Heightened Senses

Hello. I'm Imraan. This is the only thing I own outright; and yes, I'm wearing a T-shirt.

Fear, Pain, Death

(Edit – I was on a heck of a lot of medication when I wrote this, so I apologise for all manner of errors found in this piece, but I hope the sentiments come across as I had intended them.)

I don’t know how they do it. Honestly. Hospital workers, nursing-staff in particular as opposed to doctors who are, by design it would seem, colder and more clinical. Anyhow, this is the second time in four days I’ve been ambulanced (sic) off to the Emergency Room to deal with pain issues that I thought were akin to Satan straddling upon my chest. Satan, and an elegant the size of Satan, too.

Of course, when you have Severe ME, Ehlers-Danlos Syndrome, Neuro-Lyme Disease, and Postural Orthostatic Tachycardia Syndrome, no doctor really know what to do with you.

This post isn’t so much about what happened -and not much – the fact that I was writhing around in so much pain despite the fact that I was on enough painkillers to stun one of The Rolling Stones at least twice over was suggestive that there is something going on beneath the surface. But they couldn’t find it, and so here I am, back at home, somewhat tranquilliser and utterly exhausted.

An increasing sensation upon entering a hospital these days, however is one that really does grip me to the core. The impending sense of my mortality, and by extension, Doom. Sure, the Almighty proclaims His Mercy supersedes His Justice, according to Scripture, but yet there is so much for which I need to atone, still. My body is increasingly breaking, the doctors know-not what to do, and the ever increasing chances of a life lived with any sense of normality without battling symptom after symptom after symptom – well the negative possibilities multiply as we speak, to borrow from our friend Griffin, the Fifth-Dimesnional being.

What I cannot get to the root of, however, is my utter sadness every time the ambulance staff decide to take me into hospital. Pure and utter grief. On laughing gas today to help with the pain (the second canister I used-up this week), I was on the verge of tears. Both in resignation that I could not get a transfer to the right hospital nor have anyone manage my pain levels for me, alas, is that the world seems to cave in around me just a bit every time I’m admitted, or offered a new diagnosis. This is what is so utterly heartbreaking. My fear of the Afterlife is rather profound, I admit, but what about the fear I suffer of a life not-yet lived. Ten years have gone by, and we’re closer to no-answers, but umpteen diagnosis. What happens at the next crisis of pain, or the one after that? What happens as I watch the cycle of life and death all around me in a sterile, artificial environment where most professionals have to be detached from the patient in order to survive? Aside from my own sins, why do I fear death so much, when  I have so many friends who have systematically tried to end their own lives?

Why he utter dread upon entering the hospital, a place where I expect to be helped, where most people expect help, too? Is it because I’ve been let-down too many times and am seeing the fires of Doom ahead? Or because dismissive doctors insist that there is no other pain-type medication available to me to take, whilst I writhe around in unholy discomfort begging for them to make it stop?

Anyway, there is something about pain that is so humanising. It’s almost primal. It forces you to interact with a form of yourself so both physical and psychic that has no necessary root cause, nor one that can be treated with any simple solution. But the humanising aspect of it is that you find yourself begging for death during such an episode, or praying, or doing both…desperate for some release, sick to your stomach that you’ve wasted an evening of a relative accompanying you to the hospital to almost no avail, and finally praying that there was ‘something’ that could be done. I ramble here, but I’m trying to get to the root of why this pain has the habit of making me face-down mortality in ways not imaginable.

In years past, when I was healthier, I could easily visit the sick an the frail in hospitals, show something akin to love and make the m comfortable in my own capacity. Now, in severe discomfort and paramedics not knowing what to do with me other than “well we can’t keep giving you gas and air every time”, suddenly my comfort has taken precedent, and my own self has become the locus of my own being – that selfish part of me that only sees me and my immediate pain.

I long to see transcendence and patience, the state of riḍā, yet on the other hand how do you got about it when your immediate physical experience is only competing you to sink into the swamp of despair. Sure, you truly feel helpless, and God Almighty before you with prayers, but otherwise, where is the real semblance, even, of gnosis? Why are there days in such situation when you beg for death so you might not burden those around you, or feel guilty for having called a paramedic to you when there are genuine people dying? Sure, no one knows this for a fact, but equally pain and humility don’t seem to go hand-in-hand for me these days, for all I see is death every time I try to get some help.

Allah is Greater, and I guess I have to make peace with his will. But my life seems so lost to me, direction and purposeless, only battling symptoms and not realising how insular the conditions have made me. Maybe it is a part of a Plan, though to be let in on it might be a pleasure, too…


The Life of Faith

“The Life of Faith…[is] very hard in our culture. It’s not because our culture doesn’t believe in God, it’s because our culture doesn’t believe in Death….we have quite a lot of people in this country… and in the West in general, who believe in God, but they don’t believe in death really, and as a result, don’t really get the point…

“And we do live in a culture that’s dedicated to distracting us from this inconvenient truth. Because, really, what is the business of life if you are A Good American, say, or a good Late-Modern Westerner? It is to buy things. Things. And more things. Some toys. And then some other things, and some more toys. And then to buy some things. That’s what ‘Life’ is. And I’ll tell you, if you think too much about God and the soul, if you haven’t turned God and the soul into happy names for ‘American values,’ but you really think about them and then you think about the horizon of Death, you start thinking that buying things might not be enough to keep Death at bay….and then you might stop buying things! And we know where that leads…Norwegian dentistry.”

David Bentley Hart.

The death of a true saint


This weekend was incredibly sad; the lion of the Arab Spring in Saudi Arabia was executed, along with forty-six other poor souls, on trumped-up ‘terrorism’ charges. What he did was called for a peaceful uprising against the government.

Watch this speech. I would much rather that our Prime Minister support a man as principled as the late Sh. Nimr and not those odious Kings and Princes that spread widespread takfirism and were the precursors to the so-called ‘Islamic State’

This is a man of principle. May the Almighty Embrace this saint and warrior against imperialism and tyranny.

Friends, there is another Islam that you don’t see. Please always remember this.

Every branch reverts to its root, no more in any way than when it sprang forth.

My Arabic is sadly not where I’d like it to be, so I have to rely upon a translation (by Ralph Austin, see here for original link and commentary by Austin).

That said, I hope you enjoy this poem as much as I did. I don’t tend to read much of poetry – the sheer exertion to decipher them can send me spiralling into overthought!

However, in this case, I had to make an exception. This is from the writings of the great Andalusian Sufi master, Abū ‘Abd Allāh, Muḥammad ibn ‘Alī ibn Muḥammad ibn ‘Arabī al Ḥātimī aṭ-Ṭā’ī, better known to most as Muḥyiddīn ibn ‘Arabī (d. 1165) who is said to be among the most sophisticated and original thinkers the Islamic tradition has ever produced, and whose insights into the Divine, received to regular ‘unveilings’ through which he composed some of his most important works.

The following poem was constructed at some point after he buried his seven-year-old daughter, with his own hands, and his reflections on the matter. Often I’ve heard critics level profound judgements on those mystics, perhaps because they have no sense of perspective nor have not suffered, which is why they felt they could always see the Divine, His Beauty, His Love, etc.; ibn ‘Arabī himself writes what is a moving and (for me) devastating piece of poetry regarding his relationship to his Creator on such a tragic occasion . He seems to foray into his perception of the Divine Reality in the middle somewhere (and for someone like me, uninitiated, I cannot dare to comment on the specifics), but I’ve highlighted to you verses that spoke to me, giving this poetry significant poignancy given the occasion upon its composition.

The themes of the world of multiplicity, the ‘other-ness’ in relation to God, how His Names manifest in a world so relative, and so on are beyond my scope.

If you are unable to read the whole of the commentary, might I suggest you look at just those below verses 19-20, and 21, the latter of which seems to suggest that these profound mystical insights came to him, were triggered by, the demise of his daughter,  which are both gripping and shocking in content. I’ve pasted these below in block quotes. All credit goes to Ralph Austin.

Is it really possible to see His Agency in everything then, when even such a sad happening brings out such depths?I pray this is as edifying for you as (I hope it will be) for me.

With love, and wishes for a thoroughly blessed year ahead, meanwhile. I shall try not to leave it a year before I write again.

1. With my very own hands I laid my little daughter to rest becauseshe is of my very flesh, 

2. Thus am I constrained to submit to the rule of parting, so that myhand is now empty and contains nothing. 

3. Bound to this moment we are in, caught between the yesterday thathas gone and the tomorrow that is yet to come. 

4. This flesh of mine is as pure silver, while my inner reality is as pure gold.

5. Like a bow have I grown, and my true posture is as my rib. 

6. My Lord it is who says that He has created me in a state of suffering and loss. 

7. How then can I possibly hope for any rest, dwelling as I do in sucha place and state? 

8. Were it not for that state I would be neither child nor parent. 

9. Nor indeed would there be any to compare with me as is the casewith my Creator. 

10. It is surely a case of the qualification being one with respect to an essence which is full of implicit multiplicity. 

11. Because I am for my Creator, in our creation like one of a multitude. 

12. Then my God alighted between us, in the very fabric of existence – not merely a figment of belief.

13. All with a firm, well established emergence, to which I may trace my antecedents with confidence.

14. Thus, on the one hand, I can say that I am a mortal like yourselves, while You do vouch for me.

15. Always, however, on the understanding that I am not ultimately a ‘like’, thus to maintain my integrity.

16. For You have banished all ‘being like’ from me in the pre-eternal state; and that is my conviction.

17. See how sublime and lofty is my garden of paradise, secure in the company of matchless beautiful maidens.

18. He speaks of this as we have also in our book the Maqsid ai-Asmā’.

19. Is not created nature His family and people, as also the very
essence of the Unique One? 

20. Consider how He is a consort for her and how they came together
upon my being, so that it split asunder. 

21. These words of mine are not written after long deliberation, but have been a part of me eternally.

22. It was none but the apostle of the Eternal One who activated them within me.

23. He it was who dictated it, leaving me to write it with my hand.

24. Thus is the matter, and none truly knows it,

25. Save a leader of the spirit surpassing in goodness or one of the
golden mean.

26. Indeed, one who is ‘other’ cannot know it now or ever.

27. Every branch reverts to its root, no more in any way than whenit sprang forth.

Commentary to verse 19-20:

Verses 19 and 20 are really quite shocking in the context of Islamic religion. They are extremely paradoxical and are perhaps the most powerful two verses of the poem.

19. Is not created nature His family and people, as also the very
essence of the Unique One?

Nature, as representative of creation, is in this line a feminine word. As Ibn ‘Arabi points out in the last chapter of the Fusūs, the male God or the male element is surrounded by two female elements-created nature and the very essence itself of God which contains all the essences that we are. It is also a feminine word – dhdt. Nature, the creation itself and the sophic basis of that creation – the deep inner wisdom which provides all the material for that creation are as a family, like a wife and family for God, the Reality. He speaks then of His family. His ahl – His household. The creation is compared to a household – a family or a wife to God but, also the very innermost essence. Here we have the union of the two things that were contrasted in the earlier part of the poem – the worldly state and the pre-eternal state are brought together. They are both a ‘consort’ for the Divine One and therefore, very much a part of the Divine. This is a very difficult idea to articulate without causing certain misunderstandings which is rather compounded in the next verse.

20. Consider how He is a consort for her and how they came together upon my being, so that it split asunder.

‘Her’ is Nature on the one hand and the Essence on the other. In this verse, the Arabic word ba’al is used meaning a husband or a consort. (The Arabic word ba’al is the same word as ‘Baal’ used in this way in the Old Testament.) God is seen here as the consort of the double but single feminine. Therefore, the rest of the line is concerned with how ‘they’ consummated their union ‘… upon my being’. Here ‘my being’ (wujudi) is the material which provides the wherewithal for a birth to result from this union of God the Divine al-Haqq and His inner/outer consort. The Hindu concept shakti gives a similar taste of what is indicated by this idea for without the shakti nothing would happen and thus, God would be alone and undivided. It is only the shakti –  the female energy (expressed here by Ibn ‘Arabi in terms of the inner essence and the outer world) which can bring about the whole drama of creation. In this respect then, ‘my being’ is ‘my inner essence – my divine pre-existent being’. The words ‘… so that it split asunder’ refer to the fact that because of the coming together of these two elements, the difference between them became apparent. In many ways, this situation is similar to the vivification of the egg in the womb – splitting, dividing into the eternal and non-eternal.

Verses 19 and 20 are very powerful and central forming the actual conclusion of the poem. In the beginning we had the difference between the two things, then the linking of the two things by the worshipped God and finally the identity of the two things in a union which itself again produces the difference once more so that it is really a cycle that is being discussed here. These two verses are concerned with what is known in religion as hieros gamos – the sacred marriage.

Commentary to verse 21:

21. These words of mine are not written after long deliberation, but
have been a part of me eternally.

This verse harks back to the constant theme of eternal subsistence in this poem. He is saying, in effect: “I have not sat down and thought: ‘What sort of poem can I write? What has my daughter’s funeral conveyed to me?.'” Ibn ‘Arabi is declaring that this rich and difficult poem that he has written has always been there in his heart of hearts, in his deepest depths – from all eternity. His daughter’s death and funeral simply served to trigger the release and articulation of these thoughts, images and ideas into writing.

Pride and Indignity

The psychologist whom I visit from time-to-time suggested to me some months ago that I’m living a life of utter indignity. It’s not something that would naturally occur to me; I live in a time where all manner of proclivities, lifestyles, quirks, inclinations, and even illnesses, are, if not entirely embraced, well they are at least tolerated or given some modicum of acceptability. We live in an age of identity-politics, do we not. The greatest marker of being able to write your own narrative is to have your identity embraced by, well if not the entire populace, then at least by the ‘establishment.’ But that’s more a digression, I suppose, from my main point about indignity.

But recently, this cuts close to home. This isn’t unusual to me, in fact, many who suffer from chronic, tedious, gruelling illnesses who remain in the care of mere mortals will experience this. Some of them have told me.

After years of chronic illness, particularly with one that shows very little sign of letting-up in the medium-term, it’s only understandable that the patience of your carers wears thin. Oftentimes, we find ourselves subject to all kinds of abuse, psychologically, and sadly, in other cases, physically. It gets to a point where those that have cared for you suddenly make you think that they’re doing you a favour by doing it in the first place.

I suppose, it could be argued as such. That no-one actually owes us anything. And so, when my parents keep their adult son in their home, rent free, whilst he spends all of his money more or less on all variety of expensive alternative treatments which they reckon is wasteful, I suppose I could just turn inwards and shut-up about how hard things can be, sometimes. Yet, at other times, I cannot help but wonder why it is that the least of us is made to feel so small.

“We all have problems!” is one that I often hear. I’ve never denied it. Sometimes, I want to say, “well talk to me when you’re bedridden!” before I remember how cataclysmic my problems seemed in a past life.

I’ll give you a terribly small example. On the grand scale of things, this is not world-changing. Yet, after years of being made to feel this way, some things really get to you.
Today, I started panting from having to stand up from my wheelchair after dinner. I was already bent-over, exhausted, from the mere strain of sitting at the table. So, once wheeled back to my room (I try to walk the short distance on most days, today I did not have the energy), it wasn’t supposed to signify anything; I had not ‘intended’ anything by this panting, yet someone in our homestead took it as an opportunity to remind me of how negative I was being. I had said nothing, and had behaved as I would have was I on my own in the room, but apparently the moral they drew from the fact that I was panting had to so with, “well, some of your friends got better without needing [such and such need] from us; you need to change how you think.” Basically, stop demanding things. I hadn’t mentioned ‘such and such’ demand just at that moment, though had asked for it in the hour previous to it, though, I’m in no way able to enforce said demand. But apparently, it really got to them and they took this as the opportunity when I was most vulnerable to remind me that I was being unreasonable.

To which I said, “none of them got better from mere positive-thinking alone, though.”

“Well, maybe they did,” they said, before walking off leaving me standing, still panting, in agony, left to think that somehow it was my fault that I was feeling this tired.

And so ended the conversation. What do you do with such intransigence? I suppose, that’s what they were thinking of me, too, what with my clever retort.

“Imraan, every time we call, or you call us, you’re constantly groaning. Makes me want to take a knife…no, [they said, thinking that it was too violent an image] a hammer and clobber you on your head and tell you to be more…happy!” was another one I heard today.

I said, “but that’s not always the case, and it just happens to be the case when I call you I’m feeling at my worst [ergo, that’s why I’m calling you in the first place!]”

To which they said something about how I sound different with people outside of the house but am never a positive person to be around.

Violent imagery aside, for obviously they didn’t mean it [you can tell by how they said it], the point stands that somehow it is expected that if you’re in agony or struggling to speak, you ought not show it. I don’t tend to ‘show’ it for the sake of showing it, but it just tells you a bit about how such things are received .It upsets me that, if they’re telling the truth, that I need to work on being less negative in disposition and haven’t quite mastered how to be someone that doesn’t suck the oxygen out of a room; but equally, the point I was trying to make was entirely missed on them.

But the point remains, there comes a time when you live with such a condition that it has not only taken all of the fight out of you, but seems to have taken some of the humanity out of your family.

Maybe, again, this says something about the age in which we live, too. Look at it socio-politically  – the most needy among as are somehow made to feel that they’re being done some huge favour by benefiting out of some of the welfare policies designed to promote some (increasingly feint) notion of social-justice or wealth-redistribution. Foreign migrants with legal rights are reduced to criminals among some sections of the media. Ethnic minorities with full citizenship are somehow treated as if they’re pariahs in their own country.

Or – parents who really ought to be cared for by their families are shipped off to ‘homes,’ whereupon they’re made to feel grateful for a weekly visit from their eldest child for an hour.

Or – somehow, we need to be grateful for the fact that the ‘City of London’ brings in masses of revenue that props up our beloved nation-state and the system that maintains the status-quo, whilst the poorest in our midst are robbed of their remaining dignity and well-needed resources because of the recession brought on largely by the ‘City’ and the system upon which it is predicated.

But back on point, and forgive me, for I don’t mean to come across as whining. I don’t mean to sing the Blues, as it were. But the larger question, of course, is how do we respond in such situations.

There are very few ways in which I can escape my current situation. Earlier on in the night, I found myself begging for death, with tears streaming down my face. Only so that I could be lifted from this indignity. In all honesty, I’m terrified of meeting my Maker. I have sins to atone for, yet. That said, I’ve never considered myself a terribly proud or haughty person – though perhaps some part of me wonders why then, I was so bothered by the fact that I felt and feel so utterly belittled by them?

It’s not the first time, nor will it be the last. But the question is, is when you are in such a position, how are you to actually respond to such situations?

Mum’s always taught me, “beggars can’t be choosers,” as a means to tell me not to expect ‘too’ much out of life, especially when I’m at the mercy of some other person. But the question, I suppose is, should I be made to feel that way in my own home?

Sometimes I think she might be right  – I don’t exactly ‘expect’ that my family has to look after me, when there are other options, technically. At this moment, any other option seems a bit unfeasible; at a stretch, was I to give up my alternative treatments and claim independence from my family and be set up in a government-owned home by myself, with the state sending carers periodically to help me with my needs, I might be free of this. I suppose, then, if I really ‘wanted’ to, I could just move out, and not feel so hurt at my family, and they not resent me so much.

But on the topic of responding, there is a time when chronic illness will teach some of its loftiest lessons. I’m still to learn it, for if I had, I wouldn’t be so upset, or bothering to voice my thoughts. Humility. I think a major reason why I hurt so much is that I seem to think that I’m ‘worthy’ of being treated in a particular way by my own family, or that they really ought to give me the type of care that I would like from them. But of course, we’re dealing with other human beings. A microcosm of problems, worries, anxieties, hopes, dreams, aspirations, fears lives inside of someone else, too. Mine are obviously most apparent to me.  As are theirs them. What gives me the gall to believe that they should set aside theirs and somehow avail themselves to mine?!

But that said, why can I not yet see past ‘me,’ yet? Is that ‘home’ where I think I ought not be a beggar in the first place even ‘mine,’ to begin with? How many people have I known who’ve been thrown out of their parents homes because their parents refused to accept their illness, for example? And they’ve perfectly, legally and apparently legitimately, had no recourse to any other alternatives. How many people do I know for whom the term ‘family’ bears little significance over some rudimentary formalities and a couple of legal obligations, aside from the odd social one.

Why should I or anyone expect that my own family treat me better than I would expect strangers to, in the first place? (I admit, largely, I am treated pretty-well here, and it’s not all doom-and-gloom; but the larger point remains!) What is so magnetic or electric about me that I would expect others to somehow feel duty-bound to my own cause?! Please don’t get me wrong, I don’t pretend to be a martyr. Considering I live in the United Kingdom in this century in a thoroughly middle-class part of the country, I really have nothing great about which to complain; on the whole, my life is pretty-darn comfortable.

But the point will stand, what is it in me that demands to be treated in a certain way, or wishes for better behaviour from certain people; surely, they can equally expect it from me!

To this I have no real answer; I can only keep remembering that if the only reason why I expect better treatment is by virtue of the fact that its because of ‘me,’ then I’ve completely missed the point. What is so special about ‘me’ that I can dare to deign to expect anything? No-one owes me anything. What have I done (and I mean, ontologically) to ‘deserve’ that my expectations be met? To ‘expect’ anything, in the first place?

This world is, by design intended to break our hearts. Not such that we could grieve over it, more so that we could truly realise the fact that we are in the first place not intended for it.


Pain and Presence

I’m writing this, not so much as to tell the world about what’s happening with me these days; rather it is so that I might have some-place where it is recorded.

Last night, I went through a (small) ordeal, which necessitated a trip to the Emergency Room to tackle an extreme bout of pain to my abdomen, and chest. In fact, as I speak now, it feels as if it might recur and I’d need carting-off.

Pain,  which I’m not exactly a stranger to, is something that when it seizes your being, it feels as if it consumes you.

Something happened, though, when this particular pain took. It was so intense, so extreme, I was writhing around in agony, sweating, retching, burning, shouting, shaking… it was unrelenting in a way I’ve never known. Its appearance to me was profound as in a sense, it was the one thing by which my reality was defined entirely at that moment.

But I realised something at that moment, when things felt so bleak.

My mother was running around fetching me drinks to cool off, rubbing on my legs to stop them from writhing around, whilst we were waiting for the paramedics to arrive.
Read the rest of this entry »

O Man, you make me wonder so!

Sayings by Imam Ali (a)

More wonderful than man himself is that part of his body which is connected with his trunk with muscles. It is his brain (mind). Look what good and bad tendencies arise from it. On the one hand it holds treasures of know- ledge and wisdom and on the other it is found to harbour very ugly desires. If a man sees even a tiny gleam of success, then greed forces him to humiliate himself. If he gives way to avarice, then inordinate desires ruin him, if he is disappointed, then despondency almost kills him. If he is excited, then he loses temper and gets angry. If he is pleased, then he gives up precaution. Sudden fear makes him dull and nervous, and he is unable to think and find a way out of the situation. During the times of peace and prosperity he becomes careless and unmindful of the future. If he acquires wealth, then he becomes haughty and arrogant. If he is plunged in distress, then his agitation, impatience and nervousness disgrace him. If he is overtaken by poverty, then he finds himself in a very sad plight, hunger makes him weak, and over-feeding harms him equally. In short every kind of loss and gain makes his mind unbalanced.

Imam Ali

Why Democracy is Evil!


Remember this from last month?

Pictures of the World – Between Method and Zeitgeist?

“One of the most disagreeable present consequences of the failure to understand what method is, and hence what the limits of any method must be, is our current fashion in respectable pseudo-science. Every scientific epoch has been hospitable to charlatanry and hermetic nonsense, admittedly; but these days our shared faith in the limitless power of scientific method has become so pervasive and irrational that, as a culture, we have become shamefully tolerant of all those lush efflorescences of wild conjecture that grow up continuously at the margins of the hard sciences and thrive on a stolen credibility. This is especially true at the fertile purlieus of Darwinian theory, which enjoys the unfortunate distinction of being the school of scientific thought most regularly invoked to justify spurious theories about precisely everything. Evolutionary biology, properly speaking, concerns the development of physical organisms by way of replication, random mutation, and natural selection, and nothing else. The further the tropes of Darwinian theory drift from this very precise field of inquiry, the more willfully speculative, metaphysically unmoored, and empirically useless they become. Yet texts purporting to provide Darwinian explanations of phenomena it has no demonstrable power to describe pour in ceaseless torrents from the presses and inexhaustible wellsprings of the Internet. There are now even whole academic disciplines, like evolutionary psychology, that promote themselves as forms of science but that are little more than morasses of metaphor. (Evolutionary psychologists often become quite indignant when one says this, but a ‘science’ that can explain every possible form of human behavior and organization, however universal or idiosyncratic, and no matter how contradictory of other behaviors, as some kind of practical evolutionary adaptation of the modular brain, clearly has nothing to offer but fabulous narratives – Just So Stories, as it were – disguised as scientific propositions.) As for the even more daringly speculative application of Darwinian language to spheres entirely beyond the physiological, like economics, politics, ethics, social organization, religion, aesthetics, and so on, it may seem a plausible practice at first glance, and it has quite in keeping with our cultural intuition that evolutionary imperatives somehow lie at the origin of everything (an intuition, incidentally, impossible to prove either as a premise or as a conclusion), but it is a purely analogical, not empirical, approach to things: pictoral, not analytic. It produces only theories that are neither true nor false, entertainingly novel metaphors, some more winsome folklore to add to the charming mythopoeia of materialism; and there is no way in which it could ever do any more than this. As soon as one moves from the realm of physiological processes to that of human consciousness and culture, one has taken leave of the world where evolutionary language can be tested or controlled. There are no longer any physical interactions and replications to be measured, and no discrete units of selection that can be identified (assuming one is not so gullible as to take the logically incoherent and empirically vacuous concept of ‘memes’ seriously). Even if one believes that human consciousness and culture are the results solely of evolutionary forces, one still cannot prove that they function only in a Darwinian fashion, and any attempt to do so soon dissolves into a rosy mist of picturesque similes.

“No doubt it says something about the extraordinarily high esteem in which the sciences are held today, after so many remarkable advances over so sustained a period, that there is scarcely a field of inquiry in the academic world that would not like a share of their glamor. It also goes some way toward explaining the propensity of some in the sciences to imagine that their disciplines endow them with a sort of miraculous aptitude for making significant pronouncements in fields in which they actually have received no tutelage. It is perfectly understandable, for example, but also painfully embarrassing, when Stephen Hawking and Leonard Mlodinow casually and pompously declare that philosophy is dead (as they recently have). They might even conceivably be right, but they certainly would not be competent to know if they are (as the fairly elementary philosophical errors in their book show). Every bit as silly are the pronouncements of, say, Richard Feynman or Steven Weinberg regarding the apparent “meaninglessness” of the universe revealed by modern physics (as if any purely physical inventory of reality could possibly have anything to tell us about the meaning of things). High accomplishment in one field – even genius in that field – does not necessarily translate into so much as the barest competence in any other. There is no such thing, at least among finite minds, as intelligence at large; no mind not constrained by its own special proficiencies and formation, no privileged vantage that allows any of us a comprehensive insight into the essence of all things, no expertise or wealth of experience that endows any of us with the wisdom or power to judge what we do not have the training or perhaps the temperament to understand. To imagine otherwise is a delusion, no less in the case of a physicist that in the case of a barber – more so, perhaps, as the barber, not having been indoctrinated with the very peremptory professional dogmas regarding the nature of reality, would no doubt be far easier to disabuse of his confidence of the limitless capacities of tonsorial method.”

David Bentley Hart, The Experience of God: Being, Consciousness, Bliss (Yale, New Haven: 2013), pp 72-74. Okay it has been a while since I’ve had to cite anything properly, but that ought to suffice, one hopes! Typos are most-definitely mine.

On ‘Logic’

I’ve recently joined a book-discussion group with a couple of dear friends, and the title we’re discussing is Logic and Transcendence by the late Frithjof Schuon, a philosopher and comparative-religions’ scholar, a man who many consider to have been a modern sage. I’m falling back on my reading as my health has other objectives, nonetheless it gives me something on a weekly basis to look-forward to!

He seems to eschew a large part of the Western analytic and philosophical tradition in general. There’s a very incisive short passage that I shall re-post for you here, which gave me something about which to chuckle.


 A rationalist is a person who upholds the primacy, or rather the exclusive worth, the reason against both intellection and Revelation,  each of which he accuses of being “irrational”: he will claim, for example, that a miracle is irrational because it is contrary to reason, which is an altogether useless pronouncement since nothing in any religion is opposed to reason such; the most one can say is that the supernatural is contrary to common experience and to certain subjective tendencies that have been systematised and then given the name of logic. (!)

Maybe, just maybe, he has a point :)


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