The Fountainhead

It’s been an interesting week. I’ve just started a new casual job, as a social worker at the Crisis Contact Centre in St Kilda, Melbourne. The work involves taking telephone calls and face-to-face inquiries from people who are either homeless or at risk of homelessness, providing empathetic support and immediate assistance, and referring them to services that can provide ongoing support to get them back into secure housing, and address related issues.

Although I’m only one week in and still training, I can see that this job will involve plenty of challenges – from the heartbreak of seeing people in desperate or simply depressing situations, to dealing with outbursts of anger from frustrated or unstable clients, to dealing with con-jobs, like the charming, elderly, somewhat teary gentleman who had his bag stolen during a night spent at the Casino because he had no money to stay elsewhere, was put up in the best hotel we can afford, and given an array of vouchers to provide him with food, transport and a change of clothes, and then turned up again the next day, driving a red sports car.

This week I also finished reading Ayn Rand’s novel The Fountainhead. Several friends expressed titillated disapproval on learning that I was reading Rand, due to the fact that she gets quoted at Tea Party protests, and was Alan Greenspan’s guru. Her ideas have inspired libertarian and right wing politics in the US to the point where her biographer, Jennifer Burns, describes her as "the ultimate gateway drug to life on the right." Flannery O’Connor, a wonderful American writer and a contemporary of Rand, once told a friend who had found a Rand novel left behind in the subway, "The fiction of Ayn Rand is as low as you can get re fiction. I hope you picked it up off the floor of the subway and threw it in the nearest garbage pail."

When I came across The Fountainhead in a box of books on the street in Balmain, I was unaware of O’Connor’s advice. In any case, I was curious to find out what kind of story inspires libertarian politics. Maybe there was also a certain perversity that led me to start reading this book just before I was about to take up my new job.

For Rand, the social worker is the epitome of badly dressed evil. Her novel is designed to persuade the reader that altruism is the enemy of integrity, independent thought and creativity. She explicitly elevates selfishness to a moral and political ideal, making no distinction between self-centred indifference toward others, and the courage to remain true to one’s principles in a climate of mediocrity and corruption. (It is worth noting that the novel was first published in 1943 and can be read as an attempt to understand the forces and failures that had led to the state of the world at this time.)

The central character of the book is Howard Roark, a talented architect who remains heroically true to his ideal of functional beauty in the face of repeated pressures to compromise – and who begins his love affair with Dominique Francon, the main female character in the novel, by raping her. This beautiful, intelligent, unfulfilled woman responds by falling aggressively in love with him, and after various plot twists including a striking episode of self-harming which involves cutting her body with broken glass, an act which nearly kills her, they eventually live happily ever after. Dominique gives up her job as a journalist along the way, and becomes content to spend her days making herself look lovely and contemplating the beauty of nature as a background to her husband’s soaring phallic achievements.

Ayn Rand (1905-1982)

For me, the story of this woman and her relationship with the architect was the most intriguing aspect of the novel (admittedly I have glossed over many others in this summary). It appeared to be an effort to come to terms with what we might now categorise as a personality disorder, though it's likely that Rand would have condemned such a diagnosis as an example of the evils perpetrated in the name of altruism. Naturally, the reader is not encouraged to feel empathy or pity for this character; rather, she is portrayed as aloof, brilliant, intensely desirable to men, and consistently well dressed, providing a stark contrast to all the other remarkably unattractive women that appear in the novel.

Dominique’s suffering is treated as unimportant next to the ideals and work of her lover, but at the same time it is clearly, even dramatically, described. It does not appear that Rand’s fans have paid much attention to this aspect of the novel. If they did, they might find a clue regarding the kind of personal distress that can motivate a political commitment to extreme individualism.

But perhaps it takes the perspective of a social worker to see that.

Doubt on Easter Sunday

Lancelot Andrewes. Bodleian Library

This Easter Sunday morning I listened to a reading of a sermon entitled “Doubt on Easter Sunday,” by Lancelot Andrewes, originally given in the court of Queen Elizabeth I in 1600. Bishop Andrewes felt that intellectual doubt (or infidelity, as he called it) about the factual basis of Christian faith was the greatest problem of his time. For Andrewes, 1600 was already “the dregs of time,” when the faith of the early Church had faded away. I guess he might consider that the dregs have travelled through the sink-hole and been sucked well down the drain by now, although in some respects, his argument seemed quite contemporary.

The bishop examines the account of Christ’s resurrection with an eye for evidence to counter doubt. He points out how slow the twelve disciples were to accept the resurrection: even after they had seen the risen Jesus with their own eyes, they were “jealous of their own senses” and struggled to believe. Thomas took this reluctance to another level by insisting on touching, not merely seeing the flesh of Christ before he would believe. Only once convinced of the resurrection by evidence in multiple, mutually confirming forms did the disciples go out to spread the good news. How then were they able to overcome the doubts of listeners who had not seen or touched the resurrected Christ personally? The disciples had neither worldly power, nor rhetorical skill; they were destitute, weak, uneducated men. But they had a more powerful, compelling way to overcome doubt: they were able to perform miracles, immediate evidence that the greater miracle they had themselves witnessed was true.

Christian faith, on this account, is originally based on the direct testimony of eyewitnesses (and one fingerwitness). Miracles provide ‘evidence-based’ proof that there is more to reality than secular science can explain. This suggests that in spite of their apparent opposition, Christianity and science have a key feature in common. They both present evidence to support their theories/doctrines, and anyone who accepts this evidence and understands its implications can join the community of true believers. Independent reflection and belief are at the core of both Christian and scientific worldviews, at least by the time Lancelot Andrewes wrote his sermon. As systems of evidence-based belief, both Christianity and modern science have been able spread rapidly and democratically; there is no need to belong to any particular cultural group to participate.

The Incredulity of Saint Thomas by Caravaggio (1601-1602)

This account of Christian doubt and faith reminds me of the way Buddhism is often presented in the West. A rather loosely translated passage from the Kalama Sutta is widely reproduced (I remember coming across it pinned to the wall in a kuti in Santi Forest Monastery in Bundanoon); it claims that the Buddha told the Kalamas:

“Do not believe in anything simply because you have heard it. Do not believe in anything simply because it is spoken and rumored by many. Do not believe in anything simply because it is found written in your religious books. Do not believe in anything merely on the authority of your teachers and elders. Do not believe in traditions because they have been handed down for many generations. But after observation and analysis, when you find that anything agrees with reason and is conducive to the good and benefit of one and all, then accept it and live up to it.”

Bodhipaksa calls this a “calamitous misreading” and compares it with a more scholarly translation of the sutta:

“Now, Kalamas, don’t go by reports, by legends, by traditions, by scripture, by logical conjecture, by inference, by analogies, by agreement through pondering views, by probability, or by the thought, ‘This contemplative is our teacher.’ When you know for yourselves that, ‘These qualities are skillful; these qualities are blameless; these qualities are praised by the wise; these qualities, when adopted and carried out, lead to welfare and to happiness’ — then you should enter and remain in them.”

The two versions both emphasize the importance of “knowing for yourself” through personal experience, observation and reflection. However, the first, more popular version both fails to bring out the warning against speculative reasoning that is given here and in other early Buddhist suttas, and more generally presents belief as the central concern of the teaching, rather than the assessment and cultivation of qualities of mind.

This interpolated focus on belief appears to be the product of a Western bias which could be informed by either a Christian or a scientific worldview, given their shared interest in the question of how to form true beliefs. This is not to suggest that the translator’s intent was to assimilate Buddhist to Christian teachings. On the contrary, this slant allows the Buddhist teaching to appear as a competitive alternative to the Christian approach, since in spite of Bishop Andrewes’ efforts, these days many see Christianity as demanding belief based on blind acceptance of authority, in the absence of evidence, even in the absence of comprehension. As Madeleine Peyroux sings, “They preached the gospel down in New Orleans, they preached it at school. Never made much sense to me, wonder if it was supposed to…”

                                                        

The idea that the Buddha, like a scientist, does not ask us to believe anything unless and until we are personally convinced of its truth is attractive to the modern mind. On the other hand, if Buddhism adheres to the same methods as science, and is in the same business of generating rational, well-supported beliefs, then it seems likely that science will supersede it just as, for many, it has superseded Christianity. Why not just stick with science?

The more scholarly translation of the sutta is richer, not only in that it is more authentic, but also in that it indicates that Buddhism might be less concerned with beliefs than with certain qualities of mind, and consequently teach a form of enlightenment that is qualitatively different to that of science. In spite of the overt emphasis on belief in Christianity, I suspect that this is true of living versions of that religion, too.

William Blake, Christ Appearing to the Apostles after the Resurrection (1795)

I am a Melbournian

When I first moved to Melbourne at the beginning of last year, I noticed that Melbournians spend a lot of time talking Melbourne up. At the time, I put this down to an inferiority complex, especially when mention of the fact that I am from Sydney gave rise to the inevitable question, “So, which do you like better, Sydney or Melbourne?” 

It’s not a question that would ever occur to a Sydney-sider. Not because we walk around constantly congratulating ourselves on Sydney’s superiority, but just because we’re not insecure about our city’s attractions. Melbourne poses no threat. I also wondered whether this constant insistence on the marvelousness of Melbourne was a way of denying the obvious suffering imposed by Melbourne’s terrible, inconstant weather.

Now that I’m well into my second year of living in Melbourne, my perspective is a little different. Have I been corrupted, the balance of my mind broken by hayfever, or have I just seen the light? By the light, I refer to that powerful glow that illuminates the city of Melbourne from within, visible and palpable only to those who have joined in worship of this great metropolis.

Living in Melbourne is a bit like living in a cult. Insidiously, day after day, you find yourself involved, first passively, then actively and with an enthusiasm that seems to bubble up from nowhere, in conversations about how great it is to live here. I’d like to think that this is simply an example of how gratitude and appreciation for good things is infectious. It’s part of Melbourne culture to count your blessings, daily and communally. But there is undeniably a less noble aspect to this phenomenon. Even when it is not articulated, it is understood: Melbourne is not just good, not just marvelous, it is better. The long shadow of Sydney is always there, the darkness that defines the light.

I think it wasn’t until I moved to Fitzroy that I fully succumbed to the collective narcissism that characterizes life in Melbourne. It’s a suburb where a quick study break stroll to stock up on Twisties at the supermarket can end up taking a little longer than expected because on the way I allow myself to be distracted by the colourful display in the window of a gallery showing indigenous art. Inside, the attendant, a man of extreme refinement and extensive knowledge, treats me as if I might be a potentially major art investor despite the fact that I say things like, “So, what are those poles with feathers stuck on them? They’re gorgeous,” and “Who’s Christian Thompson?”

Fitzroy is nothing if not arty. The back streets and lanes are full of street art and tasteful graffiti. On Saturday I went for a guided tour of some of the highlights, took the photos you see on this blog-post, and got into an argument with a former city councillor about whether graffiti can still lay claim to being truly subversive when it’s been commissioned by the council (he said yes, I said no). In any case, I’m happy to concede that what Fitzroy street art may lack in street cred, it more than makes up for in style.

But the beauty of Fitzroy is not just skin deep. This morning, while browsing websites of the dozen or so yoga schools in Fitzroy to find a class that might suit me, I discovered that the Dance of Life studio was offering a session described as a Luscious Ovarian Temple, with lavender foot bath. How could I resist? I thought this kind of thing only happened in the Blue Mountains. But the precise reality is that it only happens in Melbourne.

When I emerged from exploring my Ovarian Temple later this afternoon, I felt as if the cavities of my body were sparkling with interior light. As I floated off down Brunswick Street, I knew I was exactly where I needed to be. Like an ovarian cyst, my Sydney-bred cynicism had been finally, painlessly excised.

As J.F.K. might have said if he had ever come here:

I am a Melbournian.

A new road

About six years ago, I came into contact with a Buddhist community based at a monastery called Santi, tucked away deep in the Southern Highlands of NSW. Its very existence seemed unlikely. For a while I had a quote from a Hobbit walking song on the whiteboard in my office in the Old Quad at the University of Sydney, reminding me of this other world:

"Still round the corner there may wait
A new road or a secret gate
And though I oft have passed them by
A day will come at last when I
Shall take the hidden paths that run
West of the Moon, East of the Sun."

      (J. R.R. Tolkien, Lord of the Rings)

Recently I was invited to write a post for a blog called Awakening Buddhist Women. I decided to take the opportunity to reflect on my experiences at Santi and what they taught me about the challenges facing women in Theravada Buddhism. You can read the results here.

Zip It

I made it through World Mental Health Day yesterday without saying a word, except during one allocated hour of “talk time.” This feat of self-control was in aid of a campaign called ZIP IT. I’m raising funds for Orygen, a world-leading youth mental health research centre in Melbourne. As well as giving people a reason to sponsor me, part of the idea of not talking was to show solidarity with those who suffer mental illness, and share in the experience of not being able to easily or fully communicate with others. Initially, I'd thought of this as more of a campaign gimmick than anything else, and expected that my experience of silent meditation retreats would mean that “zipping it” for a day would be nothing new. But keeping quiet in contexts where everyone else is talking turned out to be completely different to maintaining silence in spaces where that is the norm.

In the morning I had a lecture to attend at uni. I decided to arrive just before it started and sit to one side of the lecture theatre, so as to avoid friends who might try to talk to me - I felt self-conscious about having to explain myself to them in writing, and didn’t want to cause offence by being unresponsive. This strategy worked, but instead of feeling pleased, I started to feel ostracized – why didn’t anyone come over to say hello? I did have a note prepared, after all. Did they think I was being snobbish, not understanding that I couldn't speak? It was a relief to meet up with a couple of friends at lunch, when I could talk at last - although only for an hour.

My flat-mates were aware of what I was doing, but it had an unexpected effect on one of them nevertheless. In the morning, he forgot and tried to start a conversation with me. I interrupted by gesturing to remind him I couldn't speak. Later in the day he whispered when he spoke to me, as if he thought I might be hurt or angry if he spoke at normal volume. Behaviour that’s out of the usual can be unsettling, I guess, and make people feel like they can’t just be themselves around you any more.

Holly Hunter and Anna Paquin in The Piano

The dynamic with my flat-mate reminded me of two films that have fascinated me: Jane Campion’s The Piano, and Ingmar Bergman’s Persona. The main character in each is a woman who does not speak, and wields a strange power over others as a consequence. It seems to me that these women respond to experiences of powerlessness or loss of identity by masochistically embracing and exaggerating their lack of effective expression. They do so with such determination and commitment that their silence paradoxically gives them the power to profoundly destabilize the people around them. This power is bought at a high price of isolation, however, and becomes a kind of trap from which the women themselves have difficulty escaping. I wonder if some mental health problems follow a similar pattern, starting off as a resourceful response to the constraints of a situation, but then developing into a self-destructive habit that becomes hard to break.

In the afternoon, a friend sent a text inviting me to dinner. I wrote back declining the invitation and explaining that I wouldn’t have been able to join in the conversation. She then offered to buy me a talk pass so I could speak for an extra hour, but I didn’t feel right about accepting this – I didn’t think she should have to pay to get me to come to dinner! But nor did I want to buy my own way out of my promise to the people who’d sponsored me. I heard recently that perfectionism is one of the main causes of mental health problems in our society. I wondered if I was perversely trapping myself in an overly rigid interpretation of my pledge, or just showing healthy strength of mind in sticking to it…

Then my mother called. I let the phone ring out, and emailed to explain why I hadn’t taken the call. She wrote back describing a small lasagne-making incident and saying that a friend of ours was having an operation. Should I have made an exception to talk to her? But then I reflected that people suffering mental illness don’t get to “make exceptions” and just decide to be fully functional as soon as they or someone else wants them to. And I was only committed to a single day of silence.

So I fulfilled my pledge and gained a new perspective on Nietzsche's remark, "It is difficult to live amongst men, because silence is so difficult — especially for a blogger." (He may have said babbler rather than blogger, but I think you'll agree it amounts to the same thing.) Keeping in mind another Nietzschean principle, that some are born posthumously, if you'd like to sponsor me retrospectively, this may still be possible...

As I write, the ZIP IT campaign is still open. To support the cause of helping kids who have mental health problems (and to find out who is in the photo below), please visit my fundraising page here.