De Confucio: The Analects Part I

I am a white male who has lived his entire life in the United States. I'm going to preach to you about Confucianism. (N.B. If you actually know anything about Confucianism, please tell me. It's pretty obvious I have no idea of what I'm talking about.)

As good a place to start as any. From Watson's translation:

(1.2)"The gentleman operates at the root. When the root is firm, then the way may proceed. Filial and brotherly conduct--these are the root of humaneness, are they not?"

So why are filial and brotherly conduct the root of humaneness. As far as I can see, there are two approaches to answering this (or any question); actually attempting to answer it, and, what I call the Wittgenstein approach, showing an answer is unnecessary and either non-existent or unattainable by logic. How does Confucius answer this? Waley's translation:

(2.22)"The Master said, 'I do not know how a man without truthfulness is to get on. How can a large carriage be made to go without the crossbar for yoking the oxen to, or a small carriage without the arrangement for yoking the horses?'"

What makes us a part of humanity? (That is, not what makes us human, but what makes us a member of the human race.) Whatever that might be, isn't that the root of humaneness? the something or somethings that bind each person together as 'humanity'? To use Confucius' language (or in this case, Waley's), the crossbar.

Surely language is a major part of this 'crossbar', and the assumption of truthfulness seems necessary for language to function, but can't humanity exist without language? Imagine being stuck on an island with a girl who doesn't speak your language. Can you cooperate? Can you love her? Can you do all the things characteristic of human interaction?

What about apes? They can love, nurture, defend, play, learn, etc. Don't their relationships possess many, if not all, of the same qualities of our own? Is language (truthfulness) the root of 'apanity'? Then what is it?

Can we list the common factors of the above two scenarios and everyday life? Does love bind us? How about honour? Shame? Enjoyment? Duty? Hatred? Reverence? Or is it--

It seems the list is limitless. Confucius' answer (or rather the answer I pulled out of his words) is only leading to further confusion. Perhaps if we analyze one of these binding elements we may come to understand it, and thereby understand the 'crossbar' as a whole.

Reverence is as good as any. What does Confucius have to say about reverence? From Watson's translation:

(1.9)"Tend carefully to death rites, and pay reverence to those long departed, and the people will in the end be rich in virtue."

Again, more questions arise. Why does paying reverence to the dead lead to virtue? Why is virtue important? What is virtue? Whenever a statement like this is made how can we hope to understand it? It's filled with vague terms without definition. Without understanding what virtue is, what does it mean to anyone?

However, think for a moment. When you had read that, didn't you understand exactly what was meant? Or at the very least it did mean something to you. You understood that virtue's important, even if no reason is given. You also have an idea of what virtue is, even if your idea may differ from Confucius'. It is impossible to know how virtue came to be understood and given the name that it has, but it is something; and no one can say it is a vague term without definition.

Confucius weighs in on the matter as well. From Mr. Pound's translation:

(3.11)"Someone said: 'What does the sacrifice mean?' He [Confucius] said: 'I do not know. If one knew enough to tell that, one could govern the empire as easily as seeing the palm on one's hand.'"

Somewhere within, whether developed from evolution or placed by god, there is/are insatiable need(s). Of course 'need' is not the correct word, because this far precedes language and is too simple to be expressed through it. No one can understand what this is. You know what I'm referring to. The examples I gave above are all parts or results of this. It's difficult to say how they relate, but they certainly do. A few other potential words: emotion, necessity, humanity, or impulse.

This is where the 'crossbar' comes from. I am a member of humanity because I must be. My insides are screaming to love, to learn, to do, etc. This is not chosen. I can't rebel. There is no reason to.

But why? Why is this here? Is it a mechanism we've evolved in order to increase our chances of survival? It probably is, but that answer makes no sense to the human psyche. Even saying we were made in the image of god makes more sense. This is apart from logic. It's just there.

It's seems to me that this is what Confucius is talking about. He wants to do something about humanity, and the only way one can affect humanity is to analyze the individual human.

His ethics may or may not be flawed, but they give us something. A bar to measure up to. As Pound said, "What the reader can find here is a set of measures whereby, at the end of the day, to learn whether the day has been worth living." It doesn't matter if they are logically founded or not; it's apparent that everyone needs some sort of ethics (why? I don't know) and Confucius gives a way to find them.

Fantastic Cat

From Fantastic Cat's comment page.

Disappointment:
"We wanted to do a cover of this with my roommates, but we waited too long and we finished university and never put the band together :)
faaantastic cat!"

Despair:
"Can anyone help me because i have been trying to get the song but i don't know the singer's name!!! please help me!"

Anger:
"Is it just me or there is not one single fucking cat in this shit, except for some fake ass paws in the tv and those shitty computer cat heads. So where is this fantastic cat?"

FYI:
"Judging by some of the lyrics I can understand that she states she's a fantastic cat."

Enlightenment:
"What a masterpiece of music!!

fantastic cat!!
it changed my life!!!! now,it is time for me to go out and buy all her discography!"

Spite:
"Stupid asians"

Fraternal Devotion:
"i only like it becuz my bro has it"

Anecdotes:
"Aye man - its like telling a gabba that hardcore sux cuz its angry - DAM - lyrics in this song are not supposed to make any sence just like a main theme is actualy recorded with childs toy"

A Fantastic Fantasy:
":S Fantastic cat with a fantastic Dog =D"

Nostalgia:
"This sounds like Mrs. Potts from the beauty and the beast on drugs. Chiflele mi señora Potts!!"

Sitiens:
"Kinda getting thirsty...."

The Real Question:
"Right so how do we find this tortoise?"

Criticism:
"this is the worst.. no skill. wtf zombies like tis stuff?"

Confusion:
"This is soooo wrong, but, can't find a reason why, like it"

Revelation:
"Mon dieu..."

Needless Bashing on the Romantics

Ezra Pound came into his life with ABC of Reading. Caught by the pink, yellow and white cover, he immediately purchased it and ran home.

After opening the first page he realized he couldn't just read this. There was something more to it, something far beyond him. Change was necessary, so he decided to change.

He slowly got through the introduction. Little made sense to him. Gradus ad Parnassum? All that would turn up in Google was a long essay in Latin concerning counterpoint. He wrote a note about it, deciding he'd have to read that too, then continued.

Agassiz, sunfish, Ernest Fenollosa, and a (seemingly) countless number of Bach and Ravel pieces. So many names unfamiliar to him. He wrote each down, not really sure why. He thought the kind of person who reads books like this might write stuff down. Or at least do a shitload of underlining. He decided to do all of that. Whenever he didn't understand a reference he noted it, and planned on reading it, watching it, listening to it, or whatever else being able to understand this book might entail.

His adventures with Mr. Pound were often interrupted by old friends, not realizing he was on a ultra-romantic, super-fantastic journey into intellectualism, filled with champagne, incense, and whatever else smart people like. They would ask him to do such common things, like go to the mall or a pub. However he would humble himself to the level of these lesser beings and do whatever they asked of him. "Father, forgive them; for they know not what they do."

On one of these pointless excursions he decided to make this time useful. He began brainstorming, "what is the one common element of every intellectual who has ever lived?" After about an hour of walking with his mongrel of a friend he came to the answer: a beret.

He came by a thrift store, entered, and searched the entire building. It seemed he spent days on this holy quest of his, trying to find the sacred garment which would ultimately complete him. After some time, dejectedly, he headed for the exit. At that moment, his cretin of a friend called out, he had found one. He payed and put it on.

Returning home, he looked up photos of Ezra Pound. Not in a single picture of him was there a beret.

In time, he finished the book, then read it two more times. Each read-through the book made a little more sense. He started to understand the fundamental ideas Mr. Pound was expressing. Something about Dichten equaling Condensare, and how poetry's supposed to be 'musical.' Whatever that meant.

He did the exercises repeatedly. When finished, he would look at them, struck by how much of genius he was. Such genius, he thought, ought not be hidden from the world. The next day he set up to read his work at an open mic night.

Wearing his beret, a cardigan, and a cravat he found at a thrift store, he got on stage and read his masterpiece:

I walk outside and see a tree
I think it is an oak.
It's time to clap for me,
I assure you I do not joke.

The crowd was stunned. Never before had they heard such lyrical genius. After he got off stage five different people handed him their phone numbers and emails written on napkins, asking to see more of his work. All sorts of other people gave him the fascist salute and told him how meta his poem was. He wasn't sure what any of that meant, but smiled and thanked them.

He asked other people about their work. They would tell him about their epics written in Sapphic stanzas chronicling the life of a Japanese porn star. He would say that's very interesting, and ask to see some of it. His interlocutor would then admit of having not written anything yet, but always would add that it's still being planned, and these things write themselves once you get the ideas straightened out, don't you know?

A few months later after memorizing the majority of ABC of Reading he felt he should move on to something else. He got a copy of the Iliad because he related very much with the whole being unanimously praised thing Homer had going on. His edition was entirely in ancient Greek. This couldn't stop him. He figured he was Homer reincarnated anyways, and learning Greek would be no problem.

After three years he finished the twenty-fourth book of the Iliad, only having a general idea about what the Greek was saying. By this time he gained an intimate familiarity with Wordsworth, Keats, Coleridge, and above all Byron. He also had quite a number of his poems published in magazines, and was universally praised. Critics called him a Neo-Romantic.

His image was carefully designed. He made sure to always mention that he never went into his work with a plan, he just wrote and ecstasy popped out. His beret was fastened securely upon his head and he donned a cravat at all times.

He had a book of poems published, receiving perfect reviews by almost all who read it. Almost. A single reviewer pointed out that his poems said nothing not already made into clichés. The reviewer claimed the contents of any poem could be guessed with fair accuracy after looking at just the title.

The guy's an idiot, he thought. "Avoid accepting opinions from men who haven't themselves produced notable work." Who said that? Ezra Pound. He'd forgotten all about Mr. Pound. It was years since he had read ABC of Reading. He looked through his shelf and found his copy. In the next few days he read through the entirety of the book. After finishing it, he set it down, astounded that he was ever so interested in this guy. The book was just an elaborate insult to all of those blessed with intelligence.

"And what notable work has Ezra Pound produced?" he thought. It occurred to him there that he had never actually read any of Mr. Pound's verse. The next day he checked out a book of Ezra Pound's selected poems from the library. He carried it home, hardly able to wait for it to be terrible. He opened it up at random, and read the first thing he saw:

You were praised, my books,
       because I had just come from the country;
I was twenty years behind the times
       so you found an audience ready.
I do not disown you,
       do not you disown your progeny.
Here they stand without quaint devices,
Here they are with nothing archaic about them.
Observe the irritation in general:
‘Is this’ they say, 'the nonsense
       that we expect of poets?’
'Where is the Picturesque ?'
       ‘Where is the vertigo of emotion?'
‘No! his first work was the best.’
       'Poor Dear! he has lost his illusions.’
Go, little naked and impudent songs,
Go with a light foot!
(Or with two light feet, if it please you!)
Go and dance shamelessly!
Go with an impertinent frolic!
Greet the grave and the stodgy,
Salute them with your thumbs at your noses.
Here are your bells and confetti.
Go! rejuvenate things!
Rejuvenate even 'The Spectator.’
       Go! and make cat calls!
Dance and make people blush,
Dance the dance of the phallus
       and tell anecdotes of Cybele!
Speak of the indecorous conduct of the Gods!
(Tell it to Mr. Strachey)
Ruffle the skirts of prudes, 
       speak of their knees and ankles.
But, above all, go to practical people
       go! jangle their door-bells!
Say that you do no work
       and that you will live forever. 

Needless to say, he was amazed. Over the next week he made sure to read every poem in the collection at least five times. How could the words of someone as well know as Ezra Pound be so ignored today? Poetry has atrophied, and he knew his own work contributed to that.

From that point on he was done with imitation. Done with trying to be poetic. He wanted to be honest. The beret and cravat came off. He would spend hours sitting in front of a blank page with a pen full of ink trying to come up with just the perfect words to express every experience life presented to him. After doing this he would look at what he had written, tear it apart, and try harder and harder to produce something worthy of Mr. Pound.

Two years passed, and he arranged for something new to be released. He expected the critics to look at what he made and have revelations of their own, having never seen anything like it. They would come to detest the state of modern poetry and desire to change it. Desire to make something new and beautiful.


Pitchfork Media ended up giving his collaboration with Michael Bolton a 5.2 out of 10.

A Story to Tell the Grandchildren

A middle aged man takes the treadmill next to mine, setting the speed to four miles per hour. Within moments a crowd of other middle aged men and women forms around him. They come in order to listen to a dissertation on his recent vacation.

He had gone on a cruise, only for a large fire to break out on the boat, bringing in a premature end to his vacation. The captain of the ship sped to the nearest harbor as quickly as he could, taking every precaution possible. He had asked that all passengers wear life jackets and remain sitting so that no one might get hurt. The story-teller refused to listen to such ridiculous instructions, and instead opted to lie down, using his life jacket as a pillow. Amazed that anyone might have the kind of wit and ingenuity to do such a thing, the audience gives an applause for his valiant decision making.

He continues his story. His ship arrived at the port of a small Caribbean nation on Sunday, and the story-teller was told he wouldn't be able to take a plane home until Tuesday. After an excruciating (all expense paid) wait, he got on his plane at 6pm on Tuesday, only to be told he'd be waiting a bit longer for a late passenger to arrive! Once his plane landed back in the U.S.A. he needed to take the bus in order to pick up his car. With all of that dealt with, he finally got back to his house around midnight, then cried himself to sleep after all he had gone through.

The crowd is amazed by his story. Not just did he perform so many courageous and difficult acts, he narrates them with such finesse and beauty! "A story to tell the grandchildren," someone says. "You must be scarred by how much you've gone through," an elderly woman wearing a sports bra says. "Well, I must say, it was truly a terrible experience," the story-teller replies with a grin.

"I think I'm going to Ocean City for my next vacation. I've heard so many wonderful things about it," he responds to one of his listeners questions. "I don't know about that. I've had some bad times there," someone retorts. "You know, I can understand that," he says, "but when you've gone through having your cruise ship catch fire, as I have, Ocean City looks pretty nice."

Throughout the rest of the night various acquaintances walk by his treadmill, saying they're glad he's alright, they were worried, they have no idea what they would do if he were hurt, etc.

After I get off of my treadmill I stand, finishing a bottle of water, and listen to another woman ask him about his experience. "How long have you had to recover?" He smiles politely, then blushes, "The cruise was back in September; so--eight months.