Caius is dead.

The overwhelming majority of lawsuits settle before trial. By some estimates, fewer than 1 out of every 10 cases make it all the way to trial. And for the most part, settlement is the best option for both sides. Going to trial means more court fees, more attorneys’ fees, and, perhaps most importantly, the possibility of simply losing. A litigant who is able to accurately and rationally appraise the value of his case and the probability of success should be able to negotiate a settlement that minimizes his costs and risk. In that light, it seems that the biggest obstacle to settlement is the simple fact that people are not all that rational.

In The Death of Ivan Ilych, Tolstoy presents a beautiful example of a man who rationally knows one thing, but nonetheless refuses to believe it:

The syllogism he had learnt from Kiesewetter’s Logic: “Caius is a man, men are mortal, therefore Caius is mortal,” had always seemed to him correct as applied to Caius, but certainly not as applied to himself. That Caius—man in the abstract—was mortal, was perfectly correct, but he was not Caius, not an abstract man, but a creature quite, quite separate from all others. He had been little Vanya, with a mamma and a papa, with Mitya and Volodya, with the toys, a coachman and a nurse, afterwards with Katenka and will all the joys, griefs, and delights of childhood, boyhood, and youth. What did Caius know of the smell of that striped leather ball Vanya had been so fond of? Had Caius kissed his mother’s hand like that, and did the silk of her dress rustle so for Caius? Had he rioted like that at school when the pastry was bad? Had Caius been in love like that? Could Caius preside at a session as he did? “Caius really was mortal, and it was right for him to die; but for me, little Vanya, Ivan Ilych, with all my thoughts and emotions, it’s altogether a different matter. It cannot be that I ought to die. That would be too terrible.”

The Stoics equate nature, god, and reason. The highest good for man, therefore, would be to achieve purely rational thought. The problem, as Tolstoy observes, is that human thought will always consist of an admixture of reason and emotion. In this particular example, self-love clouds the reasoning of Ivan Ilych. In other cases, including a great number of lawsuits, anger or other emotions interfere with one’s ability to think clearly. One simply cannot be purely rational. For the Stoics, self-love and emotions are to be overcome in the name of reason. For Tolstoy, however, a purely rational life would be no life at all. What makes us human is not our ability to reason alone, but all of our emotional and mental capacity.

NiksickoBeer of the week: Nikšićko Pivo – Tolstoy lived through the Russo-Turkish War of 1877-1878. The culmination of that conflict was the Treaty of San Stefano, which granted the Principality of Montenegro official international recognition and expanded territory. Part of the new lands acquired included the city of Nikšić. And it is from Nikšić that this week’s beer comes. Frankly, I hoped for more from my first beer from Montenegro, and I really did not expect much. Despite the artificial coloring listed in the ingredients, the beer is still very pale. It pours with heaps of white foam. There is not much going on flavor-wise in Nikšićko, mostly just cheap grain and a slightly metallic aftertaste. Oh well.

Reading of the week: The Death of Ivan Ilych by Leo Tolstoy, Chapter VI – The above-quoted syllogism is somewhat novel to me. I had always heard it with Socrates rather than Caius. This reading really says a lot about the way that humans think, especially how they think about themselves in relation to the rest of the world.

Question for the week: How often do you persist in something out for emotional reasons when you know rationally that it is the wrong choice?


Alcibiades and Churchill

This weekend is ANZAC weekend. That means that it has been 101 years since some nine-hundred thousand young men from around the globe engaged in bloody battle in rocky terrain of the Gallipoli Peninsula in Turkey. The Turks successfully defended their homeland against the foreign invaders, but only after 9 months of brutal trench warfare. Winston Churchill, the mastermind of the Campaign, resigned in disgrace even before the final retreat. (Of course, he found his way back into power later on in life.)

The Battle of Gallipoli is particularly interesting because of the way that it encapsulated the notion of a “World War”. From the point of view of Western Europeans and Americans, this campaign was fought in an obscure theater, between obscure nations. Little enough attention is paid to WWI in schools as it is, but American students certainly learn next to nothing about the Turkish defense of the Dardanelles against Australians and New Zealanders. (To say nothing of the English colonials from Canada and India.) Only the fighting in Africa or Asia seems more remote to the traditional narrative of World War I.

Of course, the Gallipoli Campaign also inspired one of the great anti-war folk songs of all time, And The Band Played Waltzing Matilda by Eric Bogle. One of the scenes presented in the lyrics is the trooper ships departing Circular Quay in Sydney. “And amidst all the cheers, the flag-waving and tears, we sailed off for Gallipoli.” This is echoed in a later verse when “the crippled, the wounded, [and] the maimed” soldiers are shipped home, only to find that “nobody cheered, they just stood and stared, then they turned all their faces away.” The imagery calls to mind the beginning and the end of the Sicilian Expedition as described by Thucydides:

“Early in the morning of the day appointed for their departure, the Athenian forces and such of their allies as had already joined them went down to the Piraeus and began to man the ships. Almost the entire population of Athens accompanied them, citizens and strangers alike. The citizens came to take farewell, one of an acquaintance, another of a kinsman, another of a son, and as they passed along were full of hope and full of tears; hope of conquering Sicily, tears because they doubted whether they would ever see their friends again, when they thought of the long voyage on which they were going away. At the last moment of parting the danger was nearer; and terrors which had never occurred to them when they were voting the expedition now entered into their souls. Nevertheless their spirits revived at the sight of the armament in all its strength and of the abundant provision which they had made. The strangers and the rest of the multitude came out of curiosity, desiring to witness an enterprise of which the greatness exceeded belief.”

Like the ANZACs some 2,330 years later, the Athenians met with disaster when they decided to wage war across the sea. In the end, nearly the entire Athenian force was captured. The vast majority died in the wretched conditions of a make-shift prison camp in a rock quarry.  It is cliche to say that history repeats itself, but somebody has to say it if we are ever to break the cycle.

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Beer of the week: Ledenika Special – Bulgaria did not enter World War I until after the Gallipoli Campaign was well underway. As it turns out, Bulgaria ended up joining the wrong side. The Turks won the Battle of Gallipoli, but they and their allies lost the war. Ledenika is my first ever Bulgarian beer. The brew is very clear, very pale, and smells of crackers. The flavor is also reminiscent of crackers. Ledenika is very average, but it is always nice to try a brew from another country.

Reading of the week: History of the Peloponnesian War by  Thucydides, Book VI, Chapters 8-15 – Not everybody was waving flags and cheering at the Piraeus as the Athenians boarded their ships. Nicias, one of the generals, had tried in vain to convince the people that the Sicilian Expedition was a bad idea. This reading is one of his speeches, which, prophetic as it was, failed to dissuade the population once the war drums had been beat.

Question of the week: What is different about the Sicilian Expedition and the Gallipoli Campaign?


“I’ve given the Muse the day off.”

Writer’s block has proved to be a very fruitful topic for a number of authors. When heeded, the classic advice “write what you know” leads to an awful lot of writers writing about writing and writing’s attendant struggles. The film Barton Fink, for example, is a film about a screenwriter who can’t seem to get any words on paper. It is no mere coincidence that the Coen brothers wrote and produced that film while taking a hiatus from writing and producing Miller’s Crossing. Unable to find the right way to finish the first film, they turned to writing about writer’s block. (Unsurprisingly, Barton Fink features many of the same cast members as Miller’s Crossing. But that might have more to do with the fact that the Coen’s work with the same actors repeatedly.)

A quick google search turns up innumerable pieces of advice on how to overcome writer’s block. From a change of scenery, to a change of diet, there are heaps of “sure-fire ways to get your creative juices flowing.” But nobody seems to ask the question: should the person be writing at all?

In Phaedrus, Socrates relates a myth about the god called Theuth. Theuth was a great inventor, who devised mathematics and astronomy as well as “draughts and dice”. His greatest invention, however was writing. Theuth congratulated himself on giving such a great gift to humanity. But as it turned out, his gift was not as beneficial as he had expected.

People now do not have to remember anything, since they can always just reread anything they don’t recall. As a consequence, apparent knowledge is everywhere, but actual knowledge is seldom seen. Likewise, writing does not make people more wise. One does not become wise by reading, but by internalizing and understanding. Particularly where there is a very large amount of available writing (for example, a library or the internet,) one is apt to read more but understand less.

As a result of these contemplations, I have elected not to write a blog post this week. Kindly disregard the foregoing. (I wrote the beer review beforehand, so you might as well read it.)

Dundee Stout

Beer of the week: Dundee Stout – After declaring that I was done with winter beers last week, the weather forced me to reconsider. It snowed the next day, as well as several subsequent days including this morning. I suppose that one more hearty stout is in order. This very dark brown brew pours with a pretty tan head that fades just a bit too quickly. There are hints of ripe, dark fruit in the aroma. Although stout is not my favorite type of beer, I really enjoy this one. The dark roasted malt gives a sort of chocolate-covered espresso bean flavor to this beer. I did not expect much of Dundee (brewed by the the same company as Genesse,) but I think they might actually be one of the best values in American beer.

Reading of the week: Phaedrus by Plato, 274c – 275e – Phaedrus intended to impress Socrates by reading to him a beautiful speech. Socrates, in typical fashion, totally derailed his interlocutor’s desired course of conversation. Instead, the couple discuss at length the art of rhetoric.

Question of the week: What do you do when you feel creatively stifled?


One Last Winter Warmer

“We each of us fill a very small space
On the great creation’s plan,
If a man don’t keep his lead in the race
There’s plenty more that can;
The world can very soon fill the place
Of even a corner man.” – Banjo Paterson

Last week, some parts of the country got hit with a spring snow storm. Judging by the long-term weather forecast, that storm was old man winter’s last gasp. Another season has come and gone. Of course, this winter hardly showed up at all for some of us. (Standing outside in a t-shirt on Christmas Day was a first for me.) But seasons pass on to seasons, and each year is more or less the same as the last.

The same can be said for seasonal beers. Apparently the Boston Beer Company that has driven the demand for seasonal beers. I was told by an employee at the Red Hook brewery that everybody in the industry has started producing more seasonals, earlier (respectively) in the year to keep up with Sam Adams. As a big fan of beer variety, I can’t complain. However, the earlier seasonal beers are released, the earlier we give up on a season and move on. The calendar may say that it is spring, but I am not ready to quit on winter. And just because the days (and beers) march on, each one very much like the last, doesn’t mean we should give up on taking our time and enjoying the moment.

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Beer of the week: Autocrat Coffee Milk Stout – Unless there is a deep, dark corner of my refrigerator that has been left unexplored, this is my last winter seasonal for the year. Narragansett Brewing Company’s milk stout is mixed with Autocrat brand coffee to create a brew that pours with a creamy dark tan head. The aroma is of mild coffee, which is not surprising. The lactose (another unusual ingredient) does not ferment, so it remains in the beer to sweeten it. Between the coffee, the lactose, and the dark roasted malt, this beer tastes almost like an iced mocha. Only the slight hoppy finish reminds one that this is a beer. And a delicious one at that.

Reading for the week: The Corner-Man by Banjo Patterson – This poem’s conclusion is that the world will “jog along just the same” after we die. In some respects, it is a very disheartening idea for those of us who think much of ourselves. On the other hand, it may be regarded as a liberating prospect. Oh, and I suppose that I ought to mention that the poem includes a minstrel show. I had no idea that there were minstrel shows in Australia.

Question for the week: What is the best season for beer?


To You Our Hearts, To You Our Arms

I was not surprised that the recent terrorist attacks in Paris elicited a strong emotional response (at least among people whose facebook posts appear on my feed.) I was surprised, however, that the attacks in Brussels seemed to get far less attention among the same people. The general sense that I get is that the disparity results from the much closer historical and cultural connection between France and the US of A. But I have Belgian friends, and Belgian beer blows French beer out of the water, so I am sending all of my well-wishes in that direction. (Not that my sentiments are worth anything, but that is what I have to give at the moment.)

Whether in Belgium, France, or anywhere else, the occasion of catastrophe on the other side of the world is an interesting opportunity to reflect on our shared humanity. Why do we care if Belgians are bombed? If Frenchmen are shot? If some natural disaster befalls a distant land? Because we are humans, damn it! And so are those people. Do we do anything about it? Well… maybe nothing very helpful. But we at least take note.

Obviously, I am not the first person to ask why we should care about the calamities that befall people we will never meet. Adam Smith pondered the question over two and a half centuries ago in The Theory of Moral Sentiments:

Let us suppose that the great empire of China, with all its myriads of inhabitants, was suddenly swallowed up by an earthquake, and let us consider how a man of humanity in Europe, who had no sort of connexion with that part of the world, would be affected upon receiving intelligence of this dreadful calamity.

He would, I imagine, first of all, express very strongly his sorrow for the misfortune of that unhappy people, he would make many melancholy reflections upon the precariousness of human life, and the vanity of all the labours of man, which could thus be annihilated in a moment. He would too, perhaps, if he was a man of speculation, enter into many reasonings concerning the effects which this disaster might produce upon the commerce of Europe, and the trade and business of the world in general. And when all this fine philosophy was over, when all these humane sentiments had been once fairly expressed, he would pursue his business or his pleasure, take his repose or his diversion, with the same ease and tranquillity, as if no such accident had happened. The most frivolous disaster which could befall himself would occasion a more real disturbance. If he was to lose his little finger to-morrow, he would not sleep to-night; but, provided he never saw them, he will snore with the most profound security over the ruin of a hundred millions of his brethren, and the destruction of that immense multitude seems plainly an object less interesting to him, than this paltry misfortune of his own. To prevent, therefore, this paltry misfortune to himself, would a man of humanity be willing to sacrifice the lives of a hundred millions of his brethren, provided he had never seen them? Human nature startles with horror at the thought, and the world, in its greatest depravity and corruption, never produced such a villain as could be capable of entertaining it. But what makes this difference? When our passive feelings are almost always so sordid and so selfish, how comes it that our active principles should often be so generous and so noble?

The age of the internet has changed this aspect of life but little. Now our expressions of sorrow and our reasonings concerning effects take place online, allowing us to interact with a much wider group of people. Now we have instant access to news about events that, in Smith’s time, may have taken months to reach us. But perhaps most importantly, we can now see what’s happened in photographs and videos, bringing every tragedy closer to home in a way that Smith believed foreign events could never be. This, of course, cuts both ways. The immediate and graphic way in which we are able to perceive these events increases the impact of terrorism. But it also allows us to more readily experience the shared humanity that drives us to care at all.

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Beer of the week: Chimay Grande Réserve a.k.a. Chimay Blue – When I visited Belgium a few years ago, I imbibed many excellent beers. Like La Trappe, Chimay produces “Authentic Trappist Ale” inside the walls of a monastery. This, their strong dark ale, is orange-brown with a creamy tan head. The beautiful aroma is sweet and slightly sour. The ale itself is super smooth. The flavor is full, sweet, and delicious with notes of sweet biscuit.

Reading of the week: The Theory of Moral Sentiments by Adam Smith – After the above-quoted section, Smith goes on to discuss the conflict between self-love and humane impulses. He attributes much to what Freud would later call the superego.

Question of the week: What do you do in response to distant catastrophes?


Girl Power

There are complaints in some circles that there are not enough “strong female characters” in modern entertainment. And perhaps that really is a problem with modern entertainment. But maybe that just means that we should look to the ancients. After all, strong female characters are as old as theater itself. Consider The Oresteia by Aeschylus:

The trilogy starts with Clytemnestra, Queen of the Argives, taking revenge on her husband for killing her daughter. Despite the name of the play, she is clearly the main character of Agamemnon. She is both sympathetic and relentless in her determination to make Agamemnon pay for his sins. A woman wronged, Clytemnestra kills the warrior king who led the sack of Troy. A strong female indeed.

The final play of the trilogy, The Eumenidies, is regarded as the first dramatic presentation of a jury trial. And who are the principle participants in the trial of Orestes? The judge: Athena, goddess of wisdom. The prosecution: the Furies, ancient goddesses of retribution. It is true that the Apollo’s defense of Orestes results in an acquittal, and Athena specifically declares outright that she prefers the masculine to the feminine. But the play ends with the female immortals negotiating and eventually contracting an alliance that will preserve the city of Athens and the institution of trial by jury under their patronage. It is the strong, benevolent goddesses that we have to thank for many of the central aspects of our culture.

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Beer of the week: Zlatopramen 11 Degrees – Zlatopramen makes a wide range of flavored radlers, but this is their standard Czech lager. It is fairly basic, with a golden color and fluffy white head that fades just a bit too quickly. Aromatic hops lead the smell, with hints of grass. The taste is also dominated by the hops. The beer is not too bitter by any means, but they did not skimp on the bitterness either. Overall, I think this is Czech lager is quite good.

Reading for the week: Antigone by Sophocles – How about Antigone for a strong female lead? Her sister told her that women could not contend with men, and you know what Antigone had to say? “Maybe you can’t contend with men, but just watch me!”

Question for the week: Who is your favorite female character? (Ancient or modern.)


The Irish Don’t Keep Their Lovers Waiting

Earlier this week, there was a post in celebration of Casimir Pulaski Day. This post is meant to be a head-start on celebrating St. Patrick’s Day.

The Irish are a prolific people in some ways. There are plenty of jokes about the leporine breeding habits of Irish Catholics, but I am more interested in their prodigious writing. The first reading on this blog was by Oscar Wilde. Subsequent readings included works by Shaw, Oliver ByrneLord Dunsany, and Jonathan Swift. American writers of Irish descent have also been featured on this blog; Poe, Twain, Fitzgerald, and James all inherited the Irish way with words.

But it is not just in literature that the Irish excel. So prolific are the Irish in America, that no fewer than half of this nation’s presidents were of Irish descent. It may be unfair to hold that fact against the Irish as a whole, but it is not clear what that fact tells us.

The aspiration to public office in America is often maligned as merely seeking to suckle from the public teat. Or, as H. L. Mencken put it, the politician under democracy “is a sturdy rogue whose principal, and often sole, aim in life is to butter his parsnips.” This is perhaps unfair to the politician; it could be that there is something more noble driving him.

Even if there is a righteous impetus for the politician, he still must suffer for his efforts. Every effort put toward political success in a democracy has its price in the form of effort that cannot be exerted elsewhere. The question of whether one can be a good politician and a good man is still unclear to me. It seems possible that one cannot rise to any reasonably high level in government without compromising everything that makes one noble. For Mencken, of course, the answer was more clear: even if a good man could get elected to high office, he’d soon either turn bad (because of the company he’d be forced to keep) or jump out of the window.

Though many an Irish-American has sought and found political success in this country, perhaps they would have been well to consider the words of fellow son of Ireland, William Butler Yeats:

The Muse is mute when public men
Applaud a modern throne:
Those cheers that can be bought or sold,
That office fools have run,
That waxen seal, that signature.
For things like these what decent man
Would keep his lover waiting,
Keep his lover waiting?

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Beer of the week: O’Shea’s Traditional Irish Stout – Surprisingly, I have had relatively few Irish beers, so I was happy to find this one at the store. This stout is very dark brown with a quickly fading tan head. The aroma is slightly sour, of dark bread with hints of vanilla. The body of the beer is surprisingly thin. The finish is pleasantly smokey. This is not my favorite style of beer, but as far as dry stouts go, this one isn’t bad.

Reading for the week: A Model For The Laureate by William Butler Yeats – The first time I read this poem, it was part of an essay denouncing Yeats for his “anti-democratic philosophy.” The poem compares “good and great” kings, strong-armed tyrants, and democratic politicians. The more I read it, the more I am convinced that Yeats considered the last of these three to be the worst.

Question for the week: What is the greatest Irish contribution to our culture?


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