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About Richard Bowker

Author of the Portal series, the Last P.I. series, and other novels

1Q84, finis

Wherever I go, people stop me and say, “Rich, have you finished 1Q84  yet?  What did you think?  Should I give it to my husband for his anniversary?”

I’m happy to report that I finished 1Q84 during the fourth quarter of the Giants-Packers game.  Much excitement!

Murakami has a unique way of creating a world that is at once beyond strange but still somehow believable.  But weirdly, even at 925 pages I thought he left too many plot threads unresolved.  With his single-minded focus on his two main characters, he seemed to let everyone else drift away by the end.

Anyway, here is Nat King Cole singing “It’s Only a Paper Moon,” which provides the epigraph for the novel and figures somewhat obsessively in its action and symbolism:

“I lived for art, I lived for love”

Recently I saw Greta Garbo in The Mysterious Lady, a silent movie from 1928.  Not a great movie, but I could watch Garbo silently read the Berlin phonebook.  The problem with the movie was the modern-day musical accompaniment, which seemed to have been intended for a different movie altogether.  The aria Vissi d’arte from Tosca plays a big role in The Mysterious Lady: we first see Garbo at the opera listening intently to it; later we see her supposedly singing it herself a couple of times (with Conrad Nagel supposedly playing the accompaniment).  But the score never even gestures towards the aria, or Puccini, or even opera.  Instead, we’re forced to listen to some bland genre-free movie music.  What’s up with that?

Luckily YouTube can cure anyone’s Vissi d’arte deficiency.  Here is Maria Callas, proving why grand opera is superior to silent movies any day:

The transcendent, ineffable greatness of YouTube also provides us with The Mysterious Lady done the right way, with the operatic music synched to the action of the movie.  Here is Garbo, entranced by the opera, simultaneously entrancing Nagel:

Liberal Religion?

Another fine comment:

Rich, I’m surprised to see you characterize the “proof from experience” position as “a standard liberal approach to faith.”  It seems to me anything but.  It’s closer to the evangelical approach (though I hasten to add that it has nothing at all to do with commonly perceived political stances of American evangelicals). It’s the approach that says, “I have known God in a personal way,” which renders the questions of existential proof academic. Where you might justifiably point to a parallel with liberal theology is in the belief that science and faith can coexist just fine….

The question of how to know if one is hearing God right is certainly a thorny one. The smart person applies many checks and balances, including the use of one’s own brainpower.  After all, as someone said — Jesus came to take away our sins, not our minds.

I suppose I’m not experienced enough to be able to justify the word “standard.”  But it’s Karen Armstrong’s approach (and conservatives consider her scarcely different from an atheist).  And it’s the approach of the wonderful minister of the little Unitarian church I attend. And it seems to me to be the  only approach that can survive the advances of science.

Of course, it’s an approach that atheists treat with dismissive scorn.  As Hitchens put it, “That which can be asserted without evidence can be dismissed without evidence.”  At least fundamentalists will engage on facts and evidence and philosophical argumentation.  You say that Krauss’s argument is barking up the wrong tree.  But what other tree should he be barking up?  Is there any such tree?

There was a thread a while back on some blogs I follow about whether there was any conceivable evidence that could come to light that would convince an atheist that God exists.  They were hard put to come up with anything, because a naturalistic explanation would always be available, and it would always be preferable (using Occam’s Razor) than a theistic explanation.  But conversely, it seems clear that no evidence or explanation or argumentation would convince someone with a personal experience of God that God doesn’t exist — that the experience was just a pattern of neuronal firings, different in outcome but not in kind from any other pattern.  So neither side has anything to say to the other….

But further, atheists would say that this approach empowers all religions, no matter how fanatical, because once you assert that religion exists in a realm outside reason and evidence, what is the standard for truth and falsity?  Armstrong seems to believe that there is one truth, and all religions are different ways of perceiving that truth.  So she gives religions a pass on the various atrocities committed in their names — these don’t represent the essential truth of religions.  But how does she know what that truth is?  How does she know which moral beliefs should be condemned and which should be supported?  You use your brain power.  But I have met many very smart Jesuits whose brain power leads them to different conclusions from yours.  Who should I believe?

Anyway, go Patriots!

Science and Religion

One of my many fine readers comments thusly on the quote in this post:

Not an unreasonable argument, but irrelevant to the question of whether God exists. Most believers I know give a big yawn to the question of whether scientific cosmology or evolutionary biology actively support the supposition of God’s existence. Science can’t prove (or disprove) God’s existence, and to expect it to is a wrong-headed approach to both science and faith. For the people I know, the proof comes from the experience of God’s presence. Sometimes it’s a life-changing, single event that confirms the belief; sometimes it’s a slow but steady walk.

I love science, but these kinds of arguments are barking up the wrong tree.

This is, I take it, a standard liberal approach to faith.  It’s Karen Armstrong’s case for God.  Let’s not worry about evidence, scientific or historical; let’s not worry about philosophical arguments.  God is beyond all that — ineffable, transcendent, mysterious, encountered in prayer and meditation and ritual.  It is, I suppose, the only stand that religion can take in the face of science’s encroachments on the arguments religion used to make (and to which Krauss is responding), and it must be utterly convincing to those who have encountered God in this way.

But it scares me.  Because private faith never stays out of the public sphere.  And these encounters with God often go far beyond the experience of His presence, resulting in a cacophony of conflicting accounts and beliefs.  And religions always and everywhere claim privileges based on what these encounters reveal to their adherents.  Armstrong endorses Stephen Jay Gould’s concept of nonoverlapping magisteria (NOMA), which he describes thus:

The net of science covers the empirical universe: what is it made of (fact) and why does it work this way (theory). The net of religion extends over questions of moral meaning and value. These two magisteria do not overlap, nor do they encompass all inquiry (consider, for starters, the magisterium of art and the meaning of beauty). To cite the arch cliches, we get the age of rocks, and religion retains the rock of ages; we study how the heavens go, and they determine how to go to heaven.

But how does the experience of God’s presence privilege religion to speak about how to go to heaven?  Where does the privilege end?  If God tells a parent to deny healthcare to her child, is that OK?  It’s religion’s magisterium, after all.  If God forbids a pharmacist to sell birth control, who are we to tell him that’s wrong?

Not that I impute any such beliefs to my very fine reader, whom I wish the best of health.

Alexis Weissenberg

RIP.

I don’t know much about Weissenberg, but Wikipedia says he took a decade off at the height of his career to study and teach. Like Horowitz and Gould (Gould took a permanent vacation, more or less). Classical pianists of this sort seem to me to be a breed apart. The pianist in Summit is based on my research into these guys.

Stuff I should be reading: A Universe From Nothing

A Universe from Nothing by Lawrence M. Krauss.

For many religious folks, the God of the Gaps argument from design has retreated from humanity (What a piece of work is a man!) to the universe.  OK, Darwin has a point, but still, there must be a Prime Mover, an Uncaused Cause.  But maybe not.

…[W]hat I find remarkable is the fact that the discoveries of modern particle physics and cosmology over the past half century allow not only a possibility that the Universe arose from nothing, but in fact make this possibility increasingly plausible.  Everything we have measured about the universe is not only consistent with a universe that came from nothing (and didn’t have to turn out this way!), but in fact, all the new evidence makes this possibility ever more likely.  Darwin demonstrated how the remarkable diversity of life on Earth, and the apparent design of life, which had been claimed as evidence for a caring God, could in fact instead be arrived at by natural causes involving purely physical processes of mutation and natural selection.  I want to show something similar about the Universe.  We may never prove by science that a Creator is impossible, but, as Steven Weinberg has emphasized, science admits (and for many of us, suggests) a universe in which one is not necessary.

Stuff I Should Have Read in College

One of my background projects, which should take me well into the next century, is to read some of the books I should have read before real life took over.  After college it’s hard to go back and fill those gaps.  For me, these gaps are in political philosophy, moral philosophy, and economics.  Mostly, I’d like to understand why so many people believe so many things that seem to me to be obviously wrong, raised as I was as a knee-jerk liberal.  Am I the one who has these things wrong?  This is almost impossible to conceive.  On the other hand, how can I be sure?

So, let’s start with John Locke’s Second Treatise on Government.  It is also almost impossible to conceive, but I have nothing interesting to say about this treatise.  Even so, I’m going to say these three things:

  • Modern life is amazing.  You can pull John Locke’s Second Treatise on Government out of the air at no cost and read it on a device that also contains all your old photographs as well as Amy Winehouse’s Back to Black and some games your kids have put there without your permission.  On the other hand, you have to put up with suboptimal optical character recognition.  It took me a while to realize that when I came across the word “cloth”, Locke really meant me to be reading the word “doth”.
  • Lock spends an inordinate amount of time explaining the duties parents have to their children, and vice versa.  This seems to be significant to his theory on how government developed historically, but it’s really pretty uninteresting to a modern reader.
  • Locke apparently was absent the day they taught about the three branches of government, because he comes up with something called the “federative” branch instead of the judicial branch.  (He got the first two right.)  The federative branch has to do with foreign policy, which he lumps in with the executive branch.  Apparently Montesquieu later came up with the right answer.

Improbability

Readers (at least, this reader) will put up with a lot of improbability in reading fiction (as they will in watching movies and plays).  Someone (Ben Bova?) once said you’re allowed one coincidence in a plot, but that’s certainly not a rule that Shakespeare or Dickens followed.  All plots have some degree of improbability, because life doesn’t have a plot.  Psychic spy thrillers like Summit and uncategorizable novels like 1Q84 just have a different kind of improbability from that of novels that purport to be realistic and don’t rely on psychic powers or parallel universes (or hobbits or warp drives).

But when you move outside the everyday world, you need to make an extra effort to ensure that your improbabilities are consistent and, at least at some level, believable.  That has a lot to do with the texture you give to the characters and their world.  Murakami has 900 pages to play with, so he can put in a huge amount of texture.  But you also have to be sure that your world is pretty darn interesting if you’re going to ask readers to spend that much time in it.