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If last week was ‘The Case against Religion” as AC Grayling (or his publisher) subtitled the book I started to review last week, this week is the case for Humanism. As with religion, everybody will have a different explanation for what that means to them, but as we are looking at this topic through Grayling’s eyes, let us use his definition.
In essence, humanism is the ethical outlook that says each individual is responsible for choosing his or her values and goals and working towards the latter in the light of the former, and is equally responsible for living considerately towards others, with a special view to establishing good relationships at the heart of life, because all good lives are premised on such. Humanism recognises the commonalities and, at the same time, wide differences that exist in human nature and capacities, and therefore respects the rights that the former tell us all must have, and the need for space and tolerance that the latter tells us each must have.
Humanism is above all about living thoughtfully and intelligently, about rising to the demand to be informed, alert and responsive, about being able to make a sound case for a choice of values and goals, and about integrity in living according to the former and determination in seeking to achieve the latter.
That’s probably worth reading again.
And once more.
The first thing that struck me about this perspective was the lack of an external authority. For those with a religious faith, this is quite a departure. There is no appeal to a divine being, and no attempt to replace a belief in such a being with another source of moral authority. So, that being the case, the obvious first objection is that humanism lets everybody make up their own moral standard, leading to Nazi ‘morality’ being of equal value and standing as anyone else’s. If that were the view of humanism, I would have to conclude that it falls at the first hurdle, but it is not and it does not.
For me, the answer to the objection lies not in our ability to make our own moral judgements, which we clearly can and do, however inconsistent we might (all) be in living up to the standards we profess to have. The answer is in the parameters within which those values should be set. Grayling (above) puts those parameters as living considerately towards others, respecting what we have in common and the differences which we all know exist between us, as individuals, families and society, which is the amalgam of those smaller units. It is not enough to form one’s own moral values in a vacuum without consideration for others. Of course, we could all attempt to do so – but such an approach would not constitute humanism, nor is it likely to lead to a good conclusion, not least because we would soon run into the basic issue of economics – unlimited demand versus limited supply.
These parameters are the answer to the obvious failures of humanity in the past – Stalinism and Nazism being just two which were on a scale barely imaginable, but smaller ones such as the Tiananmen Square massacre are equally abhorrent. These episodes in human history do not, however, in any way represent what a humanistic outlook could ever lead to and cannot therefore justifiably be put forward as objections to the humanist proposition; they fail the requirement to live considerately towards others (as well as a much longer list of moral failings). What Stalinism and Nazism represented was an attempt to replace the old, religion-based absolute authority which had been reducing in influence for centuries, with new, absolute sources of authority. Humanism would reject all such attempts at calling forth an absolute authority to which we should all submit.
How, then, should we approach the challenge of developing a moral code within these parameters? I think this is encapsulated in the focus on ‘living thoughtfully and intelligently’ and ‘being able to make a sound case for a choice of values and goals.’ Another way of putting this is
The key point about humanism is that it is an attitude to ethics based on observation and the responsible use of reason, both together informing our conversation about human realities, seeking the best and most constructive way of living in accordance with them.
This is not advocating a take what you like approach to morality, but using the experience we have gained as humanity over millennia in trying – and often failing – to find a way of living with each other, and combining this with the intelligence we all have. We should use our own experience as a tool to refine our thinking on what values we should follow, and practice that refining consciously and thoughtfully, not accepting something just because another person has suggested it.
Let me illustrate this with a simple example from my experience of the formation of a particular value. In a previous job, my manager spent time with me on a one to one basis twice a year, the times he was required to in order to assess my performance for the previous six months. This did not strike me as something which sat well with my own view of management as being (co-)responsible for the other person’s experience in the many hours they spend at work. For me, setting aside time for a regular meaningful conversation was a way of caring for that other person, of making the responsibility I felt I had something which resulted in action. Now, I was also quite happy to be left alone on the basis that I knew what I needed to do and with whom I needed to speak to do it, but I took that experience with me when I took on responsibility for the working experience of a larger number of people and have always viewed that time spent in conversation as a key part of my responsibilities. Before entering the work force, this was something which I might have been able to say would be a good thing to do, but I would never have said it was a value I held to be important. Experience – both good and bad – and the application of a modicum of intelligence told me that it was something which was important to me.
A less positive example was a gentleman I knew who systematically undermined a leader in an organisation through months of snide comments, walking out of meetings they were both in, and demonstrating an active opposition not just to what the other person was trying to do, but to who that person was. I learned three things from this. One was that there are situations in which an organisation will simply fail to act on a situation which contradicts that organisation’s professed values (or even claimed divine inspiration) but that does not mean the values are wrong, just that a subset of us has chosen not to act on them. The second was that, when I see behaviours like that, I have a responsibility to do what I can, even if the outcome might not be what I would wish. And the third, closely related, is that while we can point to wars and atrocities which happen a long way away or a long time ago, terrible acts are being perpetuated on a daily basis much closer to home. From this, I realised that I can and must do what I can when I can, and I must also accept that sometimes people will actually get off with what they have done. But I have to start with my own responsibility, because it is all I can act on.
There is also a freedom in humanism:
As a broad ethical outlook, humanism involves no sectarian divisions or strife, no supernaturalism, no taboos, no food and dress codes, no restrictive sexual morality other than what is implicit in the demand to treat others with respect, consideration and kindness.
And with that degree of freedom comes the responsibility to use it wisely. Such freedom is not something we should treat lightly, and indeed many of those we would consider among the greatest thinkers mankind has produced have wrestled with questions of morality from what we might now call a humanist perspective, including (Grayling’s list is a lot longer) Confucius, Cicero, Seneca, Marcus Aurelius, Spinoza, Voltaire, Hume, Marx, Schopenhauer, Mill, Mark Twain, Nietzsche, Bertrand Russell and Sartre. Do they come from the same culture? No, because this approach transcends individual societies and cultures. Have they come with one answer? No, because there is no one answer. Have I even come close to reading even a fraction of what one of them wrote? Also, no.
What is the common thread through all of this? – that we should use our ability to think.
It remains that every humanist, starting from the shared premises that frame an overall humanistic attitude to life and the world, must work out what that means given his or her own talents for creating a life truly worth living, in both the following respects: that it feels good to live it, and that it is beneficial in its impact on others.
So, that is something of the ‘theory’ of humanism. We will return to what this might look like in practice another week.
Here is my parting thought for now. The principle of applying our reason, experience and ability to think in developing and practicing a moral code, which humanism advocates, is perhaps not that different from where mainstream Christianity has arrived today. Modern-day Christians, it seems to me, are already using their reason and experience to determine which parts of both their church’s and the bible’s teachings (the two are not synonymous) they accept as relevant for the way they choose to live their lives. I don’t know any Christian who believes in putting someone to death for working on a Sunday. Reason and experience tell them that this is not something the god they picture and choose to follow wants them to do. Or take the Catholic church’s teaching on contraception, ignored in practice by so many of its members, who have concluded that this teaching is not relevant or appropriate in their life, or indeed a god-commanded stricture they should follow.
The question I am then left with is this: People of faith must, I think, decide (given the obvious inconsistencies) which parts of the bible or other holy books we should retain as current moral guidance, using our understanding of what we consider god’s will to be, but also our developed sense of what is right and wrong. Are we not also also perfectly capable of determining, from a variety of sources, including – if we choose to – the writings we have designated as scripture, which moral values we hold to be of value? And are non-believers not able to do the same? As long as we do this within a construct which reflects the wider needs of humanity, what we have in common and what value there is in our differences, is there any objection to Grayling’s assertion that humanism
is a strikingly positive outlook, and one that would go far, if universally adopted, to solve the problems of today’s world because it insists on the central importance of good relations between individuals in respect of their humanity, not in respect of what identities might overlay their humanity – the political, ethnic, religious, cultural, gender identities that so often trump the possibility of a straightforward human-to-human friendship that would cross all boundaries.
That is something I can subscribe to.
So in the final instalment of my trilogy on different perspectives, it’s the turn of religion. So it should perhaps be the third element of the trinity of history, politics and religion. And this one is also a book review (or half of one – I decided I needed two to cover such a big topic).
The other trinity we might associate with religion is that of Dawkins, Hitchens and Grayling. They have each published books on their thoughts on religion, and it would be fair to say none are complimentary. Some of the titles might indicate this. The God Delusion, God is not Great, and The God Argument.
In my experience of religion, there can be a tendency to discourage, often strongly, reading anything which presents a view contrary to that of the religion (or branch of the religion, or the twig to which we belong). I should say at this point that this was not the way I was brought up, but this viewpoint was one which I could sense when I strayed too far from home (literally and figuratively). So for many people who subscribe to strong religious beliefs, and find value and meaning in those beliefs, the suggestion that Richard Dawkins might have some valid points in The God Delusion might not be a welcome one. My argument against an inhibition to explore arguments against religion is that, if it is true, a religion should be able to – and willing to – stand up to scrutiny. If a religion claims divine leadership in some form, that super-human perspective should be capable of dealing with the logical reasoning of humans.
The book I am going to comment on today is, however, not by Dawkins, but by Anthony (A C) Grayling, whose trade is philosophy and can be relied on to provide a good dose of logic to an argument. The reason I would recommend his book in preference to the other two is simply that he provides not only a case against religion, but also for an alternative (humanism) and I prefer the more positive approach behind that, whether or not you or I end up subscribing to any of what Grayling puts forward, both in his ‘against’ and ‘for’ sections.
This week, I will cover some of his ‘against’ religion arguments, then turn next week to the positive worldview he is suggesting could (and, in his view, should) replace it.
Before tackling the question of what/who ‘God’ is, let me give you a few lines from the introduction to the book:
There are people of sincere piety for whom the religious life is a source of deep and powerful meaning. For them and for others, a spiritual response to the beauty of the world, the vastness of the universe, and the love that can bind one human heart to another, feels as natural and necessary as breathing.
I wanted to include those comments for two reasons. The first is personal. I know a lot of people to whom those sentiments could apply, and my comments in this blog are not intended to diminish the value of the form and practice of religion in their lives. The second is because I also know people who subscribe to the same sets of beliefs, and yet whose practices, including those in the name of that same religion, I find utterly repugnant on any moral basis. And it strikes me that this is at the heart of the debate about religion. The same sets of beliefs can, have, and do, inspire acts of immense kindness and generosity, and of unbelievable cruelty and hatred. How can this be when religion is meant to be inspired by a divine being who has our best interests at heart? Well, I suppose that is the question. Is that the case?
The older I get, the more I realise how much I have got wrong. And the only way I have any chance of doing one or two things better the next time is to challenge myself. Most of our actions come from what we believe whether consciously or subconsciously. But that’s a different topic for a different day. For now, my starting point is what I have been thinking about for a long time – the value in being prepared to change our perspective. And for me, that usually involves either reading something different or hearing something different, and being open enough to consider what is being presented to me. After all, I used to believe in the tooth fairy, but at some point, the evidence no longer supported that particular dental perspective.
So, back to the question of ‘God.’ (all quotations from Grayling unless otherwise indicated)
For religious people, the word is typically invoked to denote the all-encompassing and unanswerable source of authority governing what people can think, say, eat and wear, in what circumstances and with whom they can have sexual relations, how they must behave on specified days or weeks of the year, and so comprehensively on. The fact that different religions claim that their god or gods have different requirements in these respects should be evidence that religions are man-made and historically conditioned, but religious people think that this insight only applies to other people’s religions, not their own.
One of the reasons this matters is because this ‘god’ is asserted to have created everything. The logical problem with this is that it explains nothing.
Imagine someone asking, “How did the universe come into existence?” and being answered, “It was created by Fred” or “It was created by the supreme egg.” Obviously, such a response explains nothing because it means nothing. There is no greater explanatory power or meaning if one puts “god”, “God” or “the supreme being” in place of “Fred” or “the supreme egg”.
But can we know either way? Is it not a 50/50 bet as to whether ‘god’ (of any of the variants) exists? It’s either a yes or a no answer, with equal probability, isn’t it?
The initial probability of there being a deity is not 50 per cent, as some try to argue. There is a hidden assumption of agnosticism, which premises the thought that there is insufficient evidence to settle the matter either way. One can see this by asking what initial probability should be attached to the existence of (say) dryads or unicorns, or anything else whose presence in myth, fable, legend and religion derives from what our remote ancestors handed down among their stories about the world. […] The mistake made by many is to think that because a particular tradition has been institutionalised in society, it increases the probability that the things it talks about actually exist.
Of course, the question of religion and science has to be addressed.
The views and practices that emerge from common sense, practicality and science form a general picture of a law-like natural realm in which we know what it is rational to believe and do, and what it is not. For example: we know that it is rational to expect that we can heat and light our houses by installing the right kinds of appliances and connecting them to a power source, and simultaneously we know that it is irrational to believe that we can light and heat our houses by prayer or by sacrificing an ox. […]
The deliverances of science […] are based on evidence gathered and vastly confirmed by experience, whereas the beliefs of the various religions are untestable, inconsistent with each other, internally contradictory, and in conflict with the deliverances of common sense and science.
One last comment in the ‘against’ camp. One argument for religious belief is that it the basis of morality.
Here we have an issue with cherry-picking. We are to take the various (depending on your particular affiliation) books of scripture as a guide to what our personal morality should be. But anyone with anything more than a rudimentary knowledge of the main stories of the dominant religion of their part of the world, knows that those stories have been selected from a much larger number, and they will probably have been given some form of guidance as to the meaning or interpretation of the story.
Take the story of Abraham being told by his God to sacrifice (that means kill in normal vocabulary) his son Isaac. Abraham is praised for his obedience. That’s the lesson we are to learn from this story. I remember discussing this story in a little bible-reading group in Tübingen many years ago. One of the group had a completely different take on it, and I confess it had never even occurred to me before then. He thought that Abraham had failed the test his god had given him. He was supposed to say, ‘No, from everything you have told me, I know this is the wrong thing to do. No matter who tells me to do it, even you, it is wrong.’ I might suggest that this interpretation of the story would be more conducive to us living together as a society than being prepared to kill someone on the basis of what we claim a divine being told us to do.
Grayling cites a number of examples of highly questionable morality ascribed by the writers of various books of the bible to their God. One he does not mention is the one I have not been able to shake from my mind. It is also insanely obscure as Biblical stories go.
The Ark of the Covenant was a huge symbol to the ancient Israelites. It was a reminder that they were God’s chosen people (yes, another issue there, not for now), and that he was in their midst. There was a rule – don’t touch the ark. The penalty was death. Seems a bit extreme. Here’s a little episode in the middle of 2 Samuel (told you it was obscure), just two verses:
‘Uzzah reached out and took hold of the ark of God, because the oxen stumbled.’
Let’s just stop for a second. The ark was going to fall off the cart. Uzzah saw the problem and probably acted instinctively to stop it falling. After all, something held to be so sacred probably should not be allowed to fall and be damaged. If he did think about it, his act was surely protective of the ark. God, however, saw this rather differently.
‘The Lord’s anger burned against Uzzah because of his irreverent act; therefore God struck him down and he died there beside the ark of God.’
Yes, you read that correctly. God was so angry that he killed Uzzah on the spot.
And this is the part of the basis of the morality we should be following? But no, you might say, that was a different time, the people had to learn different lessons, they should have been carrying the ark properly, we shouldn’t take it literally. In which case, which parts am I supposed to take as a guide? King David was angry with God because of what he did to Uzzah. So he is maybe the good guy in this story. Except that he had just come back from murdering thousands of Philistines – on God’s instructions (God was pretty consistent back then – as a rule, kill all the men, women and children of anyone you defeat in battle – but of course, he spared Rahab from the genocide at Jericho, because she helped the spies the Israelites sent to the city, so that was all right, then, and we make little models of Rahab letting the spies out of the city, not of the murder of everyone else – see what I mean about cherry-picking?). So I guess I have to ignore the rape, genocide, xenophobia, and random acts of extreme, disproportionate violence ascribed to God (the Flood, anyone?) which litter the Old Testament. The serious problem here is how anyone is supposed to know which parts to take as relevant to us and which to write-off (conveniently, because they do not correspond to our view of morality, even though they are from the same book as the parts we do adopt for our lives)?
‘Scholars of theological history point out that these are early views of the deity, who by the New Testament has become perfectly good, benign and merciful – except that it is just too, which introduces a second new tension alongside the natural evil dilemma: between justice and mercy. The victims of the Holocaust might wish to see their god extend justice rather than mercy to those who gassed their children in Auschwitz, however fine a thing forgiveness is. Are there not unforgivable things? Even the New Testament says there is one: namely, blasphemy. Some would think the murder of millions less forgivable than abusing the holy name.’
I would add to this that second issue with the view that the less savoury stories are part of an earlier view of god is whether the stories are true, as in whether they happened as recorded. If they are, it is not a matter of the people’s understanding of their god, it is what that god did. If the stories are just that, rather than actual events, at what point did any of what is recorded actually happen? Where between Adam and Eve in the Garden of Eden (clearly a myth) and Jesus (we know he existed) did ‘real’ things start to happen?
This brings us squarely to the reliability of the accounts in the various volumes of scripture, even before we get to the question of whether they are all divinely inspired (and saying different things) or whether only ‘our’ scriptures are inspired, the rest being in some way false. I can’t help but think that mankind’s problems started when instead of listening to the creation myths of the people we encountered (there are some beautiful stories out there) and recognising them as an attempt to explain something the people at the time had vastly insufficient knowledge to begin to comprehend, we decided that our story was true and the other person’s was false, and that this mattered, in some cases enough to kill the other person to silence their heresy.
Grayling is more succinct and gives the whole ‘morality based on religion’ question short shrift:
The argument that there can be no morality unless policed by a deity is refuted by the existence of good atheists. Arguably, non-theists count among themselves the most careful moral thinkers, because in the absence of an externally imposed morality they recognise the duty to examine their views, choices and actions, and how they should behave towards them.
These are only a very few extracts from a well-argued and comprehensive analysis of the arguments for religion. Grayling also covers the origins of religion in ancient, pre-science superstition, what the various faiths actually believe versus what they discuss and emphasise, and how that emphasis has shifted significantly over time, including creating some doctrines and practices and discarding others which were once claimed to be necessary for salvation. He also includes the ‘God of the gaps’ problem, for the intellectuals a chapter on very technical definitional arguments for religion (I got a bit lost in the logic) and creationism and ‘intelligent design.’ It’s all in here, and I found this one of the more accessible of Grayling’s books.
So, next week, the positive second half of his book.
But for now, I’m going to give the last word on the approach of avoiding anything which might challenge our beliefs to W K Clifford, because I think it can apply to our current perspective on any matter, whether historical, political or religious. It’s also why I think having religious belief is no reason not to read a book like Grayling’s, however uncomfortable it might be. I did, and I’m still here.
It is wrong always, everywhere, and for everyone, to believe anything upon insufficient evidence. If a man, holding a belief which he was taught in childhood or persuaded of afterwards, keeps down and pushes away any doubts which arise about it in his mind, purposely avoids the reading of books and the company of men that call into question or discuss it, and regards as impious those questions which cannot easily be asked without disturbing it – the life of that man is one long sin against mankind.
I decided a while ago that I needed to read the definitive book on the psychology of religion. This was mainly because I was looking for a different framework to compare with the experience of living in a relatively closed society like East Germany. The parallels of organisation and structure had struck me many years ago and I wanted to explore the possible similarities, and of course the significant differences. Over the years, I had been struck by some of the similarities in the language used to describe the experience of being within, and sometimes leaving, a controlling religion and East Germany. I still haven’t found that book, but I did come across a very different one which seemed to be approaching the topic in a different way. I could see the potential correlation from the title – The True Believer (no, not the novel by Nicholas Sparks…)
This, I thought, might be what I was looking for. An investigation, if not necessarily an explanation for, the true believers in all walks of life. The people who can exist in a world where they believe things to be true which, at one level, they know factually not to be true.
Eric Hoffer wrote his book in 1951, so a few years after the Second World War and a full ten years before the Berlin Wall. Hoffer himself is an interesting character. He could have been a character in Steinbeck’s The Grapes of Wrath; he was a migrant worker in California in the 1930s and much of his life is shrouded in the mystery that comes from the poverty he was born into and lived in. He was a nobody and could well have remained so if he had not spent his time reading and writing, making up for his lack of formal education and qualifications. He wrote The True Believer on a plank of wood in the room he rented and there seems to have been no indication that he was even writing this book. And, after all, who would have been interested in a drifter writing a book?
Somewhere along the line, the book caught the attention of President Eisenhower, who quoted from it in one of the first televised presidential press conferences. And then everything changed and he became famous.
So, what of the book?
I should start by repeating Hoffer’s important clarification about his work on mass movements. He emphasises that, while he concludes that
mass movements have many traits in common, [this] does not imply that all movements are equally beneficent or poisonous.
So similarities between the development of different types of movement, be they social, political or religious, says nothing about the motives or aims of those movements.
Mass movements begin with the desire for hope and the hope for change.
Those who would transform a nation or the world […] must know how to kindle and fan an extravagant hope. It matters not whether it be hope of a heavenly kingdom, or heaven on earth, or plunder and untold riches, of fabulous achievement or world domination. […] They know how to preach hope.
They then need to foster a strong sense of unity between members of the movement:
It is perhaps impossible to understand the nature of mass movements unless it is recognised that their chief preoccupation is to foster, perfect and perpetuate a facility for united action and self-sacrifice.
In this we have a reminder that this can be either a good or a bad thing, depending on the cause to which that unity and self-sacrifice are directed. It says nothing about the moral value of that cause. The twin evils of the twentieth century, Nazism and communism (of the Stalinist, not Marxist variety) shared the desire for united action and self-sacrifice with those seeking peace and a more humane way of living, even though the causes they were supporting were fundamentally different.
Where some of the psychological traits become more problematic, I think, is in the true believer’s understanding of truth and facts. These words about a ‘fanatical Communist’ can readily be applied to the true believers in a wide range of other causes:
The fanatical Communist refuses to believe any unfavourable report or evidence about Russia, nor will he be disillusioned by seeing with his own eyes the cruel misery inside the Soviet promised land. It is the true believer’s ability to “shut his eyes and stop his ears” to facts that do not deserve to be either seen or heard which is the source of his unequaled fortitude and constancy. He cannot be […] baffled by contradictions because he denies their existence. Strength of faith […] manifests itself not in moving mountains but in not seeing mountains to move.
You can perhaps see some parallels to current political debates as well as to the kind of cognitive dissonance which can affect members of some religions when facts become inconvenient. Here is another example of the approach which can be taken to dealing with the difficulties logic and reason can otherwise present to ideological movements:
The devout are always urged to seek the absolute truth with their hearts and not their minds. Rudolph Hess, when swearing in the entire Nazi party in 1934, exhorted his hearers: “Do not seem Adolph Hitler with your brains; all of you will find him with the strength of your hearts.”
And of course, having a nemesis is always helpful:
Mass movements can rise and spread without belief in a God, but never without belief in a devil. Usually the strength of a mass movement is proportionate to the vividness and tangibility of its devil. When Hitler was asked whether he thought the Jew must be destroyed, he answered: “No… We should then have to invent him. It is essential to have a tangible enemy, not merely an abstract one.”
A chilling way to regard other human beings, but one which is perpetuated throughout the ages, just with different groups and with different ways of dealing with them. Witches, Jews, immigrants, always someone else to be someone’s devil. Some of them reappear time and time again as the new, old, scapegoat.
The ideal devil is a foreigner.
If unity within the group is one feature of mass movements, it is also important that this is contrasted with those outside the group:
Every device is used to cut off the faithful from intercourse with unbelievers. Some mass movements go to the extreme of leading their following into the wilderness in order to allow an undisturbed settling of the new pattern of life.
Part of this exclusion of those outside of the group is the importance of obedience to the movement:
All mass movements rank obedience with the highest virtues and put it on a level with faith. […] Obedience is not only the first law of God, but also the first tenet of a revolutionary party and of fervent nationalism. “Not to reason why” is considered by all mass movements the mark of a strong and generous spirit..
When we think of some mass movements, a particular leader comes to mind – Hitler and Stalin are obvious examples of this in our political history. I particularly liked Hoffer’s casual remark that
The well-adjusted make poor prophets.
But of course, a movement needs not just a leader, but a cadre of able and committed lieutenants, and the leader knows that he must have
a capacity for winning and holding the utmost loyalty of a group of able lieutenants. This last faculty is one of the most essential and elusive. The uncanny powers of a leader manifest themselves not so much in the hold he has on the masses as in his ability to dominate and almost bewitch a small group of able men. These men must be fearless, proud, intelligent and capable of organising and running large-scale undertakings, and yet they must submit wholly to the will of the leader, draw their inspiration and driving force from him, and glory in this submission.
There is a danger in reading Hoffer’s work that we think primarily of the examples of mass movements whose aims most people would today regard as insidious or downright evil. But this would be to forget that similarities of features of mass movements are not synonymous with the moral value of the movements themselves. Workers’ movements have led to great social progress. Gandhi and Mandela remain examples of the founders of movements which had laudable aims and changed whole countries for the better.
Hoffer’s book is not the one I started looking for, but I am glad to have found it. It’s also a remarkably easy read given the complexities and potential sensitivities of its topics. I still have to find that other book though. So far, it is proving elusive.
A thought that has been going through my head for a while now is integrity.
But I need to start somewhere else, with writing. I think that, for me, writing is in part a way of exploring something, of thinking through a question in my head that has been bothering me. And it tends to be something which has caused a strong emotional reaction in me, usually because it has run smack bang into something that I believe to matter. This is exactly what has happened today with this blog (one of the reasons it’s a lot later than normal!). I just went somewhere I had not expected to when I was writing it – East Germany and religion – and I now need to refine my thinking. But I needed to put it down in writing to get that far. So I am about to cut the next twelve paragraphs (a sure sign I’m working something out) and will come back to them when I’ve got it right. I might even put them in a later blog entry. [The subtitles to this film would now say “Sound of paper being cut”].
At the moment, my head spends much of its time in 1970s and 1980s East Berlin. But I also know that the questions I’m wrestling with about choice, about truth, about integrity, have another context for me personally. I’m spending time inside the head of people who had no safe way of escaping a situation which was not of their making. But what really interests me is the processes which caused that outward set of restrictions to become internalised, because that’s what can and does happen to us all – and it happens to my characters. We talk about becoming ‘institutionalised’ after being part of an organisation for long enough (and sometimes it takes no more than a few weeks). First our behaviours and then our thoughts start to change to conform to the way the organisation operates, or the way we perceive it as operating. If we are lucky, we catch ourselves doing this, but much of the time it goes unnoticed.
So the other place I am in my head is how I deal with a situation that feels somewhat like that experience of being trapped in East Germany, but where I know I do have a choice. And I find that the choice is intellectually easy but emotionally a lot harder. And that’s a place I have to stay for a while because it’s helping me to understand my characters a bit better. I do at least know how it ends for me, if not for my characters. I just can’t get to that point yet because I need it to stay real for a bit longer. And then I can write about integrity. But not yet.
So why have I included this jumble of thoughts today? Welcome to the head of a writer.