Kantian Metaphysics and How to Get Beaten Up by Your Mum

Between the ages of 7 – 13, my mother used to scream at me: ‘you are not the centre of the universe’ and I, like any kind-hearted, mother-loving son, would stop whatever it was that was annoying her and do my best to remain quiet... at least temporarily. However, when looking back upon the maxim she employed to shut me up, I feel as if a huge opportunity was missed.

I believe she was wrong in her assumptions, because I am, of course, the centre of my universe. I may not be the centre of the universe, but this again, is debatable. Allow me to demonstrate using Kantian metaphysics. Immanuel Kant distinguished between the phenomenal world and the noumenal world. The phenomenal world is the world as we experience it using empirical observation with an added dose of synthetic judgements a priori. This world, essentially, is the world of our perceptions.

The noumenal world, on the other hand, is the actual world - or ‘the thing-in-itself’ - a world we can never fully understand due to the limitations of our perceptions.

Now, in the phenomenal world, I am absolutely the centre of the universe. The world, to borrow another trite, maternal idiom, does indeed revolve around me. Everything is subject to my perception. So when my mother says ‘you are not the centre of the universe’, an adequate, though somewhat mischievous response would be: ‘in fact, mother, to a certain degree I am. You see, mother, from my perspective I am indeed the centre of the phenomenal universe.’

My mother never hit me; however, if I refuted her claim in her already apoplectic state by utilizing Kantian metaphysics at 9 years old, I don’t believe that statement would remain true. There would land the first slap – probably with her weaker, ring-less left hand.

The noumenal world (the thing-in-itself) could appropriately be seen as our collective universe – in the sense that it is the world we all perceive - and is more likely what my mother was referring to. However, as Kant explains, we have only a limited understanding of this universe as it cannot be comprehended beyond our own perceptions; therefore, her claim that I am not the centre of the universe is unfounded. I could respond ‘mother, no one knows exactly who or where the centre of this noumenal universe is; it could be me, it could indeed be you. Stop making assumptions!’

Now at this point, she would probably hit me for the second time, potentially with a closed fist. But, I like to think I was a courageous 9 year old, and had I been aware of her fallacious statement, I may have had the temerity to continue. I may have even been audacious enough to forget Kantian metaphysics and utilized a more scientific reasoning.

I might have said to my mother: ‘furthermore, mother... scientists argue that space is infinite, which means that I am either the centre of the universe, or we have no idea where the centre is, or there is actually no centre. All these theories prove that you were either wrong, or, your hypothesis, mother, was verily illogical’. At this point I would laugh grandiloquently, as loud as possible.

Now, as you may have guessed, mother would be quite frustrated by this point and she may land the third blow – this time, I assume, it would be with her closed right fist, because her protruding wedding ring would likely cause more damage than her weakened left hand. My mother, seeing me bloodied by her pugnacious response, would likely feel remorse.

As I imagine it, she would kneel down and say ‘I am so sorry, I didn’t mean to, I am a fool, I’m sorry, I’m sorry, It’s all my fault’. Upon hearing how many ‘I’s’ were used in one sentence, I would probably have a response: ‘mother’ I would say with a smile rising from my sanguineous, quivering lip ‘it’s not all about you, you know!’

Anyway, if any 9 year olds happen to be reading this that are fed up of hearing: ‘you are not the centre of the universe’ and want to get beaten up by their mum, you now know what to do.

3 of John Steinbeck's Best

The Red Pony Review

There is one obvious question that may need clarification before I begin. Why The Red Pony? And it is a valid question. Would it have made more sense to review The Grapes of Wrath, East of Eden or Of Mice and Men? Sure. However, I feel this blog has developed a noticeable trend; long, laudatory pieces providing unabashed praise for the more salient works of important novelists.

I was told that The Red Pony isn’t a great book; I read a review that ratified this perspective and having finished the book, I can wholeheartedly agree. The Red Pony isn’t a bad novel, it’s mediocre. Yet with the aforementioned novels under Steinbeck’s enormous, powerful belt, it seems this mediocrity transforms into disappointment.

The problem with the novel is that it is quite simply bland. It is split into short stories, beginning with protagonist Jody receiving the titular 'red' pony. Jody loves the pony but is forced to grow up when tragedy occurs. The rest of the book seems to simply continue along these dull and faded lines.

I would recommend this book only to those who adore Steinbeck, as it presents his idiosyncratic prose which he is famed for. Yet, if, like me, you enjoy Steinbeck, but don't adorn him, you may find this book slightly bland and  insipid. It may be wise to refer to Steinbeck's aforementioned salient classics that guarantee a great read.

3 Notorious Beat Books...

On the Road Review

In my friend’s room, some years ago, there was a poster of Jack Kerouac (left), looking pensively into the lens. One night, somewhat inebriated, I read the quote underneath. Anyone who has ever read On the Road, or anyone who has read an interpretation or a review of On the Road, will know this quote.

“The only people for me are the mad ones, the ones who are mad to live, mad to talk, mad to be saved, desirous of everything at the same time, the ones who never yawn or say a commonplace thing, but burn, burn, burn like fabulous yellow roman candles exploding like spiders across the stars.” 

That same intoxicated night, as I stumbled out of his dishevelled university housing and somehow made my way home, the same quote resonated in my mind. The next morning, waking up in that preliminary stage of a hangover, where one feels partially drunk and partially repugnant, where one considers the fragmented sequence of events from the night before, I remembered the poster on the wall, and the beauty of that quote.

Now, in an effort to avoid sentimentalizing On the Road, it’s important to note that I finished my current novel, Buchan’s 39 Steps, and then purchased On the Road from Amazon. A tale somewhat devoid of romance and certainly antithetical to the lifestyle that Kerouac’s ‘Beat Bible’ expounds.

I was 18 when I read it, as everyone seemed to be, and unfortunately, to accord to the commonplace, I was astonished by it. I am far older, far wiser and certainly more indebted to the world of literature now, so my second reading may not be as commonplace.

Firstly, let me make this very clear from the outset, I loved and still love this book. However, without the rose tinted beat glasses and the thirst for adventure, exploration and personal discovery, I am happy to concede that this book has its faults.

The vocabulary is far from extensive, the prose is often overly romantic and the story is at times fragmented.  Commentators often attribute, and arguably excuse, these faults to the legend that surrounds this novel: the three week burst in which it was written, the haze of drugs that apparently played a role in such an expeditious accomplishment and perhaps most notoriously, the monolithic 100+ foot scroll on which it was produced (right).

Nonetheless, this legend, for solely literary reasons, must be ignored. One of the problems with the novel, as mentioned earlier, is that it is often sensationalized. It is viewed as a sort of nostalgic, adolescent treasure that played an all encompassing role in its reader’s formative years. And much like Salinger’s Catcher in the Rye, its legend often proceeds it’s literary achievement.

The book, in a purely non-romantic, literary sense, is still extremely readable. What I found most enjoyable on the second read is how it opens up and challenges the conventions of literature. By employing his ‘spontaneous prose’, Kerouac opens the story up, and while this inexorably fragments it, the result is a fast, dynamic tale of camaraderie,  love and adventure. The autobiographical essence of the book evokes feelings of verisimilitude and brutality to the novel. It awards it with a sense of honesty.

The novel follows protagonist Sal Paradise, Kerouac’s alter-ego, on various cross country trips through America, and down to Mexico, joined for the large part by his mercurial friend Dean Moriarty, based on Neal Cassady. Dean is the heart of the story; his wild, unpredictable endeavours, his lust for life and his regression from mad hero to pitiful fool provide the novel with its finest moments.

Dean embodies the spirit of the Beat Generation, a post-war American subculture headed by the likes of Kerouac, William Burroughs and Allen Ginsberg. His perpetual quest to find jazz, sex, drugs and love, that are immortalized in these pages, exemplifies the ethos of all those who are considered ‘Beat’.

As the story progresses, the trips seem less and less rewarding. The novel ends with Sal and his new girl planning on moving to San Francisco, and Dean appearing to help with the move. Everything falls through however, and Dean disappears for a final time, leaving Sal to reminisce about their adventures, seeming strangely bereft. The novel ends as nostalgically as it began, with Sal dreaming of Dean Moriarty.

The second read is interesting; you are still rewarded with the sense of adventure and the fast, incomparable prose. What is taken away is the life-affirming feeling that teenagers receive, and it's replaced by a feeling of emptiness, perhaps a disappointment that you can’t heed the same results. 

On the Road is still a good novel, and I would recommend it to anyone who hasn't read it, however once I tore myself away from the glare of sentiment and the overbearing shadow of nostalgia, I saw some of its faults and came to the realization that while it is still emphatically interesting and entertaining, I can no longer consider it the finest piece of American literature.

Three Beat Boys:

The Beat generation has received renewed interest as of late. This post will look at three of it's celebrated members:

Jack Kerouac in New York City.

Jack Kerouac (above), William Burroughs (bottom, left) and Allen Ginsberg (bottom, right) were the cornerstones of the Beat Generation. 

Kerouac was the poster-boy of this post-war American subculture. His seminal work On the Road, that will be reviewed above, embodied the spirit of the subculture. It is referred to as the 'Beat bible'. On the Road is heading for the big screen this summer, with Francis Ford Coppola as a producer.

 Burroughs, often referred to as the godfather of the beat generation, was the most innovative beat novelist, often experimenting with new styles and developing different genres. In his most celebrated work, Naked Lunch,  Burroughs employs the cut-up technique, something Burroughs created, improved and eventually perfected.

Allen Ginsberg was a 'jazz poet'. Some of his noticeable works are Howl, Kaddish and America. He was the most political beat, often striving for a more politically aware movement, rather than the arguably apolitical, even anti-political, position that characterized the Beat generation.

Ernest Hemingway

To end what has somewhat accidentally become Ernest Hemingway week, I thought it was fitting to add this photo. I have shown photo's of two of his other hedonistic desires, guns and alcohol, in previous posts, but it is important to end the week showing what he does best, writing.

This photograph is statuesque and in my opinion shows the power and presence the man ostensibly possessed.







'Every man's life ends the same way. It is only the details of how he lived and how he died that distinguish one man from another' -
Ernest Hemingway (1899 - 1961)

Top 5 Literary quotes about alcohol:

This week we reviewed Hemingway’s For Whom the Bell Tolls. This novel, like much of Hemingway’s work, is based around war. So I decided to post a couple of American authors and their esteemed weaponry.

Another topic that always plays a large role throughout Hemingway’s oeuvre is alcohol. So why not indulge...

1.  Always do sober what you said you’d do drunk. That will teach you to keep your mouth shut. – Ernest Hemingway

2.  An alcoholic is someone you don't like who drinks as much as you - Dylan Thomas

3.  The problem with some people is that when they aren’t drunk they’re sober – William Butler Yeates

4.  Work is the curse of the drinking classes – Oscar Wilde

5.  I hate to advocate drugs, alcohol, violence, or insanity to anyone, but they've always worked for me - Hunter S. Thompson  

While writers are heavy drinkers and usually command the terrain of the written word, W.C. Fields is certainly worth a mention. The comedian, actor, performer and all round genius provides some of the most ironic, yet earnest, quotations regarding alcohol and it’s consumption. Well worth a read:

I drink therefore I am – W.C. Fields

Once, during Prohibition, I was forced to live for days on nothing but food and water – W.C. Fields.

A woman drove me to drink and I never even her the courtesy to thank her - W.C. Fields

American Writers Do Love Their Guns..

1. Ernest Hemingway teaching his son how to shoot.

2. William Burroughs, another firearms fanatic, posing mysteriously with his handgun. This is a man who accidentally murdered his wife in an intoxicated and playful game of 'William tell'.

3. Hunter S. Thompson, probably the most salient firearm-bearing writer, aiming his gun into the abyss.

Here's a relevant post: Hunter S. Thompson's obituary, of sorts, for William Burroughs. Where he glorifies and accredits Burroughs weaponry skills:

http://hstbooks.org/2008/08/19/william-s-burroughs-obituary-by-hunter-s-thompson/

Here is a truly remarkable video of William Burroughs, clearly deteriorated and incapacitated by old age, shooting William Shakespeare:

Ernest Hemingway - For Whom the Bell Tolls

'Any man's death diminishes me, because I am involved in Mankind; And therefore never send to know for whom the bell tolls; it tolls for thee.'

John Donne

Ernest Hemingway’s brevity has never been imitated or matched. His prose is fast, laconic, at times brutal and often breathtaking. He won the Nobel Prize for literature in 1954, shortly after his celebrated novella, The Old Man and the Sea. Hemingway was awarded the prize ‘for his mastery in the art of narrative’ and modestly claimed the award was undeserving, due to the aptitude of his competition, but stated that the prize money was still welcome.

Hemingway lived a tumultuous life, riddled with violence, depression and war. A life filled with wonderful romances and woeful separations. He frequently claimed to be lonely and desolate and believed this was the perfect psychological state for all good writers. He said in his Nobel acceptance speech that ‘writing, at its best, is a lonely life’.

All these troubles, his failed romances, his experience of war and his sustained injuries arguably culminated in his suicide in 1961. However, it was later found that he had a rare genetic disease; hemochromatosis, which was passed down from his father, who tragically reached his own suicidal demise. The disease doesn’t allow the body to properly metabolize iron, which can result in mental and physical deterioration.

One can hardly speculate as to whether he was depressed because of the horrors he had witnessed in war-torn Europe, or whether his 4 failed marriages were to be held somewhat culpable, or whether his depression was solely attributed to this rare disease; one thing we do know is the hardships, the atrocities and those painful, woeful moments are immortalized in his terse, yet wonderfully explicit, semi-autobiographical prose throughout every page his wonderful oeuvre.

Hemingway writes with astonishing verisimilitude, and while his life was noticeably painful, he never neglects moments of spontaneity and always presents his audience with extraordinary romances and friendships. His novels are inextricably fluctuating, expounding the extremes of all emotions in his most idiosyncratic and distinctive prose.

For Whom the Bell Tolls is no different. In fact, it is probably the best example of this erratic prose. The story follows protagonist, Robert Jordan, empathetically know as ‘English’, through the violence and terrors of the Spanish Civil War. He is sent to a camp of republican guerrillas, who are fighting against Franco’s Fascists, in a conflict that tore Spain apart and eventually saw Franco in power. Jordan, a dynamiter, is sent there to blow up a bridge in order to aid the republicans.

As the narrative progresses, the protagonist is seen falling in love with a young girl living at the camp named Maria. Maria is a victim of the Fascists, who executed her parents and proceeded to sexually abuse and rape her. Jordan and Maria's attraction is instant, and provides gentler tones to a book that is quite sanguineous and horrific by its very nature.

Throughout the novel, Jordan argues with the old camp leader Pablo, a drunk, who was once a brave and ruthless soldier, over his conspicuous ineffectuality and his perpetual inebriation. Other than this, Jordan for the most part becomes friends with those in the camp and listens to their copious stories, anecdotes and tales of war, none more frightful than those from when Pablo was in charge.

One sequence in particular sticks with the reader, a sequence as merciless as any to be found in modern literature. Pillar, Pablo’s wife and current leader of the camp, tells Jordan of Pablo’s cold-hearted brutality in the days when he drank less and fought more. This particular story is somehow picturesque despite its palpably vicious inclinations. It displays how Pablo led men of a cliff after threatening their lives. How a group of guerrillas lined up and killed Fascists, one by one, in regimented yet horrific fashion.

If you have, or even hope to read For Whom the Bell Tolls, you will know of this scene. It is quite brilliant. The way Hemingway describes, in his distinctive brevity, the action of each man who is led to their deaths, down the tunnel of guerrillas towards the cliff. The ones who try to escape, who are then beaten continuously until they either die from such beatings or try their luck of the cliff. The ones who accept their fate, who walk proudly off the cliff as if straight into heaven. The ones, who scream for forgiveness, ask for exoneration and beg for mercy.

In these frightful scenes, Hemingway describes how Pablo is cold and fearless, which lends the reader a degree of admiration for the drunk who has fallen from glory, who once fought valiantly and boldly against a Fascist regime. And at the same time you sympathize with the devil, these Fascists, some hard-line, some nascent non-believers, all seemingly on a journey through perdition.

Much like Orwell’s Homage to Catalonia, Hemingway volunteered for the Spanish Civil war, lending the novel its inevitable biographical content and its veiled realism. The book can be exceptionally cold and at times perhaps a little too masochistic, but for me, it remains permanently entertaining.

The book is neither for the fainthearted, nor for those who enjoy drawn out, leisurely, Proustian prose. This novel is almost 500 pages of pure, unadulterated emotion, always extreme and always enjoyable. It has action, love, friendship and brutality almost in repetition, all embroidered and implemented with Hemmingway’s incomparable brevity and distinguished style.

Hemingway is often praised, and rightly so, for the Old Man and the Sea and A Farewell to Arms, but it is here where his disparate style, his laconic prose and his truly desolate literature is best displayed. Out of all of Hemmingway’s work, this is the book that encapsulates Hemingway, this is the book that shows how truly astonishing a writer he really is.