To Be Alone...to Love

Throughout my many years on this planet, western society has frowned upon being alone or the so-called “loner”. Since the psychiatrist Carl Jung almost a century ago coined the words “Extrovert” “Introvert”, this originally highly complex theses has trickled into popular culture, and has become a simplified “foundational truth” in the judgement of our fellow human beings.

“He’s awfully quiet. Do you think there’s something wrong with him?”

“Did you notice that weird guy at the party…didn’t say a word the whole night…creepy.”

“Don’t mind him, he’s just shy…he’ll get over it.”

“Unbelievable! There’s that “loser” who never say’s anything…he’s probably a nut case, a serial killer or something.”

“There he is again!”

“Who?”

“You know that quiet guy who doesn’t have any friends.”

We have been told that we are “social beings”; that without social interaction, without the benefit of human touch or communication, we will surly cease to exist. For the most part this is true. For example when the communist country of Rumania fell, the countries orphanages’ were discovered to be overflowing. Out of sympathy and charity, Australians, Americans, Canadians and the French decided to “adopt” these needy children and give them a good middle-class home. What happened with these children, no one would have predicted. Because these children had been discarded when only infants without the needed benefit of a mother’s touch, their behaviour, in most cases, boarded on the psychopathic. In one case, a five year old waking-up in the night, attempted to smother his new brothers and sisters; another young boy attempted to burn down the family home; one young girl of only five or six would fall into a stupor, sitting against a wall and smashing her head against it, over and over.

The issue here is that we need human contact as young human beings because it is necessary for our survival. But the need to be alone is not necessarily a sign of mental illness.

As a young boy growing up in the United States, my quietness was viewed as something to be “fixed”, a sickness that, with the proper “training” could be cured, making me into a “social” being.

My point is that the quiet individual is just that, quiet, and because they choose not to engage, does not make them “sick” and a person to be “changed” for the good of the group. (I’ve always despised Utilitarianism.)

I find pure joy in being alone.

To be alone is to have the moments to create, reflect, produce, read, listen to music, and be with one’s own company.

It seems that the human being in our current society is fighting for recognition, wanting to stand out, their particular words more important than anyone else’s…assertiveness, forcefulness, aggressiveness, extrovert; being the loud mouth is all a way, perhaps, an attempt to feel important, recognized…loved.

In the end we all want to be recognized, loved.

“Being” cannot be qualified as either “inward or outward”, introvert or extrovert, because culture decides it so…we are a complex species, a random mix of DNA, environment, family dynamics and culture including that X factor which some call the Spirit. In fact quantum physicists, neurologists and psychiatrists all now are changing their tune, and are finally admitting that the human being cannot be reduced to a single theory. We are complex and far more interesting than a few current “Noble prize winning scientists” would lead us to believe. Best selling books concerning the notion of God being a fallacy, is merely a feeble attempt to assert one’s own importance, compensation for a lack of…love?

To be a loner and someone who prefers to be alone does not make them a “loser”, someone to be discarded from the “group”.

To love and be loved is the key.

History on Wittgenstein & New Book

Reading a fascinating text at the moment called “Mysticism and Architecture – Wittgenstein and the Meanings of the Palais Stonborough” by Roger Paden. A philosophical piece, Paden attempts to connect Wittgenstein’s philosophy to the Palais Stonborough, a “modernist” building mostly designed and built by Ludwig Wittgenstein for his sister during fin- de- siecle Vienna.

Ludwig Wittgenstein is known as one of the most controversial and popular philosophers of the twentieth century. He became famous throughout Europe after publishing the infamous, “Tractatus Logico-Philosophicus”, a difficult text dealing with the logical structure of propositions and the nature of logical inference, developing succinct arguments on Epistemology, Principles of Physics, Ethics and the “Mystical”. I’ve read this text several times and also various interpretations of the work from noteworthy philosophers but continue to find it troubling. Having only a background in continental philosophy, Logical Positivism is a hard reach for me, particularly having only a first year undergraduate knowledge of logic.

Nevertheless, Wittgenstein evolved his philosophy after WW1, lecturing at Cambridge University until his death in 1951. Wittgenstein’s last work, published posthumously, so named “Philosophical Investigations”, to be sure, once one understands his foundational arguments, is a much more accessible work, and well worth the time exploring.

Before WW1, Wittgenstein studied engineering in Britain, however through his reading found the works of Russell and Frege to be fascinating, to then go to Cambridge to talk with Russell and ask if he was “suited” to study philosophy. Russell found the young man extremely intelligent, and well versed in mathematics and logic. Wittgenstein attended lectures at the university for almost two years, listening to luminaries such as Moore and Russell, to then attempt to re-think the direction these philosophers were headed. It should be noted that anyone at that time who had met the young Austrian, found his conversation and presence overwhelming yet compellingly brilliant.

WW1 began and changed the minds, attitudes and perceptions of Europe.

Wittgenstein came from one of the wealthiest families in the Austrian Hungarian Empire. Father Karl Wittgenstein made his fortune in manufacturing, steal, ore and financiering, only to retire at an early age becoming a patron of the arts, supporting and developing gifted artists: famous artists, writers and composers such as Johannes Brahms, Gustav Mahler, Pablo Casals and Gustav Klimt. Margaret, one of Ludwig’s older sisters, and whom he designed and built Palias Stonborough, was a patient of Sigmund Freud for years, eventually responsible for getting the doctor out of Vienna during the Nazi occupation. Young Ludwig was raised in this environment. His brother Paul Wittgenstein, a well known pianist, lost his arm during WW1, only to have Maurice Ravel compose “Concerto for the Left Hand” for him, because after the war, taught himself to play the piano with only his left hand. (If you have not heard a recording of one of Paul Wittgenstein’s performances, it is actually quite astounding.)

Rich, smart and definitely full of himself, young Wittgenstein returned to Austria from England and joined to battle against the German enemy which included his English teachers and friends (An irony he was all too aware of.)

Somewhat difficult to understand, at the turn of the last (19th to 20th) century, war was seen as something heroic and romantic. Well, to say the least, after millions of innocent lives lost for the elite goal of power between the German, French and English aristocracies, absolutely no one would see war in the same positive light. The “Spirit of the Age” shifted and those that did battle, those that suffered and survived, viewed the world in a different way… so too Herr Wittgenstein.

After receiving commendations for bravery, etc, spending a year in an Italian prisoner of war camp, finishing the “Tractatus”, returned to Vienna a much different man.

During the Great War, Karl Wittgenstein died, leaving a huge inheritance for Ludwig… (In today’s money: many millions) but he gave most of it away to charities, friends and back to his sisters, he kept none of the money).

Wittgenstein, although Jewish but raised a strict Catholic, right after the war, attempted to join a catholic monastery…the monks found his reasons and his destiny not suited for their life, however hired him as a gardener for two years. Wittgenstein then decided that serving people was necessary thus attended teacher’s school for two years to become the only primary teacher in a small town outside of Vienna. He taught well but was accused of treating some student’s too harshly and resigned after five years of teaching to then return to Vienna.

It was during this time that he helped design and build Palais Stonborough.

Hermine and Margaret loved their little brother beyond measure, considering the two older brothers, under the hammer from “dad” to follow in the family business, both committed suicide.

Margaret was pleased to see her brother. Changed from the war, yes, though she could still see that light in his eyes…a project!

One can only imagine after their two older brothers reported dead from suicide, Hermine and Margaret, seeing their two younger brothers, Ludwig and Paul for the first time would have been emotional.

Margaret has piles of inheritance- cash and wants to build a house or a ‘salon’ to establish a place or haven to house the artists, writers and musicians of the world…like her father…

Ludwig arrives from the monastery…finally home from the war.

One can only imagine her delight, to see her little brother home after so many years.

While a prisoner of war in Italy, Wittgenstein met a fellow intellectual, Paul Engelmann, an architect, a religious man to whom Wittgenstein could relate.

Like a good sister would, Margaret connected them after the war, where Engelmann was in the midst of designing her “salon”.

Surprisingly not, Margaret observed her brother dive into the design and building of the project with alacrity, as was his style and sensibility.

According to Paden, the home’s design and building is Wittgenstein’s sensibility to the door hinges and window frames. In the end, the entire project was the philosophers creation down to every minute detail.

Why I chose to read this text is the theses of connecting a philosopher’s work to a moment in time of his past, and his creation of a beautiful building, how has this author managed to connect the two?

So far so good...

Paden understands architecture and philosophy…and Wittgenstein as well, but we shall see.

An Afternoon at the Opera

The Barber of Seville performed its last show of the season yesterday afternoon to a packed house at the Arts Centre. And what a performance it was…

Melbourne is renowned for it talent and professionalism in the arts in all areas including theatre, film, ballet, orchestral, jazz, rock and the painterly endeavours.

Attending a theatrical performance in the afternoon, a matinee, is a real experience and treat. Even more so in this case as The Barber of Seville’s season had come to a close, its last performance on the afternoon before Mother’s Day, something special for all opera lovers wanting light entertainment and music to delight the senses for the afternoon and hopefully that feeling lasting for the rest of the evening…

(This BLOG entry is not a “proper” review of the performance as my experience is limited with opera and, dare I admit, an art form dismissed as an artefact of history.)

Let’s just admit here and now that The Barber of Seville was above all entertaining, humorous in all aspects of the play, but more so, the orchestra, The Victorian Orchestra, was absolutely superb, as the string section merged as one at the very start, the five violinists becoming one magical note…Figaro (Luke Gabbedy) prancing onto the stage, bragging and singing his own praises… An excellent performance and memorable because of the artists obvious love of his art form, having a great time, making it look so easy…

Rosina (Emma Matthews) was delightful on stage, her singing right on the mark until she needed to hit the high C: the woman did indeed reach high C but it sounded strained, however, (uncomfortable) the audience loved her because her performance was consistently excellent, funny and endearing. Although opera seems a natural profession for the woman, she has the stage presence to do anything in the theatre including, possibly, film… a charming performance.

Count Almaviva (Henry Choo) despite a believable performance, a beautiful voice and acceptable acting, does not in any way appear Italian; if one closes their eyes and listened to his voice, would imagine a young and beautiful prince…but opening one’s eyes, sees a little Asian man with a wonderful voice. Does this disappoint for the audience, seeing an obviously miss-cast-looking man, an Asian playing an Italian? During the loveliest songs, my eyes closed and everything flowed, Henry Choo rising to the occasion and doing a splendid job. A wonderful performance, natural and heart-felt, an impressive show…

My favourite performance had to be Fiorello, Almaviva’s servant, a character, despite not singing one note, carried the show, bent over, scurrying across the stage helping every actor, maintaining the necessary “lightness” that is so important to the Barber of Seville”. All ways a popular character across the ages since this opera was first performed so long ago.

Even though my experience with opera is less than acceptable, my training less than a neophyte, an ignorant beginner, The Australian Opera’s rendition of The Barber of Seville would stand with the best performances through out time.

Draft of Memoirs...

Arriving in Australia, unfortunately, at four years of age, most all is a blur. I remember being very tired and mum rushing my sister and I as if we were unnecessary baggage, and as children do, we went with the flow. This is understandable, though, as she had missed Australia and her mum and dad so much.

This was all mum was prepared to do.

Scanning again, I sense only a scent, strong cologne, and a gentle hand. Grandpa picked me up in his arms and my fear and severe introspection diminished for a moment. This would be a memorable relationship that would last too short in time. But he was a hard man to get to know and had very high standards, but eventually, we would meet in the middle, after my sixth birthday.


Jack (grandpa) knew certain people, understood their weaknesses and strengths, a wholly religious man, really only concerned about his family, his daughter and the one he truly loved, his wife, grandma.


As a little boy, living with grandma & grandpa was nothing like being with dad and mum. It was different in many ways. To be with two people so much in love made everything okay. Let’s face it, a stress free environment, love and caring, where we at least could be free of shouting and chaos and move towards a safe place where young children can live and dream, is an ideal context for pre-school children.


I heard my mother one night shortly after arriving in Australia, ranting about my father, how he spent all his time at work, etc...


As children are treated, we were sent to bed, my eye on my sister, as this was the first time we had been separated since father’s departure. At this point in time, I didn’t trust anyone. I screamed again to tell them that Louise was not supposed to be put in another room; that we had began as friends and would continue despite everything.


Grandpa seemed to understand, carrying Louise back to the room in the bed by the door.


I remember that my head felt like it was about to explode, the blood rushing upwards, my heart racing like a demon. My only concern was Lou. We did not need to be separated, like everyone else in the family. I began to cry, as did Louise, because they tried to separate us, and in the end, we were permitted to sleep in the same room.


(Of course, writing this memory is from that little boy's perspective.)


As we learned later, Mum was simply about living her own life, “chasing dreams”, working hard, and ignoring her children as if we never existed. It was only later, that dad called, reconciled, and came to Australia. It was only then that we felt life would actually start over– and be a family again.

Looking back to childhood from the perspective of a middle-aged man, that very young woman who was and is my mother, had and has a tremendous amount of courage, she always confronted life head on, engaged, feeling every pain and pleasure. These notes are simply my memories and must not be taken as the literal truth, as memory can never be trusted.

*


Lou and I had been sent to a Catholic school, “Our Lady of Perpetual Sucker” in the suburb of Box Hill. Despite the esoteric name of the school, it was my first school and one I would never forget.


There are only five lasting images of this time period: the perceived vileness of bread, the slight beating from a Nun in 2nd grade,, and the sixth grade boy’s carrying me on their shoulders as we were about to move back to the U.S. The other two images, too hard to remember, is the other beating from the Sister, slamming my knuckles for laughing out loud; this included a trip to the Head Sister, standing in front of the sixth grade class, humiliated, embarrassed and confused. And the last image, the thermal underwear which grandma made to fit under my school uniform’s short pants. As the thermal underwear was slightly made too long, they slid down, revealing something to be reviled and made fun of… this certainly happened, knocked about like a test crash dummy, wondering why life can be so cruel and painful.


Lou and I slowly adapted to the situation, loving our grandparents and experiencing a new life.


The slightly retarded boy, at school, chomping on his sandwich with his mouth open, constantly revealing the contents of his half eaten food should have put me off bread forever, but time heals.


My corporal punishment(s), made to turn my knuckles in the way of the stick, slammed for speaking, I’ll never forget, because, these acts of cruelty have remained in my memory, a lasting disappointment, a reminder of the harshness of society, and ironically, performed by a Nun whom, at the time, in my innocent perceptions, could do no wrong, makes the world, even now, feel like a terrible place.


As I look back to that time, those mere two years were a blessing in disguise. My grandparents were there at that crucial time of human development, the shaping years, and I would not trade that time for anything as this time has moulded my view of the world: kindness, discipline the harshness of reality and…home.


*


The age of six is much harder than anyone should remember.

During this magical space in time, my first Holy Communion, first Confession, and given my first prayer book, that smelled, in my young mind, just like heaven.


Remember so holy, my white shirt and tie, my new Epistle, and grandpa in the back ground, proud of his grandson achieving and meeting this crucial stage in life.


During this short period, we began seeing much more of mother.


Before she would flit in and out like a butterfly on steroids. Suddenly she was around more; to then tell Lou and me that dad was coming over to see us.


I thought, “Dad, really… dad is coming back.”


I was ecstatic, Lou was silent.


When my father finally arrived, I truly believed he would be exactly like my grandfather, but was soon disappointed

A comment on George Orwell’s article, “Politics and the English Language”.

It is a fascinating exercise to watch one’s own thoughts, what produces them, how they connect and where they head and eventually fade. (This is a form of Solipsism that is guilt free) I’ve come to realize that “thinking” is a particular skill that can be honed and developed to achieve intended results. Today for example, looking out my kitchen window, our Melbourne day is overcast, drab, and slightly brisk with occasional drizzling rain. As my glance turned downward towards the sink, an image of my time in England presented, those long, comfortable grey afternoons, riding an old bicycle through East Grinsted’s narrow winding roads. My eyes turned back towards the window in the direction of the horizon, to think of an old article read many years ago by George Orwell entitled, “Politics and the English Language.”


Orwell was our quintessential Englishman, who drank tea and coffee by the buckets, smoked too many cigarettes and said that any serious writer producing less than one hundred thousand words a year is not doing their job or serious about the art. Intrigued about the article that came to mind, logging on the internet, found it within a few minutes to find its subject matter just as relevant today as when it was first published in April 1946. Orwell has always been a great influence on my generation and is starting to be so for the next generation as well.



In my youth, after reading Animal Farm and Nineteen Eighty-Four, I considered George Orwell to be that essential beacon of political conscience, that single moral compass, a man with a terrifying awareness of the evils of political subterfuge, a man who left us with an essential warning: be vigilant! But what was he telling us to be vigilant about?



The article begins:


“Most people who bother with the matter at all would admit that the English language is in a bad way, but it is generally assumed that we cannot by conscious action do anything about it. Our civilization is decadent and our language — so the argument runs — must inevitably share in the general collapse. It follows that any struggle against the abuse of language is a sentimental archaism, like preferring candles to electric light or hansom cabs to aeroplanes. Underneath this lies the half-conscious belief that language is a natural growth and not an instrument which we shape for our own purposes.”


Orwell’s arguments are two-fold: language has not “evolved” but has been consciously affected with its political influences and its use in clichés, dying metaphors, meaningless words, pretentious diction and euphemisms to create laziness or apathy in the reader that has all but infiltrated “modern” prose, particularly in “Ad Speak”, political rhetoric, journalism and literature itself, in other words, writing one thing and meaning another; or as my father used to say, “Baffle them with bullshit and the fools won’t know the difference.”


To quote Orwell’s article at length,


“In our time, political speech and writing are largely the defense of the indefensible. Things like the continuance of British rule in India, the Russian purges and deportations, the dropping of the atom bombs on Japan, can indeed be defended, but only by arguments which are too brutal for most people to face, and which do not square with the professed aims of the political parties. Thus political language has to consist largely of euphemism, question-begging and sheer cloudy vagueness. Defenseless villages are bombarded from the air, the inhabitants driven out into the countryside, the cattle machine-gunned, the huts set on fire with incendiary bullets: this is called pacification. Millions of peasants are robbed of their farms and sent trudging along the roads with no more than they can carry: this is called transfer of population or rectification of frontiers. People are imprisoned for years without trial, or shot in the back of the neck or sent to die of scurvy in Arctic lumber camps: this is called elimination of unreliable elements. Such phraseology is needed if one wants to name things without calling up mental pictures of them. Consider for instance some comfortable English professor defending Russian totalitarianism. He cannot say outright, ‘I believe in killing off your opponents when you can get good results by doing so’.”


Today the same rhetoric and political “euphemisms” are used to hide the true agenda’s of governments, particularly in Australia’s current battle against “Terrorism”. However this rhetoric has evolved from euphemisms to out right lying.


A good example is the Howard Government sending more Australian troops to Afghanistan. This was the first time any mention of Afghanistan was heard in the press of any significance since the atrocity of 9/11. When the Prime Minister was asked why he was sending troops to the country, he said, more or less, terrorism is on the rise, we have intelligence that reveals al Qaeda are seeking refuge in the country and we do not want the terrorists to enter our own borders. This is of course paraphrased but the rhetoric is the same, we’re fighting a war on terror, the “terrorists” are in that country so we’re going there to prevent them from coming to Australia. Well, this is simply not the case. Afghanistan, like Iraq, is an occupied country, and because by its very culture, is made up of numerous tribes lead by various warlords, controlling the insurgents is getting out of hand for the American occupiers, thus our Yankee buddies need a hand to protect the construction of the new oil pipeline to the Caspian Sea, run by a consortium of Shell, BHP and other investors, a collusion of corporations and government with a vested interest in that precious resource, oil.


As Orwell states in his article, “But if thought corrupts language, language can also corrupt thought.”


Our language is fraught with relativism, old clichés, repeated well-worn phrases to the point that we simply believe what we read at face value, because our thoughts have been corrupted to the extent that we will believe anything if it seems not to have an immediate affect on our personal lives.


As a secondary English/History teacher, part of the curriculum is analyzing current issues and the use of persuasive arguments. The student is taught to recognize the use of language in order to express a particular point of view. Time and again we stress the importance of this skill in the application as future citizens and leaders of the future. Sometimes we are successful, sometimes not, however at the very least, the students now know to question what is placed before them, move beyond the surface and seek the truth of the matter. But it seems we as a people do not want the “truth” because it is too much to think about or the truth in most cases does not affect us in present time.


Journalism, at one time, used to be about telling the truth, communicating as clearly as possible, the subject or story being reported.


Orwell had some good advice for the writer to escape falling into clichés, euphemistic language, which makes the reader lazy, and at worst miss-informs, bending our thoughts to an apathetic state. The writer or journalist must read the classics, informing how writing works at its best, and at all costs avoid…” pre-fabricated phrases, needless repetitions, and humbug and vagueness generally.”


Orwell’s “elementary” advice is as follows:


“But one can often be in doubt about the effect of a word or a phrase, and one needs rules that one can rely on when instinct fails. I think the following rules will cover most cases:


1. Never use a metaphor, simile, or other figure of speech which you are used to seeing in print.
2. Never use a long word where a short one will do.
3. If it is possible to cut a word out, always cut it out.
4. Never use the passive where you can use the active.
5. Never use a foreign phrase, a scientific word, or a jargon word if you can think of an everyday English equivalent.
6. Break any of these rules sooner than say anything outright barbarous.


"These rules sound elementary, and so they are, but they demand a deep change of attitude in anyone who has grown used to writing in the style now fashionable. One could keep all of them and still write bad English, but one could not write the kind of stuff that I quoted in those five specimens at the beginning of this article.”


Fashionable writing seems now to be, in our popular media, to “cut and paste” other’s work, or change words around to manipulate a particular point of view. Journalism is now about entertainment, making the journalist the “story”, a celebrity, pushing the five second sound bite that has the most impact. Advertising, journalism, consumerism and in some cases, academicism, has morphed into a new kind of monster and it seems to me, we have become too lazy to do anything about it.


George Orwell’s last novel, in fact writing the final draft before his early death from tuberculosis at the young age of 48, fictionalized a government that killed language and reinvented its use in tired repetitive catch cries (advertising one liners) to mold the minds of a civilization, and succeeded. He titled this last work, “1984”


It is interesting how a morning gaze out the kitchen window at an overcast sky, connecting to a past time in England, jumping to an article read many years ago, would lead to thoughts about our use of language today and our society in general.


Orwell continues to be that beacon of political light in present time as he was for me so many years ago.


Craig William Middleton


Source:


Orwell, G., “Politics and the English Language”, first published in “Horizon”, GB, London, April 1946; taken from Web Site: http://www.orwell.ru/library/essays/politics/english/e_polit