“One day, a pickpocket thief and a Saint (one who was fully enlightened) met each other on a street. Each one looked at the other. What did the pickpocket see when he looked? He saw only the pockets that he might steal from. And what did the Saint see when he looked? He saw … only another Saint. In his eyes, the whole world was always full of light.”
(Courtesy of Melissa Goodnight, H.W., M.)
In the autumn of 1911, just as the dawn of quantum mechanics and Einstein’s groundbreaking theory of relativity were unsettling our understanding of existence, some of the world’s most influential physicists were summoned to Brussels for the Solvay Conference — an invitation-only gathering that would become a turning point for modern physics and our basic understanding of reality. The conference was such a towering success that it became a regular event, with twenty-five installments over the next century. The most famous was the fifth, convened in 1927 and chaired by the Dutch Nobel laureate Hendrik Lorenz, whose transformation equations had become the centerpiece of Einstein’s theory of special relativity. Of the 29 attendees that year, 17 would become Nobel laureates; Marie Curie, the sole woman since the inaugural gathering, would become the only scientist to win two Nobel Prizes in two different disciplines. (It was at the first Solvay Conference that Curie had met Einstein — the inception of a lifelong friendship in the course of which he would buoy her during a crisis with his splendid advice on how to handle haters.)
The 1927 Solvay Conference (colorized photograph)
One evening during the 1927 conference, some of the younger attendees — including twenty-seven-year-old Wolfgang Pauli, who was yet to co-invent synchronicity with Carl Jung, and twenty-six-year-old Werner Heisenberg, who had just published his revolutionary uncertainty principle earlier that year — stayed up at the hotel lounge and launched into a swirling conversation at the borderline of physics and metaphysics, ignited by the young physicists’ unease about Einstein’s views on God. (Three years later, Einstein himself would traverse that borderline in his historic conversation with the Indian poet and philosopher Tagore, the first non-European to with the Nobel Prize.) They collided with the difficulty of reconciling science and religion, some adamantly insisting that the two were simply incompatible, for religion is a vestige of a pre-scientific world of superstition, while others suggesting that science can never supplant but can only complement the essential moral guidance by which theology strengthens society.
The unresolved question stayed with Heisenberg. After the conference, he recounted the conversation to quantum theory founding father and Nobel laureate Niels Bohr(October 7, 1885–November 18, 1962). Bohr surprised him with a nuanced and uncommonly insightful take on the subject, which Heisenberg recounts in Physics and Beyond: Encounters and Conversations (public library) — part of the pioneering World Perspectives series envisioned by philosopher Ruth Nanda Anshen as a canon of books by the world’s great “spiritual and intellectual leaders who possess full consciousness of the pressing problems of our time with all their implications,” with a board of editors including Robert Oppenheimer and Bohr himself.
Niels Bohr as a young man
Bohr tells Heisenberg:
We ought to remember that religion uses language in quite a different way from science. The language of religion is more closely related to the language of poetry than to the language of science. True, we are inclined to think that science deals with information about objective facts, and poetry with subjective feelings. Hence we conclude that if religion does indeed deal with objective truths, it ought to adopt the same criteria of truth as science. But I myself find the division of the world into an objective and a subjective side much too arbitrary. The fact that religions through the ages have spoken in images, parables, and paradoxes means simply that there are no other ways of grasping the reality to which they refer. But that does not mean that it is not a genuine reality. And splitting this reality into an objective and a subjective side won’t get us very far.
With an eye to the monumental impact of Einstein’s relativity and to the profound shift in thought which quantum theory’s notion of complementarity introduced, Bohr adds:
In quantum mechanics the departure from this ideal has been even more radical. We can still use the objectifying language of classical physics to make statements about observable facts. For instance, we can say that a photographic plate has been blackened, or that cloud droplets have formed. But we can say nothing about the atoms themselves. And what predictions we base on such findings depend on the way we pose our experimental question, and here the observer has freedom of choice. Naturally, it still makes no difference whether the observer is a man, an animal, or a piece of apparatus, but it is no longer possible to make predictions without reference to the observer or the means of observation. To that extent, every physical process may be said to have objective and subjective features. The objective world of nineteenth-century science was, as we know today, an ideal, limiting case, but not the whole reality. Admittedly, even in our future encounters with reality we shall have to distinguish between the objective and the subjective side, to make a division between the two. But the location of the separation may depend on the way things are looked at; to a certain extent it can be chosen at will.
This, Bohr notes, is why the language of objectivity doesn’t belong in religious rhetoric — religion and its pluralities are best understood, and best applied to human life as an instrument of moral enrichment rather than one of dogmatic constriction, through the lens of complementarity:
Illustration by Hugh Lieber from Human Values and Science, Art and Mathematics by Lillian Lieber
A quarter century before mathematician Lillian Lieber demonstrated how mathematical abstractions like infinity, which have no correlate in physical reality, offer an analogue for moral questions, Bohr considers whether or not the tenets of religion can similarly offer useful abstractions, even though they are not to be taken as objective truth:
Physics and Beyond, though out of print, is a fascinating read in its totality and well worth the search for a surviving copy. Complement this particular portion with pioneering nineteenth-century astronomer Maria Mitchell, who paved the way for women in science, on our conquest of truth, Carl Sagan on science and spirituality, Richard Feynman on why uncertainty is essential for morality, Simone de Beauvoir on the moral courage of atheism, Alan Lightman on transcendent experiences in the secular world, and Sam Harris on spirituality without religion.
by Ian Stewart, Paul Stewart (Goodreads Author)
Some years ago, “new math” took the country’s classrooms by storm. Based on the abstract, general style of mathematical exposition favored by research mathematicians, its goal was to teach students not just to manipulate numbers and formulas, but to grasp the underlying mathematical concepts. The result, at least at first, was a great deal of confusion among teachers, students, and parents. Since then, the negative aspects of “new math” have been eliminated and its positive elements assimilated into classroom instruction.
(Submitted by Richard Branam.)
When someone as brilliant as Natalie Portman has something to say, there are bound to be multiple levels of meaning. Right from the get-go, from the title of her recent piece posted below, I caught a Zen-like mind-stretching play on words, plus an obvious reference to a film from forty-one years ago by the Spanish director/auteur Luis Buñuel: That Obscure Object of Desire.
At the risk, as always, of telling the readership something it already knows, here are a few reflections:
The word-play in the title, starts with the dual meaning of the word “subject” – which is both the opposite of “object” and a reference to what Portman’s piece is about. Then there is the reference to the subject-object dichotomy, central to so much of the philosophy and practices used in the pursuit of ever-expanding consciousness. Immediately one asks oneself, if a person can be object of another person’s desire, what would it mean to be the subject of someone’s desire? And does this relate to the modern criticism of the objectification of certain people by others?
Buñuel’s film is the story of the involvement of an older man (Matthieu) with a much younger woman (Conchita). But it is told as a flashback, so totally a mater of Matthieu’s interpretation.
The role of Conchita is played by two different actresses, whose behavior switches back and forth between sweet and nasty. Does this represent the splitting in Matthieu’s worldview, and that of society, between the Virgin and the Whore – in the US, between “nice girls” and “bad girls”? Or is Conchita Matthieu’s anima , leading him to higher consciousness and responsibility? (According to Jung, the anima – like everything else in the subconscious – has two aspects, light and dark…)
Reinforcing the Conchita-as-anima interpretation is that Matthieu wants desperately to have sex with her, but she is saving herself for marriage, and such commitments generally represent responsibility in fairy tales and mythology. I remember seeing this film and wondering all the way through, Why doesn’t he just marry her?
Finally, after much back and forth, Matthieu and Conchita reconcile, but then there’s an explosion – a bomb set off by terrorists. Do they perish? This is less than clear, though it is quite often the case that, in fairy tales and mythology, finally united lovers end up dying together as a symbol of their eternal union, which also signifies the cosmic union of male and female. Further, in fairy tales and mythology, death is a symbol of finishing with one level and moving on to the next.
Another possible, but more attenuated, “level” of meaning relating to the casting of Conchita is that, according to a 2005 biography of Buñuel, the actress originally cast as Conchita was Maria Schneider, herself the victim of abuse during the filming of Last Tango in Paris. But Schneider and Buñuel had a falling out, and he and the producer, Serge Silberman , were ready to give up on the whole project. Then one night, as he and Silberman were drowning their sorrows at having to pack it in, the idea came to Buñuel of casting the part of as Conchita with two different actresses.
Further, Portman starred in the recent (2010) film Black Swan, which in turn takes place during rehearsals for a production of Pyotr Ilyich Tchaikowski‘s ballet Swan Lake. Although I’m far from acquainted enough with either of these works to go into any detail, both deal extensively with such archetypes as the doppelganger, the shadow than that of the anima.
So how does all this relate back to what Portman is explicitly (rather than implicitly) writing about? I think it indicates a depth-psychological or mythological “level” to what really amounts to a clarion call for certain people to just plain grow up – i.e. to awake to consciousness and responsibility, empathy and understanding. For more on this process and the role of the anima therein, see Peterson‘s lesson on Jung (Part 1 and Part 2), illustrated by yet another film, Disney’s The Lion King.
A “Revolution of Desire”? Count me in! And let’s make sure to meld it with the “Revolution of Tenderness” proposed by Pope Francis in his Surprise Ted Talk posted below.
Perennial philosophy (Latin: philosophia perennis), also referred to as Perennialism and perennial wisdom, is a perspective in modern spirituality that views each of the world’s religious traditions as sharing a single, metaphysical truth or origin from which all esoteric and exoteric knowledge and doctrine has grown.
Perennialism has its roots in the Renaissance interest in neo-Platonism and its idea of The One, from which all existence emanates. Marsilio Ficino (1433–1499) sought to integrate Hermeticism with Greek and Jewish-Christian thought,[1]discerning a Prisca theologia which could be found in all ages.[2] Giovanni Pico della Mirandola (1463–94) suggested that truth could be found in many, rather than just two, traditions. He proposed a harmony between the thought of Plato and Aristotle, and saw aspects of the Prisca theologia in Averroes, the Koran, the Cabala and other sources.[3] Agostino Steuco (1497–1548) coined the term philosophia perennis.[4]
A more popular interpretation argues for universalism, the idea that all religions, underneath seeming differences point to the same Truth. In the early 19th century the Transcendentalists propagated the idea of a metaphysical Truth and universalism, which inspired the Unitarians, who proselytized among Indian elites. Towards the end of the 19th century, the Theosophical Society further popularized universalism, not only in the western world, but also in western colonies. In the 20th century universalism was further popularized in the English-speaking world through the neo-Vedanta inspired Traditionalist School, which argues for a metaphysical, single origin of the orthodox religions, and by Aldous Huxley and his book The Perennial Philosophy, which was inspired by neo-Vedanta and the Traditionalist School.
To quote Mike Zonta, H.W., M., “Translation is ‘magical thinking’ based on self-evident axioms and syllogistic reasoning (which is to say that Translation is not magical thinking at all).” And to quote Heather Williams, H.W., M., “Translation is the creative process of re-engineering the outdated software of your mind.” Translation is a 5-step process using words and their meanings and histories to transform the testimony of the senses and uncover the underlying timeless reality of the Universe.
Sense testimony:
There are winners and there are losers.
Translators: Zoe Robinson, Alex Gambeau, Ned Henry, Heather Williams
SENSE TESTIMONY: Powerful people abuse vulnerable people
5th Step Conclusions:
By Masha GessenJanuary 22, 2018 (NewYorker.com)
The parodies, based on the video for Benny Benassi’s “Satisfaction” (above), are an organized show of resistance against a repressive state.
Afew weeks ago, fourteen Russian first-year air-transport cadets made a parody of a fifteen-year-old music clip, and now it’s all a lot of Russians can talk about. This is a story of spontaneous solidarity, self-organization, and, ultimately, just possibly, the triumph of freedom over bureaucracy.
The original clip, set to the 2002 track “Satisfaction,” by the Italian d.j. Benny Benassi, is itself a parody: of music videos, erotica, and advertising. It features a series of scantily clad young women working with tools, starting with a hammer and graduating to a masonry drill, a belt sander, and an angle grinder. The screen features names and technical descriptions of the tools while the women pose with their bodies contorted and their mouths open, as though they were in a Victoria’s Secret catalogue. In their parody, the air-transport cadets used an all-male cast, the interior of a well-worn student dorm, and the kinds of tools that are found there: a broom, a clothes iron, a spray jar of glass cleaner. Mostly, though, they used their own very young bodies, dressed in underwear, with belts, neckties, and military caps arranged in apparent homage to Tom of Finland.
It appears that the cadets didn’t intend to distribute their video publicly. But, in mid-January, the clip was posted online, to swift official reaction. The air-travel ministry announced that it was forming a commission to “investigate all circumstances and causes of this outrageous incident.” The prosecutor’s office launched its own investigation but swiftly wrapped it up, stating that no laws were violated. The head of the air-transport academy publicly compared the cadets to Pussy Riot, the protest group whose members were sentenced to two years in jail for attempting to dance in a cathedral. The local governor issued a statement calling for the cadets to be “punished” but not expelled from the academy.
State television covered the clip on talk shows and news programs, rebroadcasting it to millions of their viewers each time. “I see clear expressions of homosexuality,” a woman introduced as a sexologist told a reporter on the twenty-four-hour state news channel, which broadcast the video in its entirety. “It’s a provocation,” her sister, also a sexologist, added. The sisters were dressed in identical brown pants suits and white blouses.
And then the Russian Internet was flooded with clips shot to support the air-transport cadets, often hashtagged #Satisfaction. (I highly recommend that the reader watch all of the following videos, in the order in which they are provided.) There were the trade schools—construction, agricultural—and emergency services. Then there were the jockeys and the stable boys, the theatre troupe, the nurses, and the members of the Russian women’s biathlon team. Most clips contained a message of support and some identifying information—“Medical students in support of the air-transport cadets,” for example—and many of the participants made a point of wearing uniforms, if they had them. A Ukrainian swim team shot part of its clip underwater; another group filmed outside in the snow; a rare mixed-gender group shot in a sauna; self-identified retired women of St. Petersburg filmed in the squalor of a communal apartment.
The clips keep coming. They are so numerous, so exuberant, and come from such different corners of Russian society—from eighteen-year-old cadets to middle-aged middle-class sauna enthusiasts to the elderly communal-apartment dwellers—that they serve as the best proof yet that Russia is not nearly as conservative as the Kremlin has claimed in recent years. Sociologists have known this all along: even as Putin has positioned Russia as the center of an imagined “traditional-values civilization,” independent opinion surveys have shown that, to take two examples, Russians overwhelmingly support the right to abortion and are more tolerant of adultery than most nations outside of France. At the same time, a majority of Russians identify as Russian Orthodox and express virulently homophobic attitudes—most likely because the Church and queer-baiting are two pillars of the Kremlin’s ideology, and Russians are constantly reminded what kinds of opinions they are expected to express on these topics.
Given Russia’s official and highly politicized homophobia, these parodies are pure protest, raunchy and playful. They demonstrate that Russians can still form horizontal connections, despite the state’s monopoly on the public sphere, and despite the threat of harsh penalties for protest in general and “propaganda of homosexuality” in particular. Each clip is at once a show of solidarity with a group of young strangers and a show of ordinary people’s ability to organize and act together—an ability that the state would seem to have stamped out. Many of the videos involve a fair amount of staging, choreographing, and shared risk; most culminate with a scene in which a dozen or so young men dance together, whether in the laundry room of a student dormitory or underwater.
As the videos continue to replicate, they become, generally, less sexy and more funny. But in most cases the last scene is still pointedly homoerotic. This is remarkable in a country that’s not only deeply homophobic but has also been in the grip of an anti-gay campaign for some six years. Performing homoeroticism is, as it turns out, the real power tool when it comes to sticking it to the authorities.
Masha Gessen, a staff writer, has written several books, including, most recently, “The Future Is History: How Totalitarianism Reclaimed Russia,” which won the National Book Award in 2017.