed the most, wishing his problems away. He sees suffering, and insists his is worse. He doesn’t do anything until there’s nothing left but ashes.
How exactly like me he is, and what a cautionary tale he lives. Shelley’s world without bravery, fortitude, responsibility and God (or a highest good ideal) paint a grim picture.
A Plan of Action
What do I usually do? I both am Frankenstein, and argue with him, reflected in my peers. It’s easier than tangling with the monster. But I suspect that’s looking for lost keys under the streetlight.
What should I do?
I’m intrigued about the monster himself, this supposed terrible future if things don’t go my way.
Shelley’s depiction of him was my favorite part of the book.
He’s got something to say, and a lot of it makes sense. He’s fairly straightforward. Like Medusa, most can’t look at him without losing their cool. The end scene is framed by not looking, but listening, and then he’s heard.
The monster jumps ship, off on an immutable track, as the Future is wont to do.
We’re all eternally on this ship, debating with architects. Give me a little boat, a vessel in which I might sail forward. I’d like to follow the Monster, catch up with him, and another conversation with the heart of it all.
On Not Being Ernest
A good plan of what not to do is found in the pages of A Movable Feast. I found it an alternatingly savage takedown of literary peers, their wives, and girlfriends, mixed with breathtaking description of Europe in the roaring 20’s.
I loved it. Hem breaks the rules in very fine style and never uses commas where they should go and gets away with it maybe by drinking so very much.
He probably didn’t invent the writer-as-god-proto-diss-rap-song-format, but he sure is good at it. You know how writers sometimes do: we create a world, set ourselves as the hero, and write everyone else poorly.
Hemmingway makes it an artform.
I’d like to hit him in the face. What higher compliment could I give him?
–Josh
P.S. There won’t be a blog on Wednesday, out of concern for productive dialogue and the expected rawness of American nerves. Monday and Friday will see the usual schedule.
P.P.S. Have a great Friday song, something in keeping with the Gothic horror and not helpful in relaxing at all, but…have a Halloween leftover: