Moored in Space by Drifting through Time

Some Thoughts on Feeling Grounded by Local History

If you read the Alberta Museums Association’s “Sustainability Working Group Recommendations Report,” you’ll find descriptions of five kinds of museum sustainability, one of them perhaps somewhat surprising:

Health and Well-being sustainability: refers to “the condition or state of being well, contented and satisfied with life … Well-being (and so quality of life) has several components, including physical, mental, social, [intellectual,] and spiritual. Well-being and quality of life are also used in a collective sense to describe how well society satisfies people’s wants and needs.”iv; “a shared sense of meaning and purpose is the single attitude most strongly associated with community well-being. The process of arriving at collective meanings is central to the health of a community.”v [emphasis and superscript in original]

Lest you fear, as I do, that the emphasis on collective meaning will produce homogeneity by erasing disagreement, the document goes on to address cultural diversity:

Social sustainability: “deepening and diversifying relationships, aiming to reflect the diversity of society in all that they do”viii: engaged in socially responsible work that affects real social and environmental change with the potential to create public benefit on a larger scale.ix [emphasis and superscript in original]

Although I came across these passages in the course of grant writing at a local history museum which was, until recently, my place of employment, I found that in the last two years or so I have returned to this again and again outside of work.

Fort McMurray–my place of residence between April 2016 and last week–is a strange community, one with an identity very much up for debate. It is not clear what collective meanings its citizens might share, and if there are any, I’m not sure how much I like them. I have had trouble reckoning with it as something of an outsider. It is a city of outsiders in a way unlike most other communities of its size, of course, with a high turnover rate in its population, but I am also something of a political outsider, a leftist in this most (economically) right-wing of cities. It is a hard city to make friends in at the best of times and I found it harder to do so because I knew I would be leaving in just a few years. How could I find a place for myself in this city? How could I ground myself if I knew I would not be putting down roots?1

An aerial photograph of downtown Fort McMurray. Highway 63 frames the left side of the photograph, while the Athabasca flows just below the horizon at the top of the image.

Photo of Fort McMurray, 1991, by Gord McKenna at Flickr, with a Creative Commons License.

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A Glut of Tradition

How many times I have written and rewritten some version of this post, I cannot say. At this point I do not even know what all of my reservations with this post are: that this is self-pitying, perhaps, or self-indulgent, or just a waste of time? I’ll publish this, I think, to keep myself honest, so that if I ever start getting too big for my britches you can link me back to this, say, “So, did you ever solve this problem?” And I’ll publish it so that if you feel the same way you’ll know that you aren’t alone. Not that seeing another person struggle the same struggle has given me any comfort that I can recall, but there are some people who are consoled by the idea. And, hey, I doubt some Silicon Sophia will resurrect us all in her microchips one day, but if it ever happens I suppose she can use this to improve her simulations.

A black and white image of a man standing before library stacks, holding a large number of books along one arm.

“Scene from the State Library” by State Library Victoria Collection

Near the beginning of this blog I had a crisis of sorts: what is the point of having opinions at all, let alone sharing them online, given how little I really know? I am far behind in the game of understanding the world. What makes me think I could ever catch up? I resolved this to some extent at the time and I mostly forgot about the affair. I regained a sense that I might stagger toward some understanding–albeit a limited understanding–and that this process might be instructive for someone or other. A little while later I had so regained my confidence that I tried to explain in a more systematic way the thinking I had been doing. Sure, this was provisional, trying on ideas rather than arguing for them, but that was more than I had been comfortable with previously. Alas, for the last year the sense of futility has returned, powerfully so, and for a more robust, theory-informed reason.

It began, however, with excitement. I had stumbled upon a suite of philosophy blogs into which I fell headlong; Speculum Criticum Traditionis and Digressions & Impressions are two notable examples. The one I’ve already mentioned here, and which prompted me to start reading Alasdair MacIntyre, is Amod Lele’s Love of All Wisdom. Lele is a comparative philosopher of a strongly synthetic bent; although more inclined to analytic philosophy than to Continental philosophy, he has the latter’s interest in putting Western and non-Western philosophical traditions into conversation. If you click through and look at his blog’s marquee you’ll see five representatives of the traditions he in particular is working through: Śāntideva, Aristotle, G. W. F. Hegel, Confucius, and Martha Nussbaum. What I found particularly exciting about his work is what he calls the “methodological MacIntyre,” referring to the way in which Alasdair MacIntyre adapted the work of Thomas Aquinas and, more importantly, Thomas Kuhn and Imre Lakatos to consider how to decide between incommensurable philosophical traditions.

I’ll explain.

One of MacIntyre’s key insights is that all philosophical thinking occurs in a tradition; that philosophical tradition is what supplies the rules a thinker needs in order to think, concerning issues like what logical moves are allowed, what sorts of assumptions are valid, and what sorts of things count as evidence. (Examples of philosophical traditions might be Confucianism, Thomism, or analytic philosophy.) The problem is that there are several such traditions and these traditions are, or can be, incommensurable, which means that a person situated in one tradition will not understand the arguments of a person situated in a different tradition. This poses a problem: how can a person choose, rationally, between philosophical traditions? In order to think rationally at all, I must already be situated in a tradition. But if I am situated in a tradition, I am by definition unable to assess the validity of a tradition that is incommensurable with my own. MacIntyre’s answer is that traditions can become commensurable. This requires a lot of work: one or more thinkers must learn both traditions fluently, so they can think in each tradition’s own terms (even if those terms contradict each other), and then do the work of translating each tradition into the other’s idiom. At this point, one tradition can supercede the other. This happens when members of Tradition A acknowledge that Tradition B addresses certain problems in Tradition A better than Tradition A does. The important thing here is not that Tradition B mounts a critique of Tradition A, because Tradition A is also perfectly capable of mounting a critique of Tradition B and there’s no way to adjudicate between those critiques without already deciding which is the better tradition. No, the important thing is that Tradition B does a better job of solving Tradition A’s problems than Tradition A does, by Tradition A’s own standards. Usually this occurs when there is a crisis of some variety within a tradition which that tradition has failed to resolve.

Lele largely adopts MacIntyre’s idea here, but with a crucial two-fold modification. First, Lele argues that one tradition superceding another is not the only possibility: MacIntyre’s own hero, Thomas Aquinas, synthesized two traditions (Augustinian Christianity and Aristotelianism) that had lately become commensurable. Second, relatedly, Lele disagrees that a thinker can only be located in one tradition. This can’t be correct; among other things, traditions are often domain-specific. MacIntyre does not disavow evolutionary theory just because he is a Thomist: he allows himself to be guided by Charles Darwin in biological inquiry even while he is guided by Thomas Aquinas in metaphysical, epistemological, and ethical inquiry. It is incorrect to depict traditions of inquiry as being always strictly antagonistic (though of course they may often be antagonistic). Therefore Lele speaks of not just choosing a tradition, as MacIntyre might, but choosing a few.

(The Love of All Wisdom posts which I have summarized above are as follows: “Paper on methodology up on Prosblogion,” “The need for substantive standards of rationality,” “The methodological MacIntyre and the substantive MacIntyre,” “Paradigms in Wilber and MacIntyre,” “Choosing a few traditions,” “Belonging rationally to a tradition.”)

As I said, at first pass I found this exciting. For the most part this was because I was immediately convinced. The way MacIntyre and/or Lele had framed the problem of incommensurate traditions of inquiry articulated and reasonably explained what I had long ago intuited as being a real problem with rational discourse, leading to the door of postmodernism. But neither MacIntyre nor Lele end there. I had been looking for some time for whatever comes after postmodernism; although personal epistemology theory strongly suggested to me that such a thing exists, the scholarship on personal epistemology is very light on description about a way forward. (That’s not a failing of the theory; it is descriptive of the stages by which people understand knowledge and knowledge acquisition, not normative about the philosophical justifications or frameworks a person takes at each stage.) Lele’s modification of MacIntyre seems, to me, to be the best way forward I’ve seen so far.

Alas, excitement quickly turned to despair. Of course that despair is possibly just a consequence of my temperament. But it’s not without reason. The “methodological MacIntyre” allows something I thought might be theoretically impossible; it does not prevent it from being practically impossible. Lele alludes to this when discussing his ambition to synthesize all wisdom traditions in “Choosing a few traditions”:

But to offer a dialectical synthesis of all traditions seems pretty close to impossible. There is just too much out there. One can certainly love all wisdom, enjoy it, delight in it. But I don’t think one can actually know all wisdom well enough to put it all together in one lifetime. And one lifetime is all any of us has.

Lele then resolves to choose and attempt to synthesize just two: what he calls Yavanayāna Buddhism and a “modern historicist Aristotelianism,” of which Hegel and MacIntyre would be included. This, too, is the work of a lifetime, but it is the work of a lifetime, in that Lele can reasonably achieve this reduced goal. He could do it. I am not sure I could.

At 31 I am still young in the grand scheme. Nonetheless, I feel far behind. I feel very far behind. In my attempt to learn more about and speak more about the sorts of philosophers and theorists of whom (according to my degrees) I already have some command, I have discovered that I know very little after all. Reading the work of people who do have some grasp on philosophy was enough to disabuse me of the notion that I know much; I don’t even really know what I’m missing.

What’s worse is that I am bad at catching up. There are some external factors: I don’t have access to an academic library and although I signed up for a free JSTOR account, that only lets me see a handful of articles a month. I live in a remote area, so anything I want to get I have to order and have shipped up here. But these limitations are not the real limitations: I do not read academic works fast enough that I’m at any risk of outstripping my current resources. Sloth and distraction and tiredness are problems; they are problems I cannot easily disentangle from depression. I know that disinclination and laziness are not the only issues because sometimes I try to read or to think things through, but can’t focus or make any headway. I’m not going to say they aren’t issues, though.[1]

The problem is that, in order to make a MacIntyrean program of inquiry work, you need to thoroughly and deeply understand a few traditions. A smattering–even an impressive smattering–from a wide variety of traditions is not enough. If things go on as they have for the last year or so, I am never going to achieve this. And even if I will achieve this, it still means that I’m not qualified to have any opinions for a few decades yet. Perhaps that is a good thing, but still: despair.

(I worry this sounds elitist. Of course it is elitist: if I, with my degrees and my extra-curricular reading, am not qualified to have any opinions, where does that leave those who have not had my advantages? I’m sensitive to this. However, at the same time, the very idea of education is that afterwards you know more and think better than you did before; if you think education does any of that at all, you will need to accept some amount of elitism. There are bits of reality that just do take training to better understand, though of course there is room for debate about which bits, how much training, and of what kind.)

So, despairing, I thought I might abandon the project to those more competent than myself. My abandonment would be the retreat of which C. S. Lewis was accused (but of which he was likely innocent): a retreat from logic, philosophy, and discourse into fiction and fantasy. I would give up trying to understand the world demonstratively or dialectically, but instead take what little I know and dramatize it in story and myth. This would not be didactic: I would play with the concepts, show them in various lights, so that others more clever and educated than myself might be able to do something with them. What shape might these fantasies take? I considered–seriously considered, and have not wholly decided against–worldbuilding much like Mark Rosenfelder’s Almea, though I find the thought of this project nearly as daunting: I have even less knowledge of geography and linguistics than I do of philosophy! But at least you can cut corners in worldbuilding without ruining the entire project, which cannot be said of philosophy.

But I do not know that I would be any happier if I did leave philosophy for fantasy. I would know I had surrendered. Philosophy is maybe something I need to tackle, not for my own peace of mind (a lost cause, surely) but at least for… something else. For dignity, maybe. Or because I care, despite myself, that I try to get it right. That is not a justification but a guess at a causal explanation: I do this because it is in my nature to care about pursuing right belief. I would like to say I do it for joy or even for pleasure, but I cannot say that.

So where do I go from here? Well, I think the answer is that I first need to know where “here” is. What are my traditions?

There are two ways of identifying which traditions might be mine: the historical, in which I assess what has influenced me, and the aspirational, in which I which I determine, in MacIntyre’s phrase, “which of these rival modes of moral understanding [I find myself] most adequately explained and accounted for.” I would say my traditions in the historical sense are Christianity, continental philosophy/critical theory, and the social sciences. My Christianity began with Lutheranism, continued with immersion in a very ahistorical evangelical-adjacent low Protestantism (against which I often resisted), and has finally come to some rest in Anglicanism. Continental philosophy/critical theory I learned imperfectly in my undergraduate program, almost through osmosis, and then re-learned somewhat–but barely–more systematically in my own studies and in my first graduate program; although never convinced of the truth of either postmodernism or existentialism, I was heavily influenced by both and remain convinced that they must be taken more seriously (and sometimes as partners, not just as adversaries) than most people are willing to attempt or admit. I don’t know to what extent “social sciences” are a tradition of inquiry, but certainly psychology and religious studies (as a subset of anthropology) have always been part of how I reflect on attempts to pursue the truth, and my library and information studies program impressed upon me the value of mixed-methods research.

But, aspirationally, in which rival modes of moral understanding do I find myself most adequately explained and accounted for? Part of the problem is that I’m not informed enough even to make a decision about this: I just don’t know where to draw the lines! And how can I know if I am choosing the best ones?[2] But I must begin, and so despite my angst I must choose.

I wasn’t wholly convinced by the blurb on the back of A Passionate Balance:

Highlighting their complexity, fallibility, humility but also passion Bartlett suggests that Anglican spirituality and theology are not only resilient enough to survive the present malaise but have the potential to be a most effective ‘post-modern’ expression of the Christian faith.

It was not clear to me at first how Anglicanism really addressed the problems posed by postmodernism. Since reading MacIntyre, though, I see that I can (potentially) answer postmodernism by emphasizing how knowledge production is historically and dialectically situated, and in Bartlett it is clear that Anglican theology conducts its inquiry with marked awareness of how it is situated both historically and dialectically. Furthermore, the Anglican insistence on a reciprocal connection between practice, community, and understanding reflects the way knowledge is embodied and socially embedded. Lastly, Canadian Anglicanism is capacious: it is a place from which one can explore. I think it offers a vantage from which I can attempt those postmodern and existentialist questions… but I also don’t know that it has all the resources I need to answer those questions.

Another tradition of inquiry I think I might need to explore further is what I want to call “social justice work.” I’m not sure where the lines go around this tradition. Perhaps it is not just one tradition, but a chimera fusing incompatible traditions around a common set of topics. I don’t know. But Marxism, gender studies, disability studies, and so on have as far as I can tell produced significant dividends for the people who pursue them, in terms of understanding if not always in terms of material change. Moreover, I have long been able to understand myself in their terms–nothing in my experience seems to contradict them–and they have what I consider to be moral urgency (in that I care about the wellbeing of other people and systemic oppression impacts the wellbeing of many many people). There are serious challenges here: this field is massive and diverse and I am far behind. But in another sense I have lucked out: the work of synthesizing Anglicanism and this cluster of work is already well underway in Anglicanism’s version of progressive Christianity.

The last tradition I should note has even less of a name. I still take seriously the understanding of emergence which I stole from Douglas Hoffstadter and David Deutsch, and which I use to synthesize nominalism and realism. I’m not sure if this is part of some tradition which I must also try to get a handle on or if this is an acceptable case of “spoiling the Egyptians”–taking something from another tradition only to interpret it in your own tradition’s terms, without attempting to make the traditions commensurable. To my knowledge, there has been no real attempt to make this tradition commensurable with Anglicanism, and precious little attention to what it would mean to synthesize it with gender studies, Marxism, etc. But the caveat there–“to my knowledge”–is, again, exactly the issue at stake.

In a sense, if I start here, the rest is logistics: which book do I start with, etc. So, for instance, I have purchased and started reading The Study of Anglicanism, as I’ve already mentioned, and I have cozened Weird Anglican Twitter into giving me other recommendations. But in another sense, starting here has done nothing for me at all: I am still far behind, I still do not know how to decide which book to read next, I still do not really understand the extent or limit of these traditions, I still worry these are not even the right traditions, I am still in a state of despair.

After fussing with this post for several months and finally getting it into a shape I am at all comfortable with, I was hit by a thought which pertains to this, perhaps changes it. I think I have been taking the wrong lesson all along from the people who are my supposed influences. Tillich talks about being willing to discard symbols for God which no longer work; Popper argues for fallibilism, the view that no claim can be certainly justified but only, thus far, not falsified; according to many people, Anglicanism is inherently dialectical, in which any claim is open to further interpretation or revision. Rather than being leery of making claims, should this not encourage me to do so? Knowing that whatever I believe will be incomplete anyway, if not outright wrong, should embolden me so that I do not fear being wrong: it’s inevitable! So why am I still timid?

1. But for what it’s worth I had absolutely no problem reading MacIntyre. I read After Virtue and Three Rival Versions of Moral Enquiry with gusto. In fact, I might need to pin this observation: the problem may not be so much with me but with the fit between me and the texts I’ve been trying to engage.

2. A thought the other night: the upshot of MacIntyre might be that there are no right or wrong traditions absolutely, but rather that there are right traditions for a particular person at a particular time in their life, given what they know at the time. I don’t mean that there is no brute reality, or that we have no access to it at all but. Instead I mean that all you can do, after all, is commit to better understanding those traditions which seem most plausible to you now, so that if they are wrong you will discover their internal crises or discover where their do not cohere with your encounter with the world. But I still have this snaky desire to get it right on the first try.

The Oblivious Nerd in Three Constructs

In this post I’m going to do at least two things. One of those things will be to gather together and lightly compare some concepts which I’ve encountered in the past few years and which seem to bear some similarity to one another. While these ideas do not perfectly map onto the “nerd” stereotype, they all intersect with it, at any rate. Another of those things will be to discuss my own relationship with those concepts, mostly how I can (or can’t) understand myself in light of them. If I do a third thing, it will only emerge out of the other two: I might incidentally illuminate my understanding of the concepts better and maybe, just maybe, illuminate them better for you. Also, I will talk a little more about austim, though I hope you don’t take this to suggest an equivalency between being autistic and being a nerd.

(My apologies for any formatting errors in this post. I am working from my tablet and switching between unfamiliar, seemingly glitchy apps.)

Image of a long-haired brunette woman, outdoors, pushing her tortoiseshell glasses up her nose and contorting her face into a stereotypical nerd squint

“I ❤ Nerds” by Hada del lago

Analytic Cognition and Social Cognition

Let’s begin with analytic cognition. I first encountered it through Connor Wood, who summarized some research on cognitive styles at Science and Religion. Wood describes two basic cognitive styles, identifiable both by brain scan (different areas light up) and by thought patterns: analytic or task-specific cognition prefers thinking about abstract casually-interdependent concepts while social or default cognition prefers thinking about interpersonal relationships and social norms. Only one cognitive style can be active at a time, so if you’re engaged in analytic cognition your social cognition will suffer, and vice versa. Furthermore, as much as everyone can switch between the two styles, a person who is good at one is usually (though not always) not so good at the other. This is construct has both a psychological and neurological component, in that it both describes certain kinds of cognition in abstracted terms and links them to certain regions in the brain. On the psychological side, there does not seem to be much reason for a person who is thinking systematically to therefore be less competent at thinking socially; the reason for this appears on the neurological side. When I first encountered Wood explaining these idea, he was using it to account for how rude and emotionally stitled Richard Dawkins and his ilk seems to be: because they think very analytically, it does not seem unlikely that their social cognition is comparatively weak.

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The Study of Anglicanism, Excerpts

Along with my first-ever set of gaming dice I recently ordered and received The Study of Anglicanism (1988), an anthology, edited by Stephen Sykes and John Booty, of articles on Anglicanism. Three or so years ago my then-priest recommended it along with A Passionate Balance as a way of getting to know the tradition better. Now that I have begun to read it, I thought I would write brief responses to its articles.


Photograph my own.

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Am I Autistic? Would It Matter?

Since the beginning of the new year I have realized that I might have high-functioning autism.[1] I am currently unclear about two things: how I would find out if I do and whether it would matter if I do.

This isn’t the first time I considered the possibility that I might be on the autism spectrum. When I was in undergrad I realized that certain of my traits–discomfort with eye contact, inability to interpret physical touch, minor social awkwardness, occasional bluntness and tone deafness, intellectual obsessions–were typical of autism or resembled symptoms of autism. But whenever I researched it I found that I didn’t have certain traits you would expect of someone who was autistic: not only did I pretend play a lot as a child, it was neither repetitive nor focused on a consistent topic; I am more than capable of interpreting tone of voice and reading implied content in speech; I am about average at interpreting body language; my verbal communication skills are better than usual. By my best understanding of autism at the time, I did not qualify, so I stopped looking into it and stopped thinking about it.

However, I’ve learned a bit more since then. One of the things I’ve learned is that autism is still poorly understood and that what traits are required for a diagnosis is up for (some) debate. Moreover, I’ve learned that adults have often found ways of compensating for symptoms of autism; if they learned these techniques unconsciously, they might not be aware that they are using work-arounds. This discrepancy between an ideal case of autism and what autism might actually look like prompted a particular Twitter user to create a list of traits common to people with autism that don’t appear in most diagnostic lists. It was her opinion that a person who exhibited half or more of those traits was autistic; indeed, there was one trait that she considered properly diagnostic, such that anyone who exhibits it is autistic regardless of how they answer the other items on her list.

I won’t be coy. I answered yes to the diagnostic question. When I first saw it I was very skeptical that the question was really diagnostic–indeed, I’m still skeptical[2]–but I took it seriously enough that I worked through her list. I answered for how I act right now and got exactly 50/50; if I answered for childhood, I would probably have had just over 50/50, but distributed differently. That was high enough that I started to take it seriously. Continue reading

Absolutist Pluralism

From time to time when I stake out pluralist positions on the Internet, I am accused of relativism. It took me a little while to articulate how pluralism does not necessitate relativism, but I think the more interesting point is that many morally absolutist worldviews in North America today are minimally pluralist. Conservative forms of Christianity offer some of the best examples. That’s what I want to outline in this post; in part, I hope to direct people here if I ever get into such an argument again. If you find this argument compelling, you can use it in this way too.

(If you prefer “moral realism” to “moral absolutism,” feel free to swap them in your head. I’ll be using “absolutism” because “realism” has way to many meanings, depending on the specific philosophical argument at hand, than I care to deal with here.)


Source: Lawrence OP at

I can give an abstract case for a pluralism compatible with an absolutist view of what’s good for humans: Imagine there are sixteen types of people in the world, but there are thirty-two ways of doing something (earning a living, say). It might be the case that for each type of person a different way of doing something is best. Nonetheless, it does not follow from this that all thirty-two ways of doing something are good. A full half of them might, by objective standards of value, be bad for people at the same time that many of them are legitimate. Moreover, it may be objectively the case that for people of any given type, one way of doing something is best. However, I think this abstract case too readily allows a person to project their ideas about pluralism onto it. Specific and unexpected examples, I suspect, will work best to drive the point home. The examples I want to use are vocations and complementarianism. Continue reading

Are Jones’s Theological Worlds Comprehensive?

I have mentioned W. Paul Jones’s theological worlds construct more than a few times here. It is one of the constructs I use to help me understand why other people believe and assume the things that they do. But I’ve also expressed concern here about two potential problems that arise out of Jones’s very Christian emphasis: a) how useful is it to apply Jones’s construct to non-Christians and b) how comprehensive is his set of Worlds?

To an extent that last question is an empirical one which will be difficult for me to answer; Jones’s method involved surveying hundreds of people and I do not have the resources to do the same. But there is another way to attempt to answer the question about comprehensiveness which, I have discovered, might also help make his constructs more useful for non-Christians. After a bit of thought I think I have been able to schematize his Worlds so that they do, or at least might, cover all possible sources of anxiety and obsession about the human condition.


Stephane Lollivier at; I spent a while trying to find a Creative Commons image of a garrison town with a wooden palisade in boreal forest, but no such luck.

Let’s start with that human condition: human life is characterized by a) individual humans with their own internal dynamics b) embedded within and enmeshed with an environment which includes, but is not limited to, the facts of time and space, of the Laws of Thermodynamics, and so on, and c) associated with other individual humans (even if only their own parents) in ways more or less organized. The internal workings (understood both physically and psychologically) of any given human, which I will call human nature, has various requirements (ie. sustenance, medicine, narrative), some of which that person can only attain from the surrounding environment; when humans organize themselves into institutions, they usually do so with the purpose of making it easier for themselves to meet these needs through collective action. These organizations are necessary because it is often difficult for people to meet their needs either within themselves or through interaction with the environment. Even when it is not difficult to meet these needs alone, there is no guarantee that it will remain easy.

Therefore there are three places where crises may arise for any given person: in the environment (which, again, includes all contingent and all necessary features of existence, such as time and space and the laws of physics), in the person’s own internal workings (which might be generalized human nature or a specific person’s unique nature), or in human organization. Indeed, while all problems must necessarily involve elements of each of these three aspects of human existence, an individual person may experience one of these as being more responsible or more ultimately responsible in comparison to the other two.

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Guilt and Shame in the Colossus of Rhodes

One of the Seven Wonders of the Ancient World was the Colossus of Rhodes, an iron-framed and brass-covered statue of the titan and sun god Helios, which stood in the harbour of Rhodes, Greece. Built in 280 BCE, it was the tallest statue of its time at 70 cubits high (about 33 metres or 108 feet). Contrary to popular depiction, it likely did not straddle the mouth of the harbour. Nonetheless, it would have been an impressive sight to any sailors approaching the city. Greek myth animated another bronze colossus in Crete named Talos: either Hephaestus or Daedalus made the automaton on Zeus’s behalf in order to defend Europa, queen mother of Crete. He had one vein in his metal body, which ran from his neck to his ankle; it was fastened shut with a single nail. When the Argo approached, with Jason at the helm, Talos tried to repel it and Medea used her sorcery to dislodge the nail. His ichor ran out of him like molten lead and he died. The Cretan word talôs is equivalent to the Greek hêlios, meaning the Sun, which is the subject of the Colossus of Rhodes. Much later the Romans made further bronze colossi: the Colossus of Barletta, the Colossus of Constantine, and the Colossus of Nero.



I feel like I live inside a colossus of this type: a brazen image of myself, physically idealized, well-proportioned and gargantuan. It is hollow, and I stand inside it with the clear understanding that I am supposed to grow into it. I am supposed, somehow, to fill this statue so that it is merely my own skin. But I have no sense that this thing is possible, nor how to achieve it if it is. Instead I try to operate the colossus and speak from it like a puppeteer. Relying on the full extent of my scant ingenuity I try to create the illusion that I have done what I am supposed to do, or at least that I am in the process of growing into it. But I know better. I have made no gains in that direction. From within, the colossus rings as empty as it ever has.

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MacIntyre on Sophoclean Tragedies

Amod Lele of Love of All Wisdom, in the comments of my second to last post, “A Partial Apology for Liberalism,” recommended that I read Alasdair MacIntyre’s After Virtue. Though I was skeptical for the first few chapters and I found some of the prose unclear, I wound up quite enjoying it. I’m not convinced of the demonstrative half of his argument, but I will discuss that in greater length later. Right now I want to focus on his discussion of Sophoclean tragedies.


Source: UCI UC Irvine at

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On the Wonderful Properties of My Rabbit Aswan

Let this first sentence serve as a content warning for an extended discussion of suicidal thoughts and depression. If you are here looking for the undiluted saccharine, try this instead. Still, there will be pictures of and there will be affection for bunnies.

In the summer of 2015 I graduated from my MLIS program at UBC and, as you may already know, went to live with my brother and his wife in Toronto, Ontario. They owned–indeed, still own–two rabbits who I was excited to spend more time with: a bedraggled and affectionate cloud named Delphie and a distrustful half-dwarf named Baxter. To my great surprise, they had a third rabbit living in the bathroom when I arrived: a tiny starved white-and-caramel lop with outsized ears and feet.


Aswan as a bathroom bunny. Picture copyright Christian Hendriks, 2015.

My sister-in-law had been walking home from her studio and found someone giving her away on the street, with a carrier and a bag of pricey rabbit pellets. Concerned that she would wind up in a stew pot or with some family incapable of caring for her, she took the little rabbit home. According to that previous owner, who could not bring her with him to his new condo, her name was Aswan.  Continue reading