Posts Tagged ‘Stanley Cavell’

Facing Stanley Dancing

March 2, 2009

 Steady. If you need a chair or something to hold on to, try this sentence:

It is a condition of, or a threat to, that relation to things called aesthetic, that something I know and cannot make intelligible stands to be lost to me.

There. There’s your rock to anchor to. Now we will start with two ‘conjoined quotes’, the first one by John Dewey, who is quoting Emerson, and the second by Nietzsche who is thinking about Wagner.

As Emerson says in his essay on “Self-Reliance”: “A man should learn to detect and watch that gleam of light which flashes across his mind from within, . . . else to-morrow a stranger will say with masterly good sense precisely what we have thought and felt all the time, and we shall be forced to take with shame our own opinion from another” . . . Language does not help us at this point; rather the habits of our vocabulary betray us . . . To know what the words mean we have to forget the words and become aware of the occasions when some idea truly our own is stirring within us and strivingto come to birth.

Art has never been so much talked about [by critics, journalists, in schools, in society] and so little esteemed . . . On the other hand, many a being more nobly and delicately endowed by nature, though he may have gradually become a critical barbarian in the manner described, might have something to say about the unexpected as well as totally unintelligible effect that a successful performance of Lohengrin, for example, has on him—except that perhaps there was no helpful interpreting hand to guide him; so theincomprehensibly different and altogether incomparable sensation that thrilled him remained isolated and, like a mysterious star, became extinct after a short period of brilliance. But it was then that he had an inkling of what an aesthetic listener is.

That Dewey should be quoting Emerson at all is evidence that pragmatism does share some roots in Emerson’s thought. For Emerson and Dewey, habits tend to be a bad thing; it is better to cultivate an attention on the mind at the birth of an idea, to the ‘light’ that flashes from within; it keeps one from suffering the opinions of others as one’s own. Dewey, however, doesn’t quite get Emerson’s sense of the power of words, that we can use them against themselves, make them our own. The habits of our vocabulary betray us, he sums up. True, but this is not the whole story. John and Waldo seem to be taking a slow turn around the dance floor, agreeing that a habitual response is bad, but politely misunderstanding each other’s words about words.

Nietzsche is dancing to Lohengrin, but he too has words on his mind. Never has art been talked about so much, and never has it been so little esteemed. Curious, isn’t it? One would think that the interested listener could—should—be able to use words to describe the effect that a performance of Lohengrin has had on him. We seem to have two bi-polar pals in the concert hall, the critical barbarian and the aesthetic listener, the wordsmith without sensibility and the sensibility without the vocabulary to aid him.


The aesthetic listener? My, that rather recalls to mind Kant’s characterization of aesthetic judgment… at least it reminds Stanley Cavell of Stanley Cavell’s characterization of Kant’s notion in a little essay he published in Must We Mean What We Say? in which he proposes that Kant’s characterization of the aesthetic judgment models the relevant philosophical claim to voice what we should ordinarily say when, and what we should mean in saying it. Underline ‘ordinarily’ here, because this whole dance we’ve been blocking out is in the interest of Stanley Cavell’s recovery of ‘what J. L. Austin and the latter Wittgenstein name the ordinary.’

Not to worry. We have merely crossed the threshold of Something Out of the Ordinary, which started out as an address Stanley Cavell gave to the American Philosophical Association and is now chapter one in a book called Philosophy the Day after Tomorrow. Are you ready? Fred Astaire is going to perform and Immanuel Kant is out front warming up the crowd. Something out of the ordinary. They say Ginger Rogers danced every step Fred Astaire did, but backwards, facing Fred. All we have to do is dance a little dance backwards, facing Stanley—and figure out what the ordinary is—in the work, you know, of John Austin and Ludwig Wittgenstein. That’s all.

One problem we have to start with is that Stanley Cavell might well be the Mount Rushmore of philosophy. Reading him fills one with words and sentence structure and difficult rhetoric—all good stuff—but one can be left gasping—and that breath of air competes with a breadth of knowledge and a range of reference and an idiosyncratic style—perhaps we confront true philosophy here, perhaps we duplicate the sort of thing the Athenians dealt with when talking in the Agora with Socrates…

And perhaps we don’t.

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The Day of the Dawn

January 19, 2009

Picture a lone figure out on the cliffs. It’s still dark and he is worried he might misstep—badly—you could fall off the edge out here and no one would know. Below is the sea, but also rocks and a cove that gets washed by the tide. It’s forty, fifty feet down. Fall and you’re dead. So he’s careful. Above him is a parchment of clouds, and beyond that, truly, the heavens. It’s cold, and as the sun starts to rise, so does the breeze…

I caught this morning morning’s minion,

At least that’s the picture I’m drawing: A black cassock against a black sky. Father Hopkins out on a precipice seeing God in a falcon’s flight

the achieve of, the mastery of the thing!

throne1It’s always been one of my favorite poems, The Windhover. Subtitled: To Christ our Lord. And it seems fair to examine the vocabulary of a poem—a minion in the kingdom of daylight’s dauphin. O my chevalier!—though I guess it’s not surprising to find European heraldry in the way people talk about a god that grew up in the European middle ages. After all, the bumper sticker proclaims ‘Jesus is Lord’, not ‘Jesus is Vice-President’.

So, hovering on the edge of the sun, sea, clouds and sky—in the king-dom of daylight’s dauphin—is a bird, a falcon drawn by the dawn and the icy sea, a falcon who is supported by—of all things—the atmosphere.

…in his riding/ Of the rolling level underneath him steady air

Day is in sharp contrast to night, one of the simplest of oppositions known to man, at least until the invention of the light bulb. “It’s always night, or else we wouldn’t need light.”—as Thelonious Monk states the case (see the superscription to Thomas Pynchon’s Against the Day). Look up ‘dauphin’ and you’ll find a direct link to the eldest son of the king of France, a prince, waiting in the wings to take over the throne, so the dawn and the ensuing daylight must be the kingdom of Christ, the savior of mankind, the one who is next in line to that sun rising amidst a bust of rays and cloud-reflected light: the sunrise is beautiful, isn’t it? Of course, the bird is a mere minion in the picture, with Father Hopkins and the rest of mankind in the middle of the Great Chain of Being—a worldview which we probably think of today as being ‘poetic’, which can be a polite way of saying ‘not true’. Night is against the day.

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