Equality is a term we all hear bandied around with great frequency these days; a term that has been the catch-phrase of all those who fight for progress since the Bastille rang with the sound of "Liberté, égalité, fraternité!" Certainly, to be going against equality in any form is a great taboo, a line none dare cross. Yet what on earth does the term actually mean? The more the word is used as a means of making one's position unassailable, the more ambiguous the word becomes.
Equality is often claimed to mean the same opportunity for everyone. This definition, however, can be taken in two very different ways: with the emphasis on 'opportunity', this definition can be read as stating that all should have the same opportunity to pursue whatever field houses their interests. With the emphasis on 'same', however, this means that all must have the same, i.e. qualitatively identical, opportunity. This is a far more radical claim, and, indeed, a dangerous claim. Sadly, this is what the term 'equality' is usually used to denote.
Why is this bad? Let me give a practical example or so, before returning to the realm of abstraction. It is quite common today to hear the claim that everyone's opinion is equally valid. Now, here we have that dangerous word 'equal' again. What people mean when they make this claim is that everyone's opinion (usually theirs specifically) is just as important, and should be given just as much weight, as any other opinion you might come across. But consider this (purely fictional) scenario. In a dilemma about whether a particular car is a safe buy, I ask two of my friends to inspect it with me. Now, one of my friends is a mechanic, the other an English teacher. In regards to the current shape of the car I'm considering buying, I'm obviously going to give more weight to my mechanic friend than to my friend who is an English teacher (perhaps I will trust the opinion of the latter more with regards to colour, or size of the car, or something of the like). The point here is that one opinion on a given question is not necessarily as good as the next, because it may be a more informed opinion.
A second example (really an extension of the first) is found in preschool. I don't attend preschool, nor in fact have I ever attended it, but it is a stereotype that in preschool, kindergarten, and the like it is quite common to be told that 'there is no right answer', because 'everyone's opinion is equally valid'. No right answer?? Of course there's a right answer, for God's sake! Not necessarily in every case, but in the area of education people often learn facts, and with facts there is a right answer. So, while it is true that everyone's suggestion is equally valid, in the sense that everyone has the right to come up with an answer to a given question, some of those suggestions are just plain wrong. And that's not a bad thing. In fact it's a good thing. If nothing is ever wrong, there's no point in improving; a challenge only exists when one might not succeed.
Back to the realm of abstraction. What this radical idea of equality does is it mistakenly takes equality to mean everyone must have the same situation. Yes, this can be used to pull up those who are, in a sense, and for lack of a better phrase, lagging behind. This can also be used to pull down those who are ahead, however, and it is here that danger lies. As the Irish writer Iris Murdoch said, "The cry of equality pulls everyone down". Why? Because we feel it 'unfair' that someone else should have something that in our position we can't or don't have, for whatever reason, and so we pull them down, back into line.
Equality is about giving everybody the freedom to pursue what is good, and what is of interest to them in their own way. What is right for one situation is not for another. Now, I'm not talking about anything in particular, but we can see parallels in the fight over 'marriage equality'. The word 'equality' doesn't factor here, because same-sex unions are already equal under the law. The only problem is, it's not called marriage. This is akin to me and my friend who is Filipino being equal under the law, but me not being Filipino. A controversial example, perhaps, but where's the fun in placid examples?
So this is equality. Those who are supposed to have 'natural talent', whatever that means, are judged more harshly because 'it's easier for them'. Those who struggle are judged more leniently, because 'it's harder for them, poor dears'. That is not equality, not in a true sense. Unfortunately that is equality in the sense we have it today. Those who are good must suffer, and those who are not are exalted.
Orwell was right: "All animals are equal, but some are more equal than others."
Saturday, 7 September 2013
Sunday, 18 August 2013
Grace: Poetry in Motion
There is perhaps nothing more pleasant than attending a Mass wherein the servers and the priest are all in complete control of the situation, so to speak; they move with grace and poise, and every movement seems to take no effort. Poetry in motion. I'm sure we've all heard the phrase at some point, in praise of someone's ability to dance, run, walk, do the boogie, whatever. Although probably not the last one. Anyway, the question is, what do we mean by this phrase? Exactly how is it like poetry in motion when we see someone move gracefully? And why is it that in an attempt to be solemn or graceful, some servers fall the way of being ostentatious?
The answer to this is quite simple; the analogy is drawn because the same factors which come together to make good poetry are necessary for physical grace. What are these factors? Good poetry requires good form, clear, crisp expressions, and, perhaps above all, economy of expression. To have possession of these results in grace and poise; to lack them, sloppiness or ostentation. Let me take each factor in turn.
First, then, to good form. I should fend off a possible literary criticism here, by making the point that poetry requires good form whether it be free verse or not; in the case of free verse, the form is simply imposed by the author himself. What this means in the physical realm is quite obvious, and I'm sure needs little real explanation; in the case of dancing, for example, it is obvious that good form means adherence to certain principles of movement. The same applies, however, to such things as serving at Mass. One must stand, as in general life, with one's head erect, eyes forward. One's hands should be held in front of the chest, not pointing forward as if one is about to dive into a pool, but held naturally.
Clear, crisp expression. In poetry, this is obvious: phrases can't be hackneyed, they can't be rambling, nor can they be too elusive. In serving, what this means is that all actions should be done with a purpose; if there is no purpose, there should be no movement. When you walk, walk with a clear, crisp step towards your goal. When you genuflect, genuflect as if you know you ought to, not because you're stumbling to follow the person next to you.
Poetry, however, can often be ruined by a certain pretentiousness, that is, an overly exaggerated expression or a desire to show off by saying too much. There is perhaps no greater mistake than to exaggerate a movement. In everyday life, to walk or talk in an exaggerated manner is ridiculous, and in no way ever looks good. What makes good poetry good poetry is economy of expression. No more is said than needs to be in order to get the idea across. Likewise, in the physical realm, grace is acquired through economy of motion. No action should involve more movement than its purpose requires. No action should be exaggerated for the purpose of 'showing off', nor should any action be exaggerated for the purpose of 'being perfect'. In serving, a genuflexion should be quiet, and neither fast nor slow, but simply brief. It shouldn't take an hour to get from one end of the sanctuary to another; the movement should be calm, controlled, and by no means fast, certainly, but nor should it be trying to keep pace with a snail: it should be brisk and unassuming.
Grace is economy of motion, minimal effort, understatedness. If you notice an action because it's sloppy, there is no care for the action. If you notice it because it's ostentatious, the action has lost its purpose, and become the end in itself. Good serving (and indeed, all gentlemanly acts) should be unnoticed: bad serving is noticed.
The answer to this is quite simple; the analogy is drawn because the same factors which come together to make good poetry are necessary for physical grace. What are these factors? Good poetry requires good form, clear, crisp expressions, and, perhaps above all, economy of expression. To have possession of these results in grace and poise; to lack them, sloppiness or ostentation. Let me take each factor in turn.
First, then, to good form. I should fend off a possible literary criticism here, by making the point that poetry requires good form whether it be free verse or not; in the case of free verse, the form is simply imposed by the author himself. What this means in the physical realm is quite obvious, and I'm sure needs little real explanation; in the case of dancing, for example, it is obvious that good form means adherence to certain principles of movement. The same applies, however, to such things as serving at Mass. One must stand, as in general life, with one's head erect, eyes forward. One's hands should be held in front of the chest, not pointing forward as if one is about to dive into a pool, but held naturally.
Clear, crisp expression. In poetry, this is obvious: phrases can't be hackneyed, they can't be rambling, nor can they be too elusive. In serving, what this means is that all actions should be done with a purpose; if there is no purpose, there should be no movement. When you walk, walk with a clear, crisp step towards your goal. When you genuflect, genuflect as if you know you ought to, not because you're stumbling to follow the person next to you.
Poetry, however, can often be ruined by a certain pretentiousness, that is, an overly exaggerated expression or a desire to show off by saying too much. There is perhaps no greater mistake than to exaggerate a movement. In everyday life, to walk or talk in an exaggerated manner is ridiculous, and in no way ever looks good. What makes good poetry good poetry is economy of expression. No more is said than needs to be in order to get the idea across. Likewise, in the physical realm, grace is acquired through economy of motion. No action should involve more movement than its purpose requires. No action should be exaggerated for the purpose of 'showing off', nor should any action be exaggerated for the purpose of 'being perfect'. In serving, a genuflexion should be quiet, and neither fast nor slow, but simply brief. It shouldn't take an hour to get from one end of the sanctuary to another; the movement should be calm, controlled, and by no means fast, certainly, but nor should it be trying to keep pace with a snail: it should be brisk and unassuming.
Grace is economy of motion, minimal effort, understatedness. If you notice an action because it's sloppy, there is no care for the action. If you notice it because it's ostentatious, the action has lost its purpose, and become the end in itself. Good serving (and indeed, all gentlemanly acts) should be unnoticed: bad serving is noticed.
Sunday, 11 August 2013
Compartmentalisation
200 - 101 = 199. Absurd? I should hope so. Unfortunately this is not the case as often as I should like it to be. Let me explain: I tutor in various subjects, mathematics being one of them, and recently a parent came in and started complaining that one of her son's maths problems had been marked wrong, when it was correct. The problem was that given at the start of this post: we tried to show her how the correct answer ought to be 99, but she just wouldn't see it. So what was the problem?
Naturally, one may argue that the processes of vertical subtraction are frequently confusing and defy understanding, but even if that is the case, it should be plain to anyone that two hundred minus one hundred and on could not possibly equal one hundred and ninety-nine. So why couldn't this mother see it? The answer is compartmentalisation. Compartmentalisation is the process of separating everything into small, neat, distinct and independent compartments. At first this seems like wisdom, and indeed it is often useful to break things down into manageable pieces, but unless one is careful, something can be lost; the big picture. The mother could not see her answer was wrong, because she had lost sight of the actual problem as a result of her focusing on the minutiae of processing.
Again, and this will be familiar to anyone who knows me, the separation of music and mathematics is both unprecedented historically, and untenable intellectually. Until the nineteenth century music and mathematics were not just considered to be connected but music was a branch of mathematics That's right, people studied music as mathematics. Yet today music and mathematics are considered polar opposites, the one being purely subjective, all about 'how you feel,' and the other purely objective, cold, hard, scientific. Neither of these views is correct; music is not purely subjective, nor is it only about how you feel; mathematics is not just about following rules and applying stale formulae. Rather, both have their spark of individuality, creativity, and passion; both have a rigid underlying structure which compliments, rather than hinders, the creativity and beauty of what is produced. Both are seeking to represent patterns and thereby beauty, and they do it in the same way.
Today, as a result of compartmentalisation, we believe that if something is creative, it can't be 'restricted' by rules. If something is 'scientific' (whatever that means) it can't be creative, but must only follow rules. If something is 'arty,' it must ex hypothesi defy clear definition, analysis, or understanding. If something is practical, it is purely practical, and has no place for expression. The high-school musician says of the maths whizz, "Oh, that's alright for him, I just don't have a mathematical brain," while his counterpart says of him, "Oh, I just don't have the creativity to be a musician."
The two should not be opposed, and yet they are; and something as been lost thereby. Don't believe me? Beethoven loved to take geometric figures and twist them, raise or lower them, taking certain points on the figures as musical notes, and write entire motifs that way. It was a frequent habit of Baroque composers to end a piece of music about God or Religion with three semi-breves, which when read is the mathematical symbol for eternity: ... These composers recognised that beauty can be found withing order, and that knowing something about the underlying structure helps, not obstructs, one's ability to create the sublime.
Compartmentalisation is a dangerous habit, for it enables you to see only one side of a coin, when the other is drastically important. I could go on, but the point is made. Dare to see the big picture; it can be daunting, it can seem terrifying, but too much is lost if you close your eyes.If everything is broken off into separate, unconnected pieces, how are we supposed to draw from our past experiences? We must see the big picture, and see the connections between everything we have seen, and what we see now.
Naturally, one may argue that the processes of vertical subtraction are frequently confusing and defy understanding, but even if that is the case, it should be plain to anyone that two hundred minus one hundred and on could not possibly equal one hundred and ninety-nine. So why couldn't this mother see it? The answer is compartmentalisation. Compartmentalisation is the process of separating everything into small, neat, distinct and independent compartments. At first this seems like wisdom, and indeed it is often useful to break things down into manageable pieces, but unless one is careful, something can be lost; the big picture. The mother could not see her answer was wrong, because she had lost sight of the actual problem as a result of her focusing on the minutiae of processing.
Again, and this will be familiar to anyone who knows me, the separation of music and mathematics is both unprecedented historically, and untenable intellectually. Until the nineteenth century music and mathematics were not just considered to be connected but music was a branch of mathematics That's right, people studied music as mathematics. Yet today music and mathematics are considered polar opposites, the one being purely subjective, all about 'how you feel,' and the other purely objective, cold, hard, scientific. Neither of these views is correct; music is not purely subjective, nor is it only about how you feel; mathematics is not just about following rules and applying stale formulae. Rather, both have their spark of individuality, creativity, and passion; both have a rigid underlying structure which compliments, rather than hinders, the creativity and beauty of what is produced. Both are seeking to represent patterns and thereby beauty, and they do it in the same way.
Today, as a result of compartmentalisation, we believe that if something is creative, it can't be 'restricted' by rules. If something is 'scientific' (whatever that means) it can't be creative, but must only follow rules. If something is 'arty,' it must ex hypothesi defy clear definition, analysis, or understanding. If something is practical, it is purely practical, and has no place for expression. The high-school musician says of the maths whizz, "Oh, that's alright for him, I just don't have a mathematical brain," while his counterpart says of him, "Oh, I just don't have the creativity to be a musician."
The two should not be opposed, and yet they are; and something as been lost thereby. Don't believe me? Beethoven loved to take geometric figures and twist them, raise or lower them, taking certain points on the figures as musical notes, and write entire motifs that way. It was a frequent habit of Baroque composers to end a piece of music about God or Religion with three semi-breves, which when read is the mathematical symbol for eternity: ... These composers recognised that beauty can be found withing order, and that knowing something about the underlying structure helps, not obstructs, one's ability to create the sublime.
Compartmentalisation is a dangerous habit, for it enables you to see only one side of a coin, when the other is drastically important. I could go on, but the point is made. Dare to see the big picture; it can be daunting, it can seem terrifying, but too much is lost if you close your eyes.If everything is broken off into separate, unconnected pieces, how are we supposed to draw from our past experiences? We must see the big picture, and see the connections between everything we have seen, and what we see now.
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