A Triad of Typology and How People Get Conned:

A Triad of Typology and How People Get Conned:

 

It’s believed that in the Olden Days, especially within the Great Civilizations, there was not yet a line drawn betwixt the Good, the Beautiful, and the True. Similarly, I might suppose that to be Good, to be Intelligent, and to be Right were one and the same; one could not be one without presupposing the other two.

Such is not the case in the Present Day. By and large, questions of Intelligence, Morality, and Righthood are consigned to the Psychoanalytic Arts. The question of how an individual will behave is determined by temperamental predispositions, just as is the case with introversion, sexual preference and drive, etc. Individuals possessing more “intelligence” will tend to value intelligence, no more egocentrically than those who possess more “conscientiousness” value morality and forthrightness. Those who are the most diligent may or may not prefer morality to intelligence, depending upon the nature of their diligence, often regulated by “disgust”; one may be diligent in the pursuit of a “reprehensible” enterprise which is disgusting and therefore immoral, or one may be diligent in the pursuit of a more “noble” cause if one is more easily “disgusted” by “evil”. At any rate, those who are neither conscientious nor intelligent to the same extent as they are “diligent” and “persistent” will value being “right” above being “good” or “smart”. Righthood is thus distinguished both from “meaning well” and from “being wise” or “being practical”. These people “work harder, not smarter”, and their “work ethic” is an ethic of principled efficiency.

Theoretically, the various types, in effect all fragments of one fully integrated human being, (fractions of an Ancient Greek, if you will) could coexist in harmony, just as these “drives” would coexist in the fully actualized person. Yet in the absence of a binding social order, certain obstacles preclude the harmonious union of conflicting types, and foremost among these obstacles is the “con artist”.

Con artists come in many different shapes and sizes. Some are extremely high-brow and academic. The professor of postmodern philosophy has found the ideal target audience in a legion of grad students who are open to the ideas of Heidegger, Nietzsche, and Foucault; it’s easier to lie to people who pride themselves in their own uncertainty about the Nature of Truth. Yet more often than not con artists employ an evil so banal it is disappointing. In the absence of a binding social order, human beings tend to retain in common only the basest of instincts, and as we fall deeper and deeper into the egalitarian paradigm we tend to be reduced to these embarrassing functions. The most damning insult that I have ever received was in the reminder that my body’s most repulsive functions were nothing to be ashamed of, since I shared them in common with all of humanity; all of a sudden, I could only imagine solidarity with my fellow human beings, quite literally, by avenue of a line to use the toilet.

Con artists occupy this domain predominantly. Sex, survival, and power are those drives which, like any student of Freud, manipulators primarily appeal to, and more often than not they regard the remainder of the individuated personality as no more than a mask for these urges.

Yet some people are much too proud to be won over with a cheap thrill, and if they are to satisfy these urges they will only do so by avenue of a specific set of principles. Those who value honesty will only allow themselves the pleasures of sexuality within the context of an established relationship; those who value sincerity will regard sexual consent as legitimate only if both parties care about each other without pretense, but nonetheless to such an extent that meets an established social standard entirely independent of individual desire and preference. Some come to power by their own will; others assume it as a social responsibility. Some people would sooner die as innocent victims than to live as oppressors; others rationalize their survivor’s guilt by priding themselves in their strength. Pride is most often shame in disguise.

The advanced manipulator thus must go beyond the banal drives and to appeal to ego. By identifying what an individual values, based upon that individual’s temperament, the manipulator is able to avail his or herself of an arsenal of subtle tricks in order to appear as an ally to the prospective victim. “Leveling” is easiest in an “egalitarian” society of “liberal individualists”. If I claim to value independence, this value reflects upon me personally. It would appear gauche indeed were I to criticize the sexual libertine or the drug pusher (often one and the same) for giving consenting adults “what they want”, though it would NOT be out of character for an upright police officer. By professing a value, I say, “this is my role; this is me. I shall always come onstage in this guise, and none other.” Thus the individualist must REMAIN individualistic so as not to appear inconsistent, and should he or she take sides with a Collectivistic Social Order, this is damning to both parties; ergo, never the twain shall meet. Coexistence between Individualists and Loyalists becomes not only problematic and fruitless but downright dangerous.

A con artist can easily drive a wedge between individuals of comparable but distinct character, simply by appearing to each as an ally against the rest. Who would one be to resist one’s own reflection? It makes far more sense to antagonize one’s “natural opponents”.

With regards to the trichotomy of Intelligence, Good Will, and Righthood, (the latter an addendum to Aldous Huxley’s veneration of the former two as indispensable corollaries) driving a wedge between “excellent” people is a walk in the park.

Consider the father of Chuck and Jimmy McGill from Better Call Saul. There is no evidence that this man is “unintelligent”, yet he is constantly being abused by grifters with a sob story. Once confronted by a young Jimmy who recognizes a cheap conman for what he is, the father’s retort is one of my favourite clichés of modern television, for it summarizes both philosophy and heroism: “What if you’re wrong?” This same line is employed by Jack Shepard and John Locke from the earlier series Lost, with regards to the torture of a prisoner; unfortunately, since Jack fears one fate and John fears another, even so universal a question fails to solve their particular problem. Liberal individualism wins yet again over Justice. Much like the late McGill patriarch, both Jack and John are men of extremely above-average intelligence, expressed in different ways. They also have this much in common: both have been conned, over and over again.

Certain rudimentary forms of con artistry work on stupid, unconscientious and inattentive people: zombies lacking in intelligence, morality, and diligence. Yet if this appears too severe a description, rest assured that it refers to a minority of people that is hardly “oppressed”. Most people excel in at least one of these three qualities, and it is precisely their excellence which is used against them. If one wishes to anger a person, one appeals to his or her weaknesses; loyalty is won by appeal to strength. When Jimmy’s Dad gives grifters money and “a gallon of milk”, that milk is the milk of human kindness, and though the unassuming shopkeep can’t afford it forever, it is nonetheless a testament to his strengths of character that he surrenders so much for free to the “wolves” of the “world”; one must suppose that, every once in a blue moon, the “grifter” is a sheep in wolf’s clothing, as tends to be the bulk of the innocent victims in the Better Call Saul universe, often victims whom Jimmy abuses, though his cynicism somehow endures in the face of innocence.

Consider this scenario: a conscientious young woman is about to surrender a hundred dollars to pay for a con artist’s “cancer treatment”. Nearby, an intelligent young man watches the scene unfold, with amusement. The intelligent young man knows, for a fact, that this hustler is a grifter; he was tipped off just last week by the bartender, who is a very diligent fellow who did his research but didn’t have the heart to stop the grifter from spending other people’s money on the tavern’s tap. (This particular grifter, unlike Joe Pesci’s characters in Martin Scorsese films, pays his bar tab.)

After the transaction has been made, the grifter leaves, as does the young Good Samaritan. The bartender, having witnessed the outcome, asks the intelligentsia: “Why didn’t you stop her giving him that money?” To this, the clever young man asks, “Why didn’t you stop him asking for it?”

In truth: one question does not answer the other, but simply “levels the playing field”. Yet allow me to be the first impartial witness to answer both questions:

Leveling, though inconclusive, nonetheless begins to answer the question, since both men are cut from the same cloth in this instance, just bleached differently. For egocentric purposes, the intelligent man needs people to get ripped off, so as to feel smarter than the victims. By the same token, the diligent man needs people who are wishy-washy and easily swayed to be disadvantaged, so as to legitimize his diligence. Neither man regards the con man as a threat to that man’s own person and ego. The intelligent man sees through the con, or so he hopes to; the diligent man maintains a respectable business, and it’s not his problem if the business benefits from this inferior enterprise, any more than the benefits it gleans from dishwashing and other “lowly” occupations which are paid less because they are “inferior”. Ironically, the very egalitarianism of individualist society transforms people into the most depraved elitists; were we to live under the rule of a more binding moral law, answering to established moral authority, it would fall to the bartender in this scenario to stop the grifter, but liberal individualism allows him to say, “that’s his business, not mine. I’m just collecting his money by my own, honest means.” Under such a paradigm, suppressing secrets is not tantamount to lying, since no one is entitled to the Truth. In both instances, both conspirators have rationalized their conspiracy with the con man, hoping, (perhaps naïvely) that they are not getting conned just by so doing. By a similar device, the victim hopes that she is not simply losing money that could be spent on a Higher and More Pressing Cause. Yet were she to act on this hope in an aggressive way, she would act out of character, for “good people” are not supposed to demand refunds for charitable acts. Even the naturally selfless person is transformed into an egoist under the paradigm of individualism, her egolessness used against her nonetheless.

Not only has such a con succeeded in parting a woman with her money; it has also driven a wedge between three people who would otherwise have made a fine team if compelled to work towards a Common Good. By being so basic, so stupid, so immoral and so easygoing, the grifter manages to turn all of his or her vices into strengths. The virtues of the intelligent, the noble, and the thorough turn to weaknesses, and any peaceful coexistence between them is torn asunder, so that even were one of them to realize this, the rest would resist.

So: this is my question…

Ought we to con them?

To some considerable extent, the prevalence of trickery in modern life is the fault of the victims. The pride and vainglory of each stock character are comedic because they are so myopic and ironic. Of course the wise guy lets the good girl get conned; morality is not his strong suit, so he’ll think less of her for falling for a trick that only good people fall for!! Of course she falls for it. It does not matter if she’s smarter than the others put together; her bleeding heart is all too predictable!! Of course the bartender does nothing; why risk a source of income? He works hard enough as it is!! The least that he can do is benefit from a stupidity tax, and who is better to attest to her stupidity than the wise guy? Grifters will be grifters; at least by collecting a cut of the profits the bartender ensures that it returns to the Beneficent Establishment to which he has pledged his life.

How could the con man resist? OUGHT he to??

 

Some people are subtler. Some will excel in at least two of the three virtues. Their act becomes a juggling act. In one hand, the Stoic holds her moral convictions; in the other: her practical intelligence. When it behooves her to be practical, she throws morality up into the air. When she can afford to be kind, she captures kindness and tosses up discretion. In this manner, she never owes anyone anything, for no one owes her anything. When she needs something, she acquires it by being practical; when she wants to feel good about herself, she acts good, and this behooves her reputation amidst good people. Should she offend another good person by disappointing his expectations, what could she possibly owe to him, and how would she repay him? If he sought his own interests by avenue of goodness, then he was not truly good, for the ethic of Stoicism renounces all rewards outside of pure virtue; if he sought his own interests by avenue of intelligence, then his failure is a testament to his folly, and if he sought his own interests by avenue of diligence, he clearly lacked diligence, as evidenced by his presumptuous oversight. Thus the Stoic wears her virtues like a revolving door of party masks, and dignity lies in knowing which mask to employ at which opportune moment and momentous opportunity.

In confronting such a prospect, the con man’s best bet would be to turn the conflicting personalities against one another, either by involving her in an enterprise that eventually will require her to use both techniques at once, to extremes that their inherent opposition can’t withstand, or by getting her invested in an enterprise that, up until a certain point, requires excellence in one suit, only to shift gears very suddenly midway.

 

Yet OUGHT he to do this? Does she “deserve” it, if she ostensibly “deserves” nothing?

 

Ultimately, those who pride themselves in their immunity to con artistry would benefit morally from being taken down a peg, even (and perhaps especially) if they pride themselves in being “moral” people? In employing our strengths, we all too often vainly ignore our weaknesses, to the detriment not only of ourselves but of our fellows. By practicing “counterconning”, a Deprogrammer may manage to finally bypass the psychic defences of his or her fellows. All of them have conspired in the victim’s victimhood, and even if the victim was himself misled by egoism, their collective evil is great enough to warrant its exposure, and this can only be done by forcing them to get over themselves.

 

[({Dm.R.G.)}]

Choice, Player, Designer: an Open Response.

This is an intriguing question you have raised, and the answers you find may be even more intriguing yet. In addressing it, I hope to resolve some of my own quandaries pertaining to the relationship between Choice and Game(s).

The simple question of whether or not to program a menu in a visual novel is, at heart, the question of whether or not to give the player a choice. Yet to give the player a choice or not to give the player a choice is in itself a choice on the part of the designer. Furthermore, to address one’s fellows for advice with regards to this choice implies another question: which choice OUGHT I to make? It is inescapably a moral question then, regardless of what moral scheme one subscribes to: how OUGHT visual novels to be designed?

One might presume, given this summary, that the answer might only be found where the question originated: within the designer. Since the designer functions as the “dealer”, he* holds all the cards; with him, the game begins and ends. It would apparently follow, under such a paradigm, that designers must decide the matter for themselves, by arbitration, that the question can have no definite, “objective” answer, and that by asking it one only invites a makeshift anthology of case histories and partisan, anecdotal accounts.

Yet this is not necessarily so, since such a paradigm (beginning and ending with the designer and his “Vision”/will) in itself is tragically one-sided, and one mustn’t forget that, just as the designer starts the game and the player finishes it, the answer to this question of design might properly be sought in the Player. Yet since one designs games for multiple players, most of whom are unknown to one’s self, this “Player” must be regarded not as an individual, but rather as a concept out of which the EXPERIENCE of the individual “player” (and, as such, the individuality of the experiencer) emanates.

 

*The generic “he”, for brevity, meant to imply any number of identities, chosen or given. I will employ more traditional pronoun usage for this text in the spirit of maintaining clarity and concision, without any ideological meddling or personal involvement.

 

When one asks, “should the player be given a choice?” one really enters into a complex, often self-referential and circular, yet thoroughly symbiotic and beautiful series of inextricably contingent relationships, mostly predicated upon one trinity: the Player, the designer, and the Choice. The relationship between Player and designer, as well as how each relates to Choice, circumscribes the entire inquiry.

In order to determine what choices to give unto the Player, the designer might start with a moral prescription for the Player; in other words, the designer asks himself: “what sort(s) of choice(s) do I want the Player to MAKE?” An undertaking of this sort is by no means pretentious for a genre which owes so much to both storytelling and adventure game design; both media have rich traditions of “educating” the player, and while the adventure game educates the player with regards to the internal workings of the fictional World, the story serves to educate the listener/reader/observer (the “audience”) about the external, “nonfictional” World.

It is precisely the combination of these two Worldviews that puts decision-based narrative games at the cutting edge of game development as an Art Form, as well as placing this Art Form at the forefront (the “avant garde”) of modern storytelling. It is also this delicate balancing act between the development of a Fictional Universe and a Relevant Allegory that produces most of the exciting and frustrating challenges unique to the development of choice-driven narrative games. The term “ludonarrative dissonance” is perhaps one of our generation’s subtlest contributions to the academic lexicon, and its scope reaches far beyond the mere conflict between “reading”/“listening”/“attending” and “having fun”.

When the designer has chosen what sorts of choices he wishes for the Player to make, according to the story’s “moral”, (i.e. its ethical message) he has begun to decide for himself what sorts of choices to make in creating choices for the Player. Yet how does one even choose what sorts of choices one wishes for the Player to make? Before we address this problem, we must first illustrate the nature of moral prescription in a game and its effects upon gameplay and narrative.

When one says, “I wish for the Player to make choices of this kind”, one creates the necessity for the Player to develop “agency”. At this point, the menu becomes necessary, except insofar as the player controls other factors, such as the pace at which he or she reads the text or the volume at which he or she listens to the soundtrack, both of which are normally of no consequence to the narrative, but only to the subjective experience of the narrative on the part of the Player.

A menu represents a branching in the narrative: on the most fundamental, brute level, it allows for the story to go “one way or another”. Some menus may create the “illusion of choice” by allowing the Player to exhaust secondary options within a closed loop until the primary option is selected, advancing the story only once the “right” choice is made. Yet such a structure does not in itself present the Player with a moral choice; the Player must simply find that answer which fits into an existing, deterministic framework. Such choices may ultimately be of no consequentialist value; they may have “consequence” for the player’s “experience”, (both in the sense of accumulated knowledge and immediate encounter with the media) yet in and of themselves they do not impact the development of the story and its characters. However, such a structure, like many other menu structures, may INCORPORATE an element of consequentialism by introducing hidden mechanics, such as a point system, a counter, or various flagging variables, which serve to ASSESS the Player’s choices as they are being made, usually without the Player’s conscious knowledge. For example, if the moral of the story is, “always tell the Truth”, the designer might confront the Player with a series of dialogue options, only one of which expresses the Truth of the Situation, and to such an extent as the Player AVOIDS telling the Truth by selecting other options from the menu, to that same extent a secret counter might assess the Player’s “Honesty”, quantified as a variable, functioning as a hidden “character stat” that might very well trigger a later event and thereby alter the course of the game, with or without the Player’s conscious knowledge, either “at the time” or “ultimately”.

In this manner we have established that the proper function of a menu is to create choices for the Player by providing the Player with options, many of which are alternatives to the “right” choice(s) which the designer desires for the Player to make. Yet of what relevance is this to the choices which the Designer makes, and how do we, as designers, choose them? Rather than imposing any binding moral law upon this discussion, at least so early on in its development, I should rather direct your attention from the relationship between Player and Choice to the relationship between the Designer and Choice as well as its inextricable corollary: the relationship between the Designer and the Player. At this point, you will notice that “Designer” is capitalized in the manner that “Player” came to be capitalized, since I am now referring not to a hypothetical individual but to an entire Category of hypothetical individuals, specifically with respect to the Category of Player and the phenomenon of Choice which manifests in various “choices”.

In deciding what sorts of choices one wishes for the Player to make, the Designer seeks to determine what choices the Player ought to make. Yet in order to make such a sweeping generalization as would warrant such a prescription the Designer must exist within a set of his own moral dictates. These are not necessarily “his own” in the sense of them being “of his own choosing”; in fact, any designer who publishes must note the limits of his own arbitration with regards to the content which he produces. Yet it nonetheless represents an intimate and often personal sphere within which the Designer navigates: a sort of middle ground between Vision and Social Necessity. The Designer himself relates to the Choice insofar as he is himself a moral agent and a “player” within the social game of Game Development.

Usually, the foremost secular appeal with regards to the Designer’s moral obligations concerns the relationship between the Designer and the Player. Egalitarian thought dictates that the Designer, as the Author of the Work, ought NOT to prescribe any ethic for the Player to follow which the Designer does not treat as binding also upon himself as Designer. Yet in this instance egalitarianism amounts to a stultifying dogma. Most notably, the relationship between the Designer and the Player is NOT one of identical reciprocity within the external World. The Designer often produces the work at the expense of his or her own resources, and the work is typically made available for a price that is arbitrated by the Designer and/or his conspiring distributors; the Player, on the other hand, expends no labour towards the development of the work, (usually) but must part with some sum of money, most often acquired by other means of the Player’s own choosing, in order to purchase the work. In this process, both Designer and Player are certain to expend only one resource: Time, and even that varies between Designer and Player, as well as from player to player and from designer to designer, depending upon innumerable and often incalculable and inestimable factors.

It follows, therefore, that in the external World outside of the microcosm of the fictional story and its virtual Reality, there is no a priori necessity for an egalitarian relationship between Designer and Player. Be that as it may, however, there remains the danger of the Designer becoming guilty of Hypocrisy. While neither the external World nor the virtual World** find the Designer and the Player on equal footing, (**for the Designer does not have to “learn” the game, typically) in the relationship BETWEEN the two Worlds a moral obligation persists. This is because, as mentioned previously, the moral of a story must serve an allegorical function which converts the content of the microcosm into a prescription for the macrocosm.

If, for instance, the Designer develops a game that can only be won by gathering certain privileged information, and if such privileged information can only be acquired by illicit means, and should such a crime stand to benefit the Designer at the expense of others, then the Designer has made an immoral choice by multiple if not all moral rubrics. Yet even if such a crime is not INTRINSIC to the design of the game, games may nonetheless present the Player with a moral prescription which he or she only ought to follow if they are so binding that the Designer ought to follow them as well, especially within the development of those games. To revisit an earlier example: if the moral of the story is to “always tell the Truth”, and if it is only by adherence to this principle that the game may be won, and if it is only by winning that the game may be enjoyed or “fully experienced”, (presumably: the Player’s intent for spending time and often money on the game) and if the game itself is programmed in such a manner, as illustrated previously, as to implement this system, then it would be poor form indeed were the Designer to lie to the Player either within the game or outside of it, especially in selling it.

Yet here, too, egalitarian ethics present a dogmatic imposition upon the Art, for there exists an entire pantheon of reasons to put the Player in a situation which one does not inhabit. For instance, if one wishes to illustrate a World wherein stubborn adherence to rules ultimately leads to despair and absurdity, a Designer might justifiably offer the Player superficial rewards for obedience with very long but binding strings attached. The challenge here is for the Player to look past what appears to be the prescription and to fathom the UNDERLYING message. Games like Portal and Braid, while they are narratively deterministic and therefore not “choice-driven”, per se, are excellent examples of this sort of subversion of indoctrinated common sense, and since such common sense remains within the external World, their designers arguably do a service by deliberately manipulating them.

We might tentatively conclude, therefore, that while at first it would APPEAR that the Designer’s relationship to Choice is contingent upon the Designer’s relationship to the Player, in fact the opposite seems to be the case. To some considerable extent, the Designer chooses the sort of relationship which he wishes to have with and to the Player. This falls under the purview of the Designer’s Vision. Whether the Designer is to function as a satirist, a master, a comrade, an investigator, or any number of available social roles, it is up to the Designer to CHOOSE which role to assume as both storyteller and Worldbuilder.

This brings us back to the final rung of the triangle: the relationship between Designer and Choice. While it was posited that the answer to the question of the use of the menu might be found in the Player, and while this position remains valid and essential, it would appear that we conclude our preparation for this quest on that rung of the triangle which excludes the Player: the Designer’s relationship to Choice.

It has been established that it is the Designer who chooses to determine the nature of the desired relationship to the Player. It follows logically from this conclusion that the nature of those sorts of choices which the Designer prescribes for the Player to make is contingent upon this arbitration; the Designer chooses how to “approach” the Player, and by that same token, often as a consequence, it is the Designer who chooses how the Player “ought to” play the game. This goes beyond merely an idealized projection of what an “infallible” Player would do, for it accounts also for every element of the Player’s experience and condition in making various “errors”; as Will Wright puts it, most of the time the player is failing, and the “job” of game designer is to make failure a rewarding experience (though “rewards” might include “punishments”, by extension).

Presented with so many choices, the Designer has no choice but to confront Choice Itself: the phenomenon of Choosing, specifically the phenomenon of Choosing Ethically.

We began our discussion with the question of when we ought to “give” the Player a Choice. Yet this word “give” may be misleading, and we must choose how we are to define it. When one “gives” someone else five dollars, for instance, one surrenders it TO that other person. On the other hand, when one “gives” another person an orgasm, this is not mutually exclusive with attaining an orgasm of one’s own. Ergo, we have not yet extricated ourselves totally from the intimate relationship (vulgar puns intended) between the Designer and the Player.

In the former category of giving – that is, wherein possession for one party is inversely proportional to possession by the other, as is “agency” as giving in this sense pertains to Choice – the danger morally is that of creating a parasitic/“codependent” relationship wherein either the Designer or the Player is limited absolutely by the other’s freedom. Yet not all relationships of this category are inevitably parasitic. If the Designer surrenders agency to the Player but manages thereby to acquire scientific knowledge from the Player’s choices, the relationship is mutualistic; if the Player loses agency but consequently enjoys the story during a linear, deterministic passage, the relationship is mutualistic. If the Designer gains nothing by removing a pointless fork in the road but this choice does not cost the Designer any time that the Designer does not wish to spend removing it, then the relationship is commensalistic, insofar as the Player benefits from the removal of the inconvenience and the Designer neither benefits nor suffers an inconvenience in removing it. At every stage of Development, we see the relationship between Designer and Player already developing alongside the game, so that the external World always represents some aspect of the virtual World, and the relationship between Designer and Player in both Worlds, as well as the relationship BETWEEN the two Worlds, may be assessed according to fairly standard biological and ethical sciences and various other lenses.

Let us turn, therefore, to the latter category of giving: the relationship wherein both Designer and Player acquire agency. Suppose that the Designer wishes to tell a story which follows the outline of classical Greek tragedy. While some writers might insist that Aristotle was not a game designer and that his formalism does not translate neatly into gaming, defenders of the ancient Greeks might contend that the structure is as valid as the spirit in which we harness it. As pertains to choice, the story may be truncated in a standard three-act or five-act play, wherein each act is concluded with the Player-Protagonist making one crucial choice which impacts later events, consequentialistically. Up until that point, the Player is presented with minor choices of no apparently substantial consequence, yet these serve to establish player agency within a fatalistic framework, so that not only will the player be prepared to make such choices at the end of the act, but also the pivotal decision may be obscured by the proliferation of inconsequential choices. Disguising enterprises of great pith and moment within an interactive World is undoubtedly advantageous to the “realism” of the work, though it does leave a lot to arbitration. Yet in this both the Designer AND the Player are arbitrary; the Designer chooses arbitrarily how to design the options from which the Player just as arbitrarily chooses. Suppose, now, that the Designer should recontextualize these arbitrary options within a scoring system, as previously suggested. The Designer might thereby determine this scoring system to be the TRUE arbiter in the development of the Story. While its consequences might not be presented immediately or even shortly, ultimately the Player’s performance is assessed and the Player’s experience defined by this rubric. The Designer now gains the freedom to make SEEMINGLY pivotal decisions secondary to the story without the Player’s conscious knowledge. Yet such a choice does not rob the Player of agency, and the Player ends up learning MORE over more stages of revelation as a result. In such a situation, both Player and Designer learn about a nuanced World which develops alongside their relationship, and the bulk of this development may be orchestrated within the confines of the Designer’s private thoughts and plans.

We conclude therefore that the question of when to create choices for the Player is neither one for which there are no right answers nor is it one for which there appears to be any one set of right answers. To decide how best to approach this choice, one has to evaluate one’s own relationship TO Choice: one’s Ethical Convictions, from whence emanates the desire to form a specific kind of relationship with the Player as a Category and a specific kind of relationship between the Player and Choice, as manifested both within the virtual World of the game and its relevance to the external World as an allegorical story. Yet in the absence of definite guidelines a lot falls under the purview of Vision and Social Obligation: a relationship between the Designer’s intent as an Artist and the Designer’s role as a producer operating within a specific marketplace. This relationship, as well, ought to be subject to ethical guidelines not unlike those which govern all other relationships we have so far discussed.

Thankfully, we have also established that the most subtle and rewarding games for all parties involved tend to be those which, while they are largely developed internally, within the Designer’s “own mind”, represent a relationship to the Player which is evolving and growing. Since the designer typically only approaches the task of Design as the abstract Category of Designer, and since he approaches players as the abstract Category of Player, such limitations are hardly pretentious or damning.

[({Dm.R.G.)}]

After After Virtue: an Unflinching Critique of MacIntyre.

After After Virtue: an Unflinching Critique of MacIntyre. 

(Written upon Completing my Second Reading of After Virtue, though not the Nineteenth Chapter, for Obvious Reasons.)

MacIntyre’s crystallized perfection cracks under the hammers and sickles of those Marxist apologists and Nietzschean dreamers whom MacIntyre so translucently despises, but the bulk of the crumbling deconstruction of After Virtue is performed by MacIntyre himself, once his devotion to his dreams of public accountability and his eager resistance to any sort of Nietzschean or Sartrean detachment from Public Life compel him to “defend” his work with a far duller instrument than he employed for its construction: a useful tool repurposed into a weak weapon.

Hardly, if even, three years following the publication of the First Edition in the United States MacIntyre caved into publishing an ominous Nineteenth Chapter wherein, for the first time over the course of his comedic history of moral thought, the playwright himself appears onstage as a caricature, breaking the fourth wall of historicity in order to address the hecklers in his audience. He hardly breaches the top of the third page of this addendum without reducing himself to a stock character at the turn of the leaf: “Morality which is no particular society’s morality is to be found nowhere,” quoth the Learned Scot of Notre Dame, continuing to cite some of his most iconic examples as one-liners: “There was the-morality-of-fourth-century-Athens, there were the-moralities-of-thirteenth-century-Western-Europe, there are numerous such moralities, but where ever was or is morality as such?”

Yet even in writing that previous sentence I am forced to confront the fact that MacIntyre is no longer a Scot, nor has he been one for about half a century, and while the shelter of American Academia might allow this “something of an intellectual nomad” (quite probably his own words) to escape the evils of ethnic profiling, his own ethical aims do not, though they DO allow him the privilege of “doing as the Romans do” within the safe confines of an Institution that is every bit as much a product of liberal Individualism as is Nietzsche, if not far more so.

MacIntyre’s central sin is a contradiction which Aristotle would most probably have laughed at. On the one hand, MacIntyre claims that morality is entirely topical, particular to groups and times, devoid of that universality which thinkers as diverse as Kant and Kierkegaard equated it with, and to be recognized within the context of a plurality. On the other hand, (perhaps not the shaking hand) MacIntyre rejects pluralism, especially with regards to Individuals as Rational Beings.

Yet how does a “nomad” manage to avoid becoming an Ubermensch? Clearly, the chief advantage to leading a nomadic lifestyle within the “fallen” modern world is in that one needs NOT simply to adapt to whatever culture one finds one’s self within, thereby sacrificing that romanticized “continuity of narrative” which comprises After Virtue’s most beautifully crafted chapter, but rather one can avail one’s self of a variety of perspectives and use Reason to decide among them which path to take. Constancy is not lost but gained in such a postmodern wilderness, though the temptation towards inconstancy remains, more tempting than ever before, though more threatening and fearful to the wary and experienced. In offering us the long-lost boon of moral objectivity, how does MacIntyre justify his own subjective biases, biases which by his own definitions MUST be intrinsic to his lifestyle as a transatlantic immigrant? (Perhaps I should note that, in this respect, I feel for him, but only as a character foil.) How does a seasoned nomad “settle down” into the mandala-shaped enclosure of the modern Academic city-state?

Apparently, it is by seeking to subvert the cornucopia of admittedly irreconcilable cultures (“admittedly” by the author’s own admission) and subcultures of the Present Age to the authoritarian rule of one Greek alpha male, severing all ties with competing intellectual traditions, (Camus is mentioned only once in After Virtue, as an unflattering example, and he does NOT appear within the Index of the Third Edition, twenty-six years later; Deleuze, Derrida, and Foucault do not appear at all.) and casually commenting, with boyish naiveté, that it is not virtue but bureaucracy which inspires despotism.

Yet who is better suited to contend with bureaucracy: Nietzsche or MacIntyre? One defines himself entirely by his role as does a chivalrous knight; the other uses medieval writs for wastepaper. Camus achieves more by “charm”, Jung more by “intuition”, and Kierkegaard more by sweeping generalizations than does the bookish, cozy Alasdair MacIntyre, at least with respect to not only appealing to the moral conscience but empowering it in persons. Deleuze, even in rejecting personhood as more than a product of multiplicities, is far more thorough in his investigation of cultures, mythology, and the effects of both upon the internal psyche (thanks in large part, we might presume, to his co-author Felix Guattari) than the Scottish-American historian who idealizes most the Greek and Scandinavian myths, (pity that he and Nietzsche never met to drink to that; intellectual history might have turned out differently) so sequestering himself to those cultures which were directly touched by Aristotelian meddling (at times: an Alexandrian Conquest tantamount at least to Manifest Destiny, though MacIntyre seems to prefer the former to the latter, having tried the fruits of both) that his prologue still lists “Chinese and Japanese” as though it were “also” an alien category to be distinguished from “English, Danish, Polish, Spanish, Portuguese, French, German, Italian, and Turkish”.

Is such myopia not OBVIOUSLY the consequence of a pluralism which rejects all universal claims? Is the infantile idolatry of Aristotle via Jesus not TRANSPARENTLY a reaction to one’s own temperamental insecurities? When the natural conformist, sworn enemy of the Nietzschean Superman, can no longer feel safe leading a nomadic lifestyle, for his home is devoid of patriotism and continuity, what better course of action for him remains but to take up refuge in an academic convent, ally himself with Catholicism out of utility, (especially to appear “consistent” to his students, thereby preserving status and security,) to preach Aristotle to a world tired of it, awaiting the return of the Saviour whom academia will recognize? If Nietzsche cannot be credited for anything else, is it not for arming Jung with the language with which to expose such neuroses?

Who among us has not sinned in this way? Men look to powerful figures like Aristotle or privileged princes like Christ to save them when they find themselves in new and hostile territory. Failing to adapt, we seek to adapt our environment to ourselves; failing to adapt our environment, we seek someone else to adapt it FOR us. One needn’t even consider Nietzsche’s primary project: the rejection of Socrates, without whom Aristotle would have amounted to little. The last line of After Virtue even seeks to place the author in the position of a cleric working towards the recognition of this Saviour; tired of waiting for Godot, the embodiment of hope whose “absence says more than his presence” (as does the wandering Taoist sage whom Watts loved and who surely inspired Nietzsche’s Ubermensch) MacIntyre resolves himself to waiting for St. Benedict. Yet apparently St. Benedict is already among us, and it is MacIntyre himself!! Yet this is just humble enough to stop short of Nietzschean narcissism, for MacIntyre is not herein analogous to Christ; that is Aristotle.

[({Dm.R.G.)}]

Musings: September 2, 2020.

I am not “pro” anything. Only crazy people define themselves (or others) PERSONALLY based upon their opinions about PUBLIC policy.

The film Parasite is not about “class”; it is about a man who stabs his benefactor in the heart with an axe over a question of smell. It is about psychosis, and if you sympathize with the protagonists by the end of the film, to the same extent as you pity them at the start of it, you are a danger to yourself and others. Simply put: no desperation excuses that level of depravity, and if you wish to help people, recognizing in your humility that you cannot save EVERYONE, then start with those you KNOW to be innocent, rather than those whose needs you deem arbitrarily to be greater.

It’s humiliating to admit, but that system which Karl Marx identified properly as the Devil in the nineteenth century has become at once our most deadly modern weapon and our last defence against utter savagery.

Dialectic Reasoning, especially in the Hegelian tradition, is not nearly as staunch and systematic as you might think; in many ways, it burnt our bridges with the archaic and inflated Aristotelian concept of logical “non-contradiction”. Hegel admits, in fact professes, that the more we analyze anything the more it is prone to internal contradictions and circular reasonings. He accepts this, and he urges us to take our thinking a step further in order to accommodate the fact.

Now contrast this with the contemporary attitude: once something no longer “makes sense”, people simply give up and act on what they already “know”. Who is the villain? Little Hegel is up in his study analyzing meticulously while the World burns. Is it his fault? No. He’s setting a fine example for us.

Now you might say: if “contradiction is good” (as per usual, boiling things down) and you are “pro-contradiction”, (while making things personal) then why are you calling US out on OUR contradictions? Simply put: it’s because contradiction isn’t the end. Hegel’s methods are supposed to resolve at least SOME contradictions which thought produces. In many instances, the simplest rational explanation for contradictions in human behaviour is “stupidity and moral feebleness”. It is BECAUSE most people do not practice Dialectical Reasoning that our society is so conflicted, as well as its constituents. Hegel helps us to understand ourselves. You are welcome.

How does one support immigration reform whilst challenging colonialism? The humanistic arguments are the same for both: that the simple fact of an established way of life does not preclude either the possibility nor the imperative for a new way of life, one intended to accommodate the needs of outsiders.

So: why should one group of immigrants restrict others? Simply put, needs are not enough. In order for a system to work, it must follow a code of ethics, usually one formalized in Law. The English colonists were not “illegal immigrants”, since no such formal, federal Law existed upon their arrival, except perhaps in England.

How ironic, therefore, that in appealing to their descendants, I found myself contending with the New Left!! To the liberals, you see, the matter of accommodating outsiders is a joke. There are no “others” to the new liberal; there are only white people, black people, and brown people, and we like white people least.

This is what the argument has degenerated into: fuck the buffalo. They were here first. Fuck science. They were here first. Fuck Law. They were here first. Fuck human rights, that all-too-recent European invention which silenced the archaic African invention we call slavery. They were here first.

May I append this? Fuck history, that means by which we can follow the development of ideas without subordinating ourselves to primitive myths and proto-Fascist ideologies. They were here first.

Don’t get me wrong: I love mythology as much as the next guy. I just hate people who take it literally, and there is no greater modern myth than the concept of Natural Human Rights. Everything which we take for granted as a Society is the product of that “White Man’s Burden” which seems so embarrassing in context. It is simply the nature of progress that one always looks back with shame, since it’s impossible to be constantly improving without always one-upping what came before.

[({DM.R.G.)}]

The Adept Time Traveler: a Thought Experiment.

If man were to pioneer time travel in the same manner as he did for air travel and space travel, and were this innovation commercialized in like fashion, that the ordinary man of ordinary income might afford to make journeys back in time leisurely, it would become imperative for him to develop, alongside this innovation, new forms of sensitivity training, that he would know, in entering into an “archaic” society, to treat it as his own, so as not to disturb the natural progression of historical events, just as a certain respect for foreign cultures is essential to one’s National Security. He would have to shed all of the pretense in style, behaviour, and demeanour which he will have taken for granted in his Present Age, adopting the linguistic, social, and personal customs of whichever time and place he will have made his vacation destination.

Though the concept of commercial time travel is farfetched “even by” our “advanced, modern” standards, this thought experiment nonetheless presents us with an outlook upon history which is thoroughly rational, sensible, and sophisticated, for we are invited to suspend our prejudicial preferences for the Present Age, truly internalizing the notion that what is Evil Now might have been Good Then, and what APPEARS Good Now may “prove” to be Evil later.

Were such an innovation to transpire, undoubtedly the MOST qualified time travelers would be the most nostalgic Souls, those readers of old, dusty tomes who struggle to discern the vernacular of Shakespeare from the modern meme. The classical Man of Letters would have relatively less difficulty in immersing himself within the customs of the Past than the millennial radical, simply because he already inhabits history to a wider and more profound extent, owing to his literacy, which the latter enviously dismisses as laughably “archaic”. This elucidates a central problem in our very recent episteme of history: that it seldom regards any time period ON ITS OWN TERMS, except insofar as the trends of a present, protected culture persist in the blatant defiance of “progress”.

Were such a technological breakthrough to transpire, we should not be surprised to find that our Present Age, in its infernal infatuation with itself and its own self-professed progressive righteousness, would fall swiftly into bad repute by future scholars as having been one of the Darkest Ages of Human History.

[({Dm.R.G.)}]

After After Virtue:

For a scholar who professes a belief in that an innovative society is the most effective one, Alasdair MacIntyre seems extremely resistant to innovation in the defence of his own work, standing by his breakthrough publication After Virtue for nearly forty years. While he contends that any credible counterargument would have already been presented to him by now, there is nothing within his ethic which precludes the possibility of being sheltered from the Truth.

The simplest means by which to prove him wrong is to describe Life in three parts: fitting in, standing up, and standing out. We start our metamorphosis by attempting to “fit into” an established social order, in spite of personal moral scruples, hoping that by doing so successfully we might appropriate an appreciation for its norms, thereby bridging the gap between the inner and the outer.

Yet what we find is that social life is intrinsically Absurd, so all such ventures are Sisyphean. In the process, we learn one of Life’s few known constants: that we must “Stand Up for Ourselves”. It is by acquiring this virtue, upon which all other virtues are contingent, that we are able to retain our dignity when we inevitably fail.

The Third Stage is a reintegration, but not, as in the case of a bildungsroman, into a Society, but rather into Ourselves. Recognizing that we shall never “fit in”, yet that we cannot escape, we learn to exist within a Society which contradicts us while retaining our dignity in the contradiction. It is because the only constancy available to us is in this act of standing up on behalf of ourselves and our own views that the Individual comes to take precedence over all illusions of status and social value. Because courage is always necessary, the conscience becomes a Universal.

The examples corroborating this narrative are so multifarious that I might fill an entire book of my own with them. Suffice it to say that, of the few men whom MacIntyre references who articulated this intuition, his scholarship misrepresents them. Nietzsche and Kierkegaard, in spite of doctrinal differences, arrive at one and the same conclusion. Yet in spite of citing many of Nietzsche’s own favourite sources MacIntyre dismisses Nietzsche, and MacIntyre’s philosophy might be considered symptomatic of Nietzsche’s first stage with very brief intimations of the second. Regarding Kierkegaard, conversely, the kinship MacIntyre seems to feel with his fellow Christian is overshadowed by a dubious negligence of the finer points of Kierkegaard’s work, especially regarding the Knight of Pure Faith and the inevitable disparity between internal and external life.

Ultimately, MacIntyre’s philosophy is a doctrine of conformism. While he is effective in disarming certain forms of conformism, exposing them for what they are, such as political “protest”, (which is, after all, no more than an attempt to adapt the external to the internal) he also propagates and reinforces various modes of conformity which are even more disastrous, simply because adapting the internal to the external is even more barbaric and demoralizing. (Even George Lucas, another great modern student of mythology, intuits the authoritarian consequences of forcing people to agree in spite of partisan reservations.) Both responses are failures to live with the inherent contradiction between the internal and the external worlds, which Albert Camus called the Absurd and which Carl Jung established as the imperative for psychological individuation.

MacIntyre’s scholarship is fundamentally typical; he forgets Camus in favour of Sartre, just as he forgets Jung in favour of Freud, shamelessly identifying each individual only as representative of his respective group, for that reduction lies at the heart of MacIntyre’s sociology. In demonstrating an unwavering allegiance to the Analytical School, professing its blessings openly, he does not avail himself of the blessings of its opposing school(s), and it comes as small surprise that no convincing antitheses to his admittedly partisan presumptions have yet reached his desk.

 

[({Dm.R.G.)}]

The Four Stages of the MacIntyre Student:

There have been four stages in the development of my opinion of Alasdair MacIntyre. Perhaps some preliminary stages might be inferred, but they are secondary to the discussion. These four stages, essentially three stages which are then synthesized into one, are all unique responses to some of his condescending tendencies, and each grows logically out of its predecessor, as a counterargument.

1.    MacIntyre the Impersonal Ideologue, or the Idea Person.

What one notices most peculiarly about MacIntyre is his tendency to put down matters of personal preference and taste. This immediately creates our first impression of him: that of the Idea Man who is NOT a conventional “people person”. It is, of course, possible to be BOTH Idea Person AND People Person, yet this balance is seldom achieved, and MacIntyre drifts to the former extreme. When we think of “people people”, we are accustomed to agreeable socialites who might very well harbor deep-seated feelings of cynicism and insecurity, but who routinely gloss over those feelings with charm and tact. These people “love people” and love to be around people, quite openly and shamelessly, drawing energy and wisdom from interaction. They busy themselves with the careful study of human motivations, often manipulating social situations in their own favour or the interest of their friends. They put ample thought into their appearance and presentation, leaving little to chance in the observation of fashion, though they do their level best to hide their own efforts and to appear “naturally” and “relatably” appealing.

By contrast, the Idea Person tends to be the outcast and the critic. More common among introverts than extraverts, the Idea Person usually appears on Life’s Stage (if not only behind the scenes) as a stubborn, cloistered intellectual who swiftly tires of public life and wishes to make the World conform to a conceptual scheme which he alone deems Noble.

MacIntyre might not be a villain in a film from the Red Scare, but his tendency to criticize the human will does not portray him as a party animal either. Meticulous and efficient, he is the “sort of guy you go to” when you need a job done right, but he’s “not the sort of guy” you invite to a party or to have a drink. He’s like a robot: efficient but impersonal, processing data with self-assured detachment, reacting to every hint of personal bias as an Operating System responds to a bug or virus.

This is the first impression, and it is very immature. Yet what follows becomes even more nebulous and problematic.

2. MacIntyre the Apologist for Conformity.

The Second Impression one receives of MacIntyre is that of the Noble Conformist. It becomes clear, as one begins to acquire a feeling for MacIntyre’s humour, that the man LIKES people, after all; his aversion to individuality is not, in fact, misanthropy. MacIntyre sees the Good in People and wants what both he AND they consider to be Best for themselves and for each other; he simply is possessed of the unyielding notion that such goods can only be acquired by avenue of the Social System. Everything which we enjoy as Individuals emanates, to his mind, from what we have achieved in Groups. Conformism is not a curse but Grace Itself, for when people can be persuaded to get along, good things happen, and evil arises only from one of two sources: the absence of Social Order and the perversion of Social Order by its departure from the Traditions of Previous Social Orders. On that note, an Individual can rob himself and his fellows of an opportunity for the Good Life by deviating from those Traditions, irrespective of whether or not the Society as a Whole commits the same mistake. Conformism is not an end in and of itself, least of all a source of intrinsic comfort for the outgoing hedonist, but rather a means towards a teleological end: the possibility for Individuals to coexist harmoniously and, therefore, nobly and happily. This implies that, in order for Human Life to be Humane, certain inhuman instincts which, as Camus had put it, even human beings secrete, must be suppressed if not eradicated completely. The man consumed by his own jealousy can have no genuine, trusting interpersonal relationships; the woman who gambles compulsively can enjoy no financial security. The simple fact that we exist does not render us good people; we require the support of our fellows in order to prosper, and this support is a human need, perhaps the only universal one. MacIntyre is no longer just “the guy you go to” when you need a JOB done; he’s your advocate whenever you tire of the World. All about us, we are surrounded by drug pushers, libertines, liars, manipulators, bullies, and traitors; MacIntyre is the sort of friend you turn to when you need to KNOW that they are wrong and you want proof to expose them. Conformism gets a bad reputation, though it is the perfect adversary to chaotic, self-serving evil; MacIntyre redeems conformism, stripping it of its Fascist associations and turning it towards Universal Good. Yet this evolved conception of the man is even more dangerous than the primary insult.

3. MacIntyre the Bully.

The moment of disillusion comes in when MacIntyre’s condescension apparently “goes too far”. This moment may come for different readers and listeners at different times; for some, it may never come at all. At this stage, whether it is under the sobriety and lucidity of the University classroom or the intoxication of late-night, drunken reading, MacIntyre is unmasked as an apparent bully. One gets the surreal impression of a Scot who attends the sidelines of a rugby game and boos the players for every fumble. This man does not simply partake in condescension towards individuals; he ENJOYS it. His drive to conform and to belong is not simply a matter of principle and intellectual stance, but a profound personal bias, the likes of which he projects upon the perpetual scapegoat and easy target of the outcast. This political caricature of MacIntyre NEEDS appraisal to fuel his temperamentally insecure ego; devoid of genuine conscience and self-knowledge, he surrenders both in favour of the pack, and the perpetuation of his feeble ego must by necessity thrive off the denigration of all natural deviants. This observation is, of course, overwhelmed by the extreme attention to detail with which he covers his tracks, yet the simple appearance of this specter in the night does not invalidate but consolidates the conclusions. MacIntyre is not a people person but a pathological narcissist, and his contempt for other narcissists is purely competitive in nature. His conformism is only on your side so long as the mob he represents does not see “through” you, and it is every bit as much informed by subjective bias and loneliness as is the fault he finds within you, to the jeers of his peers.

This caricature, while it is absurd and insulting, completes the preliminary picture this reader envisages of MacIntyre the Man, and it is crucial towards the final incarnation of his image, owing both to its verifiable AND its radically biased and subjective, projected contents. The reason for this is that one can identify very similar fears and projections in the objective assay of him.

4. MacIntyre the Champion and Enabler.

The Final Image of MacIntyre is a whole greater than the sum of its parts, which is of course an ironic thing to say, since he at once lags behind and surpasses his hero Aristotle, his savior and his downfall. One must assume that MacIntyre thinks highly of Aristotle, even to the point that a son defends his Father. Were a passionate student of Nietzsche to accuse Aristotle of prejudicial bullying, we ought not to be surprised to find MacIntyre acting in Aristotle’s defence, both from the Witness Stand and as his Legal Counsel. Were MacIntyre himself accused of the same crime, he is likely to defend himself just as piously, for the piety of his Ideals and his belief in them is authentic, and such Ideals do not sit well with the suggestion that exercises of authority are arbitrary at heart.

Ultimately, MacIntyre is revealed, even in his eighties, to be a child. An introvert by nature, he must be assumed to have endured some “fair share” of bullying at the hands of extraverts. Not one to fight back without a strong arm, he is likely to have internalized the abuse, disowning his own virtue and projecting it upon the Extraverted World.

Aristotle became his extraverted role model. A sort of monolithic Father Figure, Aristotle, as well as all Platonic conceptions of him after Plato, has come to embody the archetypal extravert; even Jung used him as his prime example in the coinage of the dichotomy of types. To MacIntyre, Aristotle is the Platonic Ideal (in fact: an introvert’s projection) of what an outgoing, social man SHOULD be. Aristotle’s Athens, as it was, as Aristotle wanted it to be, as it had been and as Aristotle has presumed it to have been, is a sort of Heaven on Earth for introverted intellectuals such as MacIntyre. There, the philosopher is no longer left out, cast in an inferior position; in that Athens of Virtue, young MacIntyre is allowed to thrive, and all bullying is simply the society’s contempt for those wayward, abusive deviants whom MacIntyre still resents in secrecy. MacIntyre’s thesis is that those deviants have come to power and turned the language of Great Men like Aristotle and Christ to their own purposes. If Aristotle is ever to be redeemed in the public eye, it will be only by matching their perverse transgression (the memory of the abuses) with an equal and opposite Authority (the projection upon idols).

MacIntyre’s lifelong academic career allows him to inhabit a minute vestige of that lost, Atlantean world which Aristotle had inhabited, either in flesh or thought. MacIntyre is the introverted child who sought, unsuccessfully, through no fault of his own save sheer naïveté, to earn the approval of his bullies, who had come to comprise a ruling class. Failing to win their support whilst feeling inwardly entitled to it, (rightfully, for it was only HIS virtue to begin with that he had projected upon his “superiors”) MacIntyre came to the only natural conclusion: that Aristotle, the Good Man, had fallen.

Why Aristotle? Only because Aristotle IS what extraverts OUGHT to be. His approval represents a harmonious synthesis between people of his kind and people like MacIntyre. He is that mythological guide who leads MacIntyre through Hades. Conversely, MacIntyre’s spiritual role model, Christ, represents the Introvert’s Homecoming. It is quite obvious that Academia, amounting to little more than a slice of old Athens, cannot welcome Christ as the Church does; hence MacIntyre’s University lectures and texts tend towards Aristotle whilst his musings in the Catholic Church concern the rejection of Christ. Just as Aristotle was cast out, so was Jesus of Nazareth. The former represents that Authority which the introvert envies when he finds it in extraverts, though he finds it only because he wishes to, desperately. Yet Jesus is simply the other side: if Aristotle represents all that extraverts ought to be as leaders in secular life, Jesus represents all which MacIntyre aspires to be as a leader in Spiritual Life. The synthesis of Athens and Jerusalem, though easy enough for the iconoclastic, Aquarian Shestov, remains a pipe dream for the dour Capricorn named Alasdair MacIntyre, and it is the very fantastic nature of this dream which renders it an escape.

Inwardly yet transparently, MacIntyre cherishes the thought that Aristotle COULD, in some Platonic Heaven, share wine with Jesus, despite those doctrinal differences which, in the Eyes of an Omniscient Logos, amount to little more than differences of personality and temperament. On Earth, these doctrinal differences are absolutely crucial, for it is only by observing their strictures and doing as the Romans (or, in this case, the Greeks and Judeo-Christians) do that one manages to lead a life worthy of Salvation. Alasdair MacIntyre’s rationalism is nothing more than an epic poem on behalf of Introversion: the Quest for Acceptance into Society.

Yet this Society must always, by its nature, fail, since we know from Nietzsche (though MacIntyre continues to deny this with contempt and grudging respect) that the Strong are in fact totally arbitrary in their rulemaking. Aristotle’s immunity to rules is not simply the exaltation of excellence, but rather the exercise of will. Aristotle was never himself an Aristotelian, and those who follow in his footsteps can never amount to him in terms of charisma. MacIntyre knows this, but he must recognize, upon some level, that Aristotle’s path is not for MacIntyre to walk. Aristotle was simply a philosophical bully: Plato’s problem pupil.  Deep down, MacIntyre must recognize that he can never BECOME Aristotle, because Aristotle is NOT the Great Man he was once remembered to be. The idols which extraverted leaders erect are often simply in their own image, and the victims of their followers tend towards their idolatry. Only once every thousand years or so does an introvert come along like Jesus or Nietzsche to decimate the idols. Most introverts, unfortunately, bow low before the ghosts of their childhood oppressors, becoming spokespeople for the tyranny of the Strong, perpetually disappointed by the Platonic Ideal once put into practice.

To what can we ascribe this tragedy? Only to this: that the men who fashion the idols have none of their own. Aristotle was a bully and a teacher of bullies; his teachers were the True Idealists, as in MacIntyre, and because most people enable bullies, “Society” is always broken. MacIntyre cannot recreate it, since only aggression forges civilizations. Do not be misled by the Rationalism Alasdair MacIntyre has gleaned from the Analytic Philosophical School. Yes: it can be proven that Aristotle has fallen. Yet why him? Even MacIntyre himself admits that the choice of idol is arbitrary, and his defence, though resounding and poignant, is not altogether convincing by the same stringent standards which MacIntyre assigns for himself and all of Humankind. Aristotle himself will never live up to MacIntyre’s standards, simply because that virtue which Aristotle ostensibly possessed and professed was only ever projected upon him by the Platonic minds of sensitive introverts. He is to MacIntyre as the Pharaoh was to Yugi Mutou or, worse yet, as Heisenberg was to Walter White.

[({R.G.)}]

Reaffirmations for Summer 2020: Idealism and Distress.

You know: when you talk about Idealism, you’re talking about just how great and awesome Life would be if only everyone did just a little more. A little here, a little there. To be a little bit more open, or a little bit more kind. To work a little harder, so that those who have to pick up lots of slack enjoy a life that’s easier by far than what they would have had to do instead. Usually, the Idealists are the sorts of people who WOULD do all these things, and they often have to push themselves so much each day to make things work for those around them. Since the Idealists often excel in these qualities, it is predictable that those who fall behind might grow envious of them, and if those shortcomings might be rationalized and recast as virtues, the Idealist might even be portrayed as intrusive. Yet one conceit which is entirely beyond justification is the accusation of self-interest. It may be true that such a change as the Idealist envisions would be of inestimable relief to one’s Self, which stands to benefit by a far greater margin than those who disadvantage themselves ever so slightly. Yet the simple fact that their disadvantage is so minor and the Idealist’s advantage is so great is precisely what renders the transformation Just, for such a set of affairs may only come to pass when, up until this time, the Idealist has had to shoulder an unreasonable burden on behalf of the average person.

[({Dm.A.A.)}]

The Damsel in Distress is one of the oldest archetypes for a reason, since she represents the birth of the boy’s moral development. She presents him with a challenge: given power over a helpless embodiment of femininity, one doubling as sex object and mother figure, he has the choice whether to inflict harm or healing. While boys who grow up on hero myths might easily inherit a feeling of entitlement to those whom they rescue, the deal works, since the rescue is executed and the greater evil assuaged by the Hero, however self-interested the intent.

The simple act of choosing heroism over exploitation is an exercise in self-restraint, courage, and conviction, all invariably heroic qualities, not because they cannot be corrupted towards ill ends, but rather because higher goals cannot be attained without them, and these higher goals are not mere pretensions but rather expressions of the longings of the most piteous and helpless victims.

The Damsel in Distress is not disgraced by her powerlessness, since most often it is the fate of those possessing a more mysterious power: that of vulnerability and innocence. The Damsel in Distress redeems the Hero’s cumbersome and heavy-handed masculinity, but only by being totally vulnerable to him, grotesque though this predicament might appear, and rightfully so, for it was produced by the exploitative means of her villainous captor. The very distinction between the role of captor and liberator, by one’s own choice, establishes the boy as a man, superior in dignity.

At that point, though, the challenge falls to the maiden, for she undergoes the same sort of transformation. If she feels no debt of gratitude towards him, or, feeling it, she acts against it, she has remained a girl, a child of the Universe, entitled to her own innocence but not much else. Her rescuer is like a Father Figure to her, whose love must be unconditional by default, so that she owes him nothing in return, and if he should argue otherwise, he becomes a tyrannical abuser, no better than her ogrish captors.

In this context, it is no surprise if she should seek the company of her fellow girls, who coddle her and assure her that, since she was innocent to begin with, she owes her savior nothing, for he was simply preserving the Natural Order of Things, and, if his intent were self-interested, then she ought to be commended for deceiving him towards beneficent means, and the test of his character will ultimately lie in his absence of personal passion, regardless of whether such a feeling of entitlement would precede or follow the Heroic Act. 

Yet clearly such a matriarchal conceit does not live up to the ideals of any Goddess of Justice, for it forces all men to renounce their own bodies completely in service to weak women, feeble and restrained not only of body but of Heart and Mind, the latter by their own Nature and Volition, disincentivizing many men and producing not only more villains but, among women, a greater tolerance for villainous, barbaric “men” without “creepy” ulterior agendas.

It should be obvious, however, that such agendas represent not so much a hidden evil but a biological longing for moral order, one which redeems the human body as a Source of Moral Authority. The woman who rewards her Saviour with Love becomes akin to a Goddess in her own right, whereas the other remains a temptress and a child. Just as the boy who takes advantage of the Damsel fails a test of Manhood, the girl who does not honour his sacrifice fails to mature into a Woman. Their reciprocity is dependent upon the trust the boy places in the girl by setting her free, as well as the respect she shows for his hopes for the two of them.

In Actual Life, these sorts of relationships govern all good business, for while we all must fend for ourselves we are tasked with doing so by noble means, noble means which, since they are essential, cannot be separated from practical life by being sublimated as ascetic martyrdom. In business, we all want something, but we must be willing to risk loss in order to empower our associates, that they might reciprocate. 

This risk is no more an invitation to say “No” than the bondage of the Damsel in Distress is a form of consent. Disappointments in business are not the results of lofty expectations but of treacheries; the lofty expectation is, in fact, the End in and of Itself, the Goal without the pursuit of which nothing good gets done. 

When I throw the ball to you, you do not call me arrogant for expecting you to catch it, and though I part with it willingly, it is not with the expectation that you might do with it whatever you will, but rather that you will serve the team as I intended for you to. So it is in Love, and this is but one function of the Hero’s encounter with the Damsel in Distress. These stories are not merely the sublimation of perverse heterosexual fantasies; they are tests in refinement for deep-seated and inextricable biological impulses. Maturity for the Man lies in the boy’s ability to set the girl free; maturity for the Woman lies in her ability to reward him. All else is simply conjecture; the moment that we begin to deconstruct the intent of the Hero,

“… the native hue of resolution

Is sicklied o’er with the pale cast of thought;

And enterprises of great pith and moment,

With this regard, their currents turn awry,

And lose the name of action.”

The Good Life always comes at a price.

[({Dm.A.A.)}]