Work and The Real

I almost cried when I saw this ad. I miss it so much! Honourable physical work, using my hands and knowledge to make real things.

Last summer, I had a conversation with an American academic. I think his thing was history. I thought the guy was a prat, but I put that down to him being an academic who had failed to get religion. (Later on I found out that he thought I was a prat, so I guess fair's fair.) Anyway, as Americans and academics usually do, he opened the conversation with a personal question, "What's your background." What he meant, of course, was "Where did you go to university and what did you study." As I'd already had a glass of wine or two I decided I wasn't going to play along, and said, "I'm Anglo-Irish Canadian."

As Americans are also rarely conscious of when an English person is teasing them, he pressed on and said, "No, I meant where did you go to university and what did you study?"

Just for a change, I decided to be bull-headedly honest, and said, "I dropped out of my parents' alma mater, the University of Victoria. Mostly because, half way through my second year, I remembered suddenly that I had hated every minute of school I'd ever experienced and I couldn't think of any reason at all to be there, wasting valuable youth-time and huge amounts of money." Which was mostly true. In fact, I had, like most people of my class in my country, simply assumed that "going to university" was something you just had to do, like it or not. At one point, for some reason or other, I was suddenly aware of the fact that I had absolutely no idea what I was doing, and so quit rather than waste time continuing to do it.

Later on in that conversation, I asserted that the best educational money I ever spent was $80 on a typing course at the Y. (I went away thinking that the party had been a grand success, having had a wonderful time and sincerely thanking the hostess. My rather rude American interlocutor, I was later informed, had complained to the hostess about me and my friends after we had left and told her what a rotten time he'd had, which in British social interaction is a totally unthinkable thing to do, so I think I win. What a twit.)

Anyway, since giving up on university, I've learned that what I am is an autodidact, and, though we didn't call it that in those days, homeschooled. My education was built on the curiosity instilled by a combination of my mother's keen and wide-ranging intelligence and the will of the Holy Ghost, and fed by an early addiction to library cards. I think I got my first one when I was about four and my parents were both employed by the public library. It was the perfect babysitter, and I grew up with the smell of the stacks as the happiest and homiest smell I knew (apart from the lavender in Grandma's linen closet.)

Library cards are free, or less than 20 dollars if you want a subscription to a university library. University degrees, on the other hand, can range from $40,000 into six digits, and at the end of them, you still can't get a job because in practical terms "looking things up on Google" and "fornicating" aren't a very high-level skill set.

It reminds me of the question I once asked a class of catechism students preparing for Confirmation: "How many of you plan on going to university?" All hands but one. "OK, and how many of you have one specific driving intellectual passion or interest that you need to go to university to pursue? Like engineering or chemistry or Latin and Greek?" No hands. Ah. I see.

I ask the one kid who hadn't stuck up his hand what he planned on doing. He said, "Well, my dad is a plumber, and I looked up the starting salary of a self-employed plumber and found out that it's about $50-80 thousand a year. So I thought I'd do that." I congratulated him on being the only smart kid in the room, and told him how to get a library card at the University of Toronto.

What I most despised about the fellow at the party was his pompousness. He assumed that because he was a university professor he automatically deserved some respect. Now this might have been the case in, say, the 13th century, when ten year old schoolboys were expected to know before entering university more than most post-doctoral students know today. It is the pompousness, the arrogance of most academics that convinced me in the intervening years that my decision to quit until I knew a few more things was the right one. An academic who isn't aware of the problem in academia is part of that problem.

I was taught rhetoric formally in a series of workshops taught by Scott Klusendorf (the logic came naturally) who offered it as part of his apologetics training programme. I took his short evening class first in 1999, then in May 2001 went for a five-day weekend with a small group of other "young" people who wanted to get involved in the pro-life movement. Being taught the basics, what a logical fallacy is and how to hold your own in an argument, in our intellectually barren era makes you the equivalent of a time traveller visiting the Battle of Hastings with a gattling gun. With even rudimentary skills, you will always, always be the baddest mofo on the rhetorical block.

In fact, the times I've taught the Pro-life 101 rhetoric seminars, I've usually had to warn particularly keen students that they are being given the equivalent of intellectual superpowers: facts and the ability to string together a logically coherent argument. And they have to decide right away whether they're going to use their powers for good or evil. Usually the people who take this training (that used to be the standard foundation of all education) end up becoming rather alienated. One of the things it does it take them out of the Matrix, one they were not previously aware they were in, and they discover just how much utter rubbish and nonsense nearly everyone around them has soaked up through intellectual osmosis. It's not for the faint of heart, and like all superpowers, tends to make you a bit of a loner in the world.

(A while ago, I was listening to a pod-cast of a lecture by Alan Watts, one of the Big Names in "philosophy" for the 60s revolutionaries. I remember his book lying around the house when I was a kid. I had never read him before, and was curious. But I simply couldn't believe the utterly meaningless, contradictory, contentless piffle he was jabbering. It made me very, very angry. After you're out of the Matrix, you tend to spend a lot of time angry. It's like your kryptonite; watch out for it.)

Anyway, what's all this in aid of? Why did it pop into my head today? I was thinking about the announcement of a good friend, one of my mentors here in Rome, a priest who is shortly to leave his long-held post in the ranks and "retire" back to parish work in the US. He told me yesterday that he has spent too many years "trapped behind a computer" and wants to get back to being a priest full time. That is, saying Mass and hearing confessions. Who can argue?

It might sound strange on the outside, but in truth, I've been in a constant state of uncertainty about my work (I'm seriously tempted to use quotes on that). This is my tenth year with LSN and 15th in the pro-life movement, and I'm tremendously chuffed about our accomplishments. When I started it was just the three of us and we had a tiny audience. We must have found what the freemarketeers call a "niche" or a market gap because since 2004 we've gained about 20 employees and volunteers, an office and 501-C3 status in the US, correspondents in four countries and about 6 million page views per month.

But I used to be a pastry chef. Actually, I started in the pro-life movement in 1999 because I was looking for a job after an illness pushed me out of this physically demanding work. And now, 15 years down the line, my friend's comment about being chained to a computer particularly piercing. When I used to get up at three am to go to work, by the end of the day, I had made food for people and made a bunch of little kids happy. It wasn't cosmically important, politically necessary or "contributing" in any way to the world of thought and affairs. I was in my 20s and knew at least enough then to know that I didn't know anything. I was still autodidacting (baker's hours are perfect for reading a LOT of books).

In the end, I had to take almost a year off from work (living on the dole! ugh!) in which I had just enough energy and money to take myself down to the Dalhousie University library five days a week and read modern philosophy (specialty in bioethics). And one thing led to another. But my intention had always been to get back to having what I've always thought of as a "real" job.

Despite my mother's academic and intellectual accomplishments, my family background is old fashioned upper working and middle class. My mother's (adoptive) family were in the mills in Manchester. My father's parents owned a (rather nice) dress shop. My father and grandfather built their house at the top of that cliff on Vancouver Island. My mother, after finishing her degree in mathematics and marine biology married a Canadian Coast Guard engineer and ended up becoming the first female engineer working on the boats in the arctic in the CCG. (Icebreakers!)

Given the ephemeralness of the internet, and the rather poor opinion I have of modern intellectual work, I am constantly plagued with doubts about what I do. I have never thought of myself as being on the "front lines" of the pro-life movement. Those are the people who leave the house every day and go down to stand in front of abortion facilities, and who organise crisis pregnancy centres to get baby clothes and jobs and health care for pregnant women. That's the front lines. That's living nose-to-nose with The Real.

You might have wondered where I was for the Christmas holidays. Thanks to the great generosity of a few readers, I was able to have my first real holiday in Britain, visiting friends and the fam until I got back to Italy late Sunday night. And it felt strange to be back here. It's familiar and I was very glad to see my lovely friends and my poor, long-suffering puss-cat. I love my flat and I love Santa Marinella, and there is a big part of my brain that thinks of it as home, and though I had a fantastic holiday, I was tremendously glad to be home.

But there is an air of unreality to all this that I can't shake. Maybe it's my working class upbringing. Maybe it's just a healthy skepticism about the ultimate value of "the news" and being a "public voice".

But I can't help wonder if it isn't in some way the little whispering of the Holy Spirit. Maybe it's the voice of St. Philip whispering "Amare nescire" in my inner ear.

Deep in the core of my middle-class Cheshire soul, a "job" involves making things, fixing things, or dealing with external economic reality in the day to day world. In my brain, I'm simply not qualified to be making a living telling people things, still less telling them what I think. And even if I were, how "of the Real" can the internet possibly be? If I were properly educated (which I think has been all but impossible since 1950) and I were writing books, I think it might be a little more justified. Even as a painter I think I would be closer to the Real. At least my work would stand a chance of surviving an EMP blast.

But in reality, I'm just some schmoe, talking. I'm Joe-Nobody and it leaves me profoundly uncomfortable that I make my living this way. It simply feels like messing about on the internet, and it's making me feel like I'm part of the problem. There's too much fakery out there and not enough people living in the Real. And I can't help but think I'm contributing to that.

While I was away, visiting friends in Scotland, I chanced to meet a man who was a "ranger". That is a job designation (in that insanely over-regulated country where you can't be a waitress without getting a government-approved "qualification") that means he works for the Scottish National Trust keeping track of the lives and health and habitat of every creature on one of the estates the trust manages. We were being shown around the old kitchen garden of this beautiful 17th century stately home and he pointed out where a mating pair of barn owls had taken up residence.

I told him that I was terribly envious of his job, and related that my dream job is Puffin Counter on Skomer Island, where I intend to flee when the Day of Wrath comes (and will deny that I ever knew any of you, just so's you know).

Anyway, my priest friend, when I related some of my own discomfort at living my life glued to the little square Palantir, said that my vocation is to write, which I suppose must be more or less true. He said to keep doing it, which I will. But... well... I dunno. I can't help still feeling it. I'm terribly envious that he gets to go do real things in the real world, and I have to stay behind here in this strangely disconnected realm.

And now, dammit, I've spent the morning fooling about on the internet and have missed the Thursday morning farmer's market... again! Ugh!



~

Took the bus today down the Corso Vittorio Emanuele past dozens of shops and banks with windows held together with tape. The riot temper tantrum started down near the Piazza del Popolo where Andrea has her studio. She told me she went outside to find the students spoiled brats busting up the terracotta flower planters, swinging from the downspouts and attacking shop workers who were out trying to get the metal blinds down.

Remind me again,

when did we stop caning in schools?

Is there some reason these people should not all be automatically expelled from their universities?

Oh, and a tip for the Rome riot cops...

two words:

Fire. Hoses.



~

Singin' my tune, baby!

What are universities for anyway? I went to one and spent the whole time being a Trotsky­ist troublemaker at the taxpayers’ expense, completely neglecting my course. I have learned a thousand times more during my 30-year remed­ial course in the University of Fleet Street, still under way.

We seem to accept without question that it is a good thing that the young should go through this dubious experience. Worse, employers seem to have fallen completely for the idea that a university degree is essential – when it is often a handicap.

Yep.

One of the most intelligent people I've ever known never went to Uni. I remember a moment with John Muggeridge that illustrates (John had almost got himself kicked out of Cambridge). We were sitting at the famous dining room table, discussing some obscure point of something or other and found ourselves stumped.

At the same moment, we both said, "We'll have to ask David. He knows everything

For many people, college is a corrupting, demoralising experience. They imagine they are independent when they are in fact parasites, living off their parents or off others and these days often doomed to return home with a sense of grievance and no job.

They also become used to being in debt – a state that previous generations rightly regarded with horror and fear.

I guess this officially makes me part of a "previous generation". Thanks Pete.



~

I've got a better idea

Y'all remember that thing last week when the greatest living philosopher sickening freakjob Peter Singer suggested that the solution to human misery is to sterilise the whole race?

He was responding to a book by David Benatar, another tenured psychopath head of the Department of Philosophy at the University of Cape Town, "Better Never to Have Been: The Harm of Coming into Existence".

Yeah. Not making it up.

Benatar's schtick is that existence is bad no matter how happy you might be in life, so it is always morally wrong to create more sentient beings. Benatar says that the solution to human misery is to have absolutely no humans at all.

Ah, right.

Of course, the first thing that is popping into your head right now is the same thing that I thought: "You go first, Indy. We'll be right behind yez."

But if we are into making ridiculous suggestions to increase human happiness, I've got one that will be even easier to execute (haw!) than mass sterilisations or building global death camps.

How about we give both Singer and Benatar a deal. In exchange for a promise that they will never EVER publish anything ever again, they get a free lifetime supply of Prozac.

...and transport to a secure island in the middle of the Atlantic.

Heck, we can throw in a box set of all the Calvin and Hobbes comics too, just to show how nice we are.

H/T to Zach

Say it like you mean it, Dick...

"...IhatecatholicismIhateCatholicismIhatecatholicismIhateCatholicismIhatecatholicismIhateCatholicismIhatecatholicismIhateCatholicismIhatecatholicismIhateCatholicismIhatecatholicismIhateCatholicismIhatecatholicismIhateCatholicismIhatecatholicismIhateCatholicismIhatecatholicismIhateCatholicismIhatecatholicismIhateCatholicismIhatecatholicismIhateCatholicismIhatecatholicismIhateCatholicismIhatecatholicismIhateCatholicismIhatecatholicismIhateCatholicismIhatecatholicismIhateCatholicismIhatecatholicismIhateCatholicismIhatecatholicismIhateCatholicismIhatecatholicismIhateCatholicismIhatecatholicismIhateCatholicismIhatecatholicismIhateCatholicismIhatecatholicismIhateCatholicismIhatecatholicismIhateCatholicismIhatecatholicismIhateCatholicismIhatecatholicismIhateCatholicismIhatecatholicismIhateCatholicismIhatecatholicismIhateCatholicismIhatecatholicismIhateCatholicismIhatecatholicismIhateCatholicismIhatecatholicismIhateCatholicismIhatecatholicismIhateCatholicismIhatecatholicismIhateCatholicismIhatecatholicismIhateCatholicismIhatecatholicismIhateCatholicismIhatecatholicismIhateCatholicism..."

Um...

thanks Dick.

We kinda already knew that.

"Pope Ratzinger should not resign. He should remain in charge of the whole rotten edifice - the whole profiteering, woman-fearing, guilt-gorging, truth-hating, child-raping institution - while it tumbles, amid a stench of incense and a rain of tourist-kitsch sacred hearts and preposterously crowned virgins, about his ears. "

"...and how dare you suggest I am motivated by hate? I'll have you know I'm a terribly important scientist, and my every utterance is founded upon a cool, Vulcan-like objectivity, a life-long dedication to dispassionate scientific investigation and love of reasoned and informed debate..."

University of Stupid strikes again

...but I'll defend to the death your right to...

oh.

Never mind.

While I realise that most pro-life Catholic bloggers are focusing on the emerging knowledge that President Obama's pic for Supreme Court is a pro-abort Catholic, there seems to be few attending to the other apparently emerging news, perhaps related to the first, that she seems also to be an illiterate peasant who has likely risen to her current position of power and influence due to the effectiveness of racial affirmative action programmes.

Not at all unlike another prominent political figure in the US.

Interesting to note, of course, that those liberalized programmes designed to get more brown people into college were instituted by white intellectuals whose parents had to pay for their educations.

Ed Whelan gives throws her a little bone:

Does the fact that she is a Latina immunize her from attention to that sort of (admittedly not uncommon) foible?

"admittedly not uncommon"?

Among Supreme Court Justices?

Ah yes. Good old white liberal guilt.

Education makes you stupid

So, if Kathy Ireland, a woman who became famous because of how she looked in a bikini, can understand this and say it clearly,



why can't people with PhDs get it?

"...we've got to get politics out of it. We need to put it in the hands of science. Even if you don't share our faith, an atheist can know that it's wrong to take an innocent human life. That's why I don't mind imposing this on other people."

No one listened to Newman

Too bad.

when a discussion on education provoked a flood of calls and e-mails expressing some seriously politically incorrect opinions. Untutored listeners wanted to know who on earth thought it was a sensible aspiration to try to send 50 per cent of British youth to university...You may be sure the subject was changed fairly quickly, but the seed of rebellion had been sown.

It is an article of faith with New Labour and all its social-engineering fellow travellers that half of the population must go to university, regardless of academic ability, in pursuit of the holy grail of "fairness"...

a 'First', formerly a badge of excellence, is now given away like a free offer on a packet of cereal.

Studies show...

90% of Americans polled agree with the statements:

"Ocean very wet".

"Sky quite big."


Lemme guess...this was paid for by tax funding, right?

A man of unmistakable intellectual breeding

Secularists: hopelessly tone deaf.

The BBC is "thinking" about Brideshead, and wondering why everyone still thinks its so great, now that no one cares about all that Catholic stuff:

For author Evelyn Waugh, a Catholic convert, the central theme of the book was religion. As he put it, "the operation of divine grace on a group of diverse but closely connected characters". In an era that celebrated the Catholicism-infused novels of Graham Greene and others, there was nothing strange about such a leitmotif.

In today's Britain, the Catholic aspect is no doubt lost on many, and yet the grip of the story remains.

"There is so much in it apart from that Catholic theme," says Alexander Waugh, grandson of the author, and writer of the Waugh family biography Fathers and Sons.

"It is a very rich book - nostalgia, of fading youth, beautiful language, a bit of sentiment. We all look back with a mixture of regret and pleasure. It is very beautiful and very warming.

It is a peculiarity of the "post-modern" mind, one that cannot accept the existence of any objective or "real" or "true" viewpoint, that it cannot understand literature. Pomo literary criticism is all that is taught in universities now and students are instructed to interpret for themselves, according to whatever political paradigm is being used, whatever piece of literature they are reading. Thus we get the "LGBTQ" or the "feminist" approach to Waugh's characters in which students are instructed to "read in" the various political causes to the characters' motivations. For our postmodern barbarians, the idea of trying to find out from the text the "real" or "objective" meaning of what they are reading, what the author intended, is merely laughable, archaic. A notion that died out in academe with academic gowns and Latin grace at the college dinner and evensong in the college chapel.

To the PMBs, there is no such thing as an external reality to apprehend in literature, and therefore all literary study and criticism is entirely a matter of subjective interpolations rather than objective interpretations. I have tried to read postmodern literary criticism and found it is not only so heavily jargoned as to be incomprehensible, but also, once the meaning is excavated from the piles of gibberish, intolerably shallow. It is ironic that the modern interpolators criticised the old school as being narrow-minded. The idea that one can actually learn anything from literature has been swept aside.

I was reading Sir Arthur last night on the reason one should read and understand English literature and I realised that what he believed about literature, and truth, would have made it impossible for the great man to have been given employment in the academic field today. Examining the difference in approach to literature between this, what we must now call the "old school" represented by Sir Arthur and the new post-modern interpolative criticism, can give us a great many hints as to the difference in character and outlook between what has elsewhere been called the "Newfangled Person" and the "traditionalist", in every field of life, whether religion or politics, in grammar and usage or in table manners.

Sir Arthur was taking the then-new chair of English literature at Cambridge in 1913, and gave a speech to the learned gentlemen assembled, expounding how he would approach this nascent field of study:

"Let me, then, lay down two or three principles by which I propose to be guided. For the first principle of all I put to you that in studying any work of genius we should begin by taking it absolutely: that is to say, with minds intent on discovering just what the author's mind intended; this being at once the obvious approach to its meaning, and the merest duty of politeness we owe to the great man adressing us. We should lay our minds open to what he wishes to tell, and if what he has to tell be noble and high and beautiful, we should surrender and let soak our minds in it. [italics in the original]

...

As we dwell here between two mysteries, of a soul within and an ordered Universe without, so among us are granted to dwell certain men of more delicate intellectual fibre than their fellows - men whose minds have, as it were, filaments to intercept, apprehend, conduct, translate home to us stray messages between these two mysteries, as modern telegraphy has learnt to search out, snatch, gather home human messages astray over waste waters of the Ocean."

A man reading a great work of literature knows by instinct that something True has been uncovered. The purpose of studying literature is the same as that of studying anything True, therefore: to make a better man.

"If, then, the ordinary man be done this service by the poet, that (as Dr. Johnson defines it) 'he feels what he remembers to have felt before, but he feels it with a great increase of sensibility'; or even if, though the message be unfamiliar, it suggest to us, in Wordsworth's phrase, to 'feel that we are greater than we know,' I submit that we respond to it less by anything that usually passes for knowledge, than by an improvement of sensibility, a tuning up of the mind to the poet's pitch; so that the man we are proud to send forth from our Schools will be remarkable less for something he can take out of his wallet and exhibit for knowledge, than for being something , and that 'something' a man of unmistakable intellectual breeding, whose trained judgment we can trust to choose the better and reject the worse."

Can you imagine a modern university anywhere saying that its purpose is to create a man of "intellectual breeding" capable of distinguishing good and evil?

Didn't think so.

Found another one

The Pasedena Art Center College of Design: course in the films of Keanu Reeves


"There's something serious brewing under this veneer of frivolity..."

No. There isn't.

Actually, maybe we should disqualify universities and colleges in California.

Or assign a handicap.

Thank God I didn't go into a lifetime of debt for this

I think I'm going to run a new contest, to be titled,

The University of Stupid

Participants can send me links to university courses that would make Cardinal Newman cringe and C.S. Lewis boom with manly laughter. Personal stories of academic stupidity are welcome.

Next Friday, we will award a prize to the stupidest university.

I'll start.

Our first contestant is Queen's University Belfast:

A university is offering a course that will use the psychology of the Star Wars Jedi Knights to teach students communication skills and personal development. 'Feel the Force: How to Train in the Jedi Way' teaches the "real-life psychological techniques behind Jedi mind tricks".