A Guide to the Good Life

Allow no one to convince you that I'm not up on the latest social media trends.  Every month I read a new post.  Last month, someone on my exercise network asked people about their favorite books, and William Irvine's book on "the ancient art of stoic joy" came up.  Now, long ago, I read some Epictetus; I paged through some Marcus Aurelius.  And while these gave me some idea of what Stoicism is all about, I figured it was an occasion to revisit the topic.  Irvine's book does a reasonable and accessible job of fleshing out the history of stoicism and massaging what is a rather diffuse school of philosophy into more doctrinaire, and thus more readily applicable, form.  His main goal in the book is to convince you that you should join him in practicing Stoicism.  If you're curious about the philosophy, and this is the sort of practical overview you're looking for, then I think the book can be very useful.  Unfortunately, while very clear, both the writing and thinking peak at drab, so it's hard to urgently recommend the book to a wider audience.

Irvine begins by trying to convince us that we should all adopt a "philosophy of life".  By this he means that we should examine our values and make sure that our goals and actions are commensurate with them.  That way we won't sit bolt upright on our deathbed and lament the fact that we didn't watch The Big Lebowski more often.  I'm tempted to call this advice common sense even though it's uncommon to find anyone -- and especially any professor of philosophy-- following it.  I mean, how would one purport to live well without pondering the meaning of "well"?  In a way, this question is perhaps Irvine's most valuable insight.  Our Western culture seems to have completely lost sight of the ancient root of philosophy as a way of life.  So it's refreshing to see someone remind us that the discipline began as an ethical or spiritual practice, and not merely the logical analysis of beliefs or language that it has devolved into.

Of course, the Stoics didn't merely ponder the question of what makes for a good life, they answered it.  For a Stoic, the goal is to live a "tranquil" life.  This is how Irvine translates ἀπάθεια, which he claims is the highest good of stoic philosophy.  Irvine doesn't go into the history of this word, though he is careful to distinguish it from the modern connotation of "apathy".  The goal of Stoicism is not to do or feel nothing at all, but to avoid being moved by "passions".  Instead, the Stoics would like to train themselves to follow the dictates of reason, because they ultimately see this as the essence or nature of humans.  Irvine is at pains to convince us that following our reason we can not only escape our negative passions but have a full, positive, active, and even joyous life.

There's a lot to recommend Stoicism and Irvine succinctly summarizes most of it's practices in his section of Stoic psychological techniques.  These include praiseworthy ways of approaching life such as: 

• practicing negative visualization so as to better appreciate what you already have by considering the possibility of losing it
• pondering which things you can control and which things you cannot in order to avoid wasting time worrying about the latter
• accepting that, since the past is fixed and the future unknown, your life should be focused in the present moment
• breaking your addiction to pleasure/pain avoidance by sometimes voluntarily remaining in discomfort
• carefully watching how you react to various situations in life and considering how you would like to react and why you often don't react as you would prefer.

These all seem like very valuable thoughts to me.  In fact, I'd say that I practice thinking these things many times a day, though certainly not continuously.  These general habits of thinking, together with specific advice the Stoics gave about dealing with envy, anger, insults, etc ... together constitute the stoic "philosophy of life".  Irvine claims that in his personal experience, practicing these thoughts has helped him to lead a lot more tranquil life, more focused on the things he believes are important and less disturbed by the things he has decided are unimportant.

I too find Stoicism appealing in many ways.  In fact, I don't think there's a single thought in the book I'd disagree with.  But this is actually weaker praise than it sounds.  The problem with Stoic thought is that it is just that -- at least as Irvine describes it, almost the entire practice of Stoicism entails entertaining certain prescribed thoughts.  This is great as far as it goes.  I would certainly agree that our thoughts have a major impact on our lives and vice-versa, creating the possibility of a feedback loop.  And we can systematically alter that impact through becoming more aware of what we're already thinking, and using that mindfulness to weed out certain thoughts and cultivate others.  As far as I can tell, this is pretty much what cognitive based therapy is all about, and while I haven't tried that modality myself, I know people who have found it very useful.  However, we should notice that the only non-cognitive practice Irvine describes is under-dressing for the weather so that we get used to handling the discomfort of feeling cold. 

But I know from my own experience that practice can go much deeper than merely manipulating thoughts.  Irvine mentions on several occasions that Stoicism has a lot of similarities to Buddhism.  He even confesses that before he became a practicing Stoic, back in his shopping-for-a-philosophy-of-life days, he considered devoting himself to Zen.  But he seems to have gotten the impression that Zen is all about sitting around not-thinking, emptying the mind in the sense of stopping thought.  This would understandably be a threatening practice for a philosophy professor.  Once you start actually practicing Buddhism, however, you quickly learn that it has very little to do with thoughts at all.  You're certainly not encouraged to stop thinking. For the most part you're encouraged to simply let thoughts come and go.  And while you might consider the cultivation of the brahmaviharas -- as antidotes for thoughts of hatred, anger, envy, and anxiety -- a type of cognitive based therapy, I've found that these practices become potent precisely when they transcend thinking and become somatic, emotional, and energetic practices.  In short, Buddhism isn't asking you to practice thinking a certain way, but to practice actually being a certain way.  The practice is mainly concrete and embodied, not abstract and 'rational', emotional and perceptual, not cognitive.  Or rather, its positive cognitive aspects are effects, byproducts, and not causes or the main goal of practice.  Changing the contents of your thoughts can change you a lot.  But changing your moment to moment embodied experience of life can completely transform what it's like to be a thinker. 

This comparison between Stoicism and Buddhism brings up the fascinating question of their historical relation.  Irvine talks a bit about Stoicism's Greek beginnings, and even gives us an overview its relation to its philosophical contemporaries Pyrrhonism and Epicureanism.  But he doesn't dive very deep on the evolutionary thread you can see running through these schools.  Each of them cultivated what you might call "tranquility", or what the Buddhists would refer to as equanimity, but it turns out that the original words involved here are not the same.  

As we saw, the Stoics aimed for ἀπάθεια, a-pathy, a-pathos or a-passion.  In his modern retelling, Irvine considers this state of mind as the goal in itself and even tells us that if we don't value tranquility highly, we probably shouldn't become Stoics.  Historically though, the highest goal of Stoicism was living a virtuous life in accords with our inherent human nature, which the Stoics took to be our Reason.  So a-pathy was in fact a nice byproduct but not itself the main goal.  

Irvine actually doesn't share this view that Reason is the essence of human nature.  Instead he adopts the viewpoint of evolutionary psychology and suggests that human nature is all about a drive for biological reproduction which gives no fucks for our individual happiness and is by definition 'irrational' (since mechanical).  However, somehow evolution accidentally invented Reason, and now we can turn this remarkable faculty to our individual advantage by going against our evolutionary nature.  Irvine, then, recommends the same Stoic practices even though his view of 'human nature' is diametrically opposed to the Greek and Roman Stoics.  I think he sees this as a relatively small modification, but in fact it introduces a lose thread that threatens to unravel the whole logic that distinguishes Stoicism from others philosophies of life.  This is because it robs a-pathy itself of any reason.  For Irvine, it becomes a state that we value in itself, the valuation of which can thus not be rational or essential or natural.  Indeed, insofar as we adopt evolutionary psychology as our viewpoint, Reason is 'completely 'unnatural' (if it even exists, a possibility that Irvine does not contemplate).  This puts Reason in the uncomfortable position of being a sort of nature-against-nature, a twist which quickly denatures the whole concept of the natural.  Following Nietzsche, I tend to believe that Essence and Reason and Nature are all categories invented after the fact to put a stamp of legitimacy on what you already wanted to believe for other reasons.  And once we admit that we like tranquility because it feels good in itself and because ... well ... that's like ... our opinion man ... then we've actually departed from Stoicism as a philosophy and become Epicureans!

Because the Epicureans believed that pleasure was the highest and best good.  Of course, Epicurus was no rock-and-roll drummer; he had a pretty high minded idea of what was truly pleasurable.  Chief among these things was achieving a state of "tranquility" that he called ἀταραξία -- a-taraxia, un-perturbedness, un-troubledness.  I don't know enough about Epicureanism to say  whether a-pathia is a subset of a-taraxia (as wikipedia suggests) -- whether this un-troubledness was considered synonymous with true pleasure or whether it was more a tool in service of reaching other pleasures.  There's clearly some subtle questions about higher and lower, shorter and longer term pleasures that would need to be addressed here.  Nevertheless, it seems to me that we're moving in an interesting direction, and one that Irvine already instinctively moved in without quite seeing it.  All of these schools of philosophy pondered the fundamental question of how to live a good life.  I observed earlier that the Stoics definitively answered the question -- live in accordance with reason, which is the opposite of passion.  It's a plausible answer, but it's surely not the only one, nor even close to the most obvious one.  Isn't it simpler and more parsimonious to punt on the question of the content of the highest value, and instead simply observe that whatever it is will feel pretty good when we get it?  With even just a little modern skepticism about whether there can be a single correct contentful answer about how to live well, we naturally tumble back towards the Epicurean position, and this is what happens to Irvine without his realizing.  He thinks he's a Stoic, but once he removes the bedrock Stoic assumption that we are inherently reasonable, all he's really saying is that, for him, it feels liberating to adopt a 'rational' perspective.  He says as much without seeing that in a broader sense this actually converts him into a Epicurean.

I say that we "tumble back" towards Epicureanism because it's clear that this is less of an answer to the question of how to live a good life than the Stoics provide.  In fact, one might even claim with some legitimacy that Epicurus doesn't answer the question but dodges it.  The way to live a good life is to feel good about life?  Isn't that a tautology?  Perhaps we should look at this non-response as a feature rather than a bug though.  In fact, maybe the important thing is not answering the question, but posing it.  My idea that there is an "evolutionary thread" reaching back from Stoicism through Epicureanism towards Pyrrhonism and its common root with Buddhism is based on this idea.  The Epicureans don't firmly answer the question of what constitutes a good life, but while jettisoning the assumption that it must follow the dictates of Reason, they preserve the assumption that it will feel good, something they assume we all understand and inherently value.  

By contrast, Pyrrhonism calls even this assumption into question.  We can think of it as even less of an answer to the original question.  Pyrrho thought we should be completely skeptical and withhold judgement entirely.  By distrusting even our senses, he undermines our belief that we know what feels good to us.  The idea is that this radical suspension of our own first person judgement is going to be a 'better' way to live because it will leave us un-troubled (ἀταραξία) even by trying to decide whether this particular experience right now is good or bad.  Instead of answering the question of what is a good life, Pyrrho dives headfirst into an endless asking of the question, holding fast only to the lack of answer.  The good life is one un-troubled even by whether or not life feels good, un-troubled even by needing to know what life feels like at all.  Clearly, this position contravenes common sense because it stops us in our tracks.  It seems like our only response to this line of thought would be to just sit there and experience ... what it's like to experience stuff as good or bad, while withholding judgement on whether it is 'really' good or bad.  Nobody seems to know what the actual practice of Pyrrhonism was like, but from this description it seems safe to conclude that it could not have been exclusively cognitive.

It's at exactly this point that the connection to Buddhism becomes clear.  Now, I don't know enough about either Pyrrhonism or early Buddhism to have much opinion about debates regarding their interaction.  So I can't even tell whether it makes me a Pyrrhonist or a Buddhist to withhold judgement!  But I was very intrigued by Stephen Batchelor's interesting comments on the topic.  While he considers these distinct philosophies that perhaps had some long-distance interaction, he nevertheless points out their similarities in a passage I found particularly compelling.

What is immediately apparent on reading the Four Eights is that they are strikingly devoid of any classical Buddhist doctrines such as the Four Noble Truths, the links of dependent origination, the jhānas, nirvana etc. And let alone as part of a triad of 'characteristics', the individual terms anicca, dukkha and anattā do not occur even once. Instead, we have a series of verses that present a profoundly Pyrrhonian view of life and the world.  Here are some examples:

Wrong-minded people do voice opinions
as do truth-minded people too.
When an opinion is stated, the sage is not drawn in— 

there's nothing arid about the sage.
Nowhere does a lucid one
hold contrived views about is or is not.
how could he succumb to them,
having let go of illusions and conceit? he's uninvolved.

he does not take up or discard any view— he has shaken them all off, right here. 

Dropping one, you clutch the next— 

urged ahead by self concern
you reject and adopt opinions
as a monkey lets go of a branch and seizes another.
The priest without borders
doesn't seize on what he's known or beheld.
Not passionate, not dispassionate,
he doesn't posit anything as 'ultimate'.
he lets go of one position without taking another—
he's not defined by what he knows.
Nor does he join a dissenting faction—
he assumes no view at all.
he's not lured into the blind alleys
of is and is not, this world and the next—
for he lacks those commitments
that make people ponder and seize hold of teachings. (Sutta-Nipāta. 780, 786, 787, 791, 795, 800, 801)

The sage or priest mentioned in these verses could easily describe Pyrrho himself, who according to Diogenes Laertius,
seems to have practiced philosophy in a most noble way, introducing that form of it which consists in non-cognition and suspension of judgement.... 

For he would maintain that nothing is honorable or base, or just or unjust, and that likewise in all cases nothing exists in truth; and that convention and habit are the basis for everything that men do; for each thing is no more this than this...

The Mysticism of Sound and Music

I had high hopes for Hazrat Inayat Khan's "modern classic".  And it certainly had many inspiring ideas as well as interesting insights and beautiful passages.  But ultimately this book is neither one I will come back to nor especially recommend.  I think this disappointment mainly stems from the fact that I was looking for a book about music that happened to be written by a mystic, whereas Khan is a mystic who happens to write about music.  

As a musician and musicologist himself, music is of course central to Inayat Khan's Sufi mysticism.  This is, however, really only because music stands as the most obvious experience we have of the vibrations which are, for Inanyat Khan, the ultimate nature of the universe.  Rhythm and tone are thus simply the most abstract form of a cycle, a succession of opposites, which in the end always symbolizes the synthesis of these opposites into a harmonious unity.  Music expresses the divine harmony of the universe.  It's one of the great wonders of the world that the formless and abstract world of music holds such intense emotional power for us.  Here is a 'cosmic vibration' that we can feel directly, both in its intellectual and sensual beauty.  In fact, given the Islamic penchant for a purely geometric art, I think one would naturally expect a similar use of music.  After all, it's hard to think of a better or more moving metaphor for the non-idolatrous worship of the 'face' of God.  Indeed, this seems to be precisely the Sufi position on the matter, even though apparently this makes them quite the minority in the Islamic world. 

Now, I would hardly object either to mysticism or to the use of music as an analogy in a mystical context.  Unfortunately, lifting music up to this metaphysical plane can tend to rob it of its specificity.  This is one of the problems that besets any articulation of mysticism.  Since all things and all practices converge on the ineffable divine, the distinctions between them tend to dissolve and the starting points to become relatively meaningless.  This can be either feature or bug, depending on your perspective.  On the one hand, the divine is always only one step away.  On the other hand, every step we take becomes in some sense the same.  From the latter perspective, mystical thinking can become a bit repetitive, and that is certainly one of the things that made this book less enjoyable.  Part of this repetitiveness stems from the fact that it was not written as a book but is merely a collection of unrelated public lectures for general audiences that Inayat Khan gave in the mid 1920's.  But part of it is inherent to the nature of his mystical beliefs, which center on the omnipresent, unified, and unique nature of God.  Since all doors necessarily open to a single divinity, the particular resonance of music with that divine can fade into the background. 

The Ware Tetralogy

A while back, Rudy Rucker's massive four novel Ware series migrated out of the cat bookstore and onto my shelf, likely because I saw it had won the Philip K. Dick award.  Remind me that not all awards are created equal.  It's not that the first two novels in the series (Software and Wetware) aren't fairly entertaining sci-fi on the Philip K. Dick cyberpunk model -- but award winning?  They just didn't seem to me to have that much going for them either in the domain of unexpected ideas or in terms of writing craft.  I mean, our brains are just software, man!  Maybe kinda prescient in 1982?  But not an idea that's explored here from a philosophical angle.  And while the very PKD concept of describing futuristic drug highs is interesting in concept, it turns out that describing any drug high is actually kinda boring.  Just ask your stoner friends to tell you about their last epic trip.  Let me guess, it was crazy!  So crazy they spent the whole time giggling on the couch.  Getting high might be fun, but reading about it isn't.  More interesting would be the action of the second novel, where the 'bopper' robots are killed off by a strain of "chipmold" that decimates all silicon before creating a newly intelligent symbiotic fusion with a type of plastic called 'moldies'.  Wetware is surely the high point of the collection, and has the most interesting characters and twists and turns.  

After that, things go downhill in pretty much every way.  I have the impression that after his earlier success, Rucker decided he was 'a writer', and so when he returns ten years later to continue the saga, we find a less interesting story saddled with much more florid prose and a bunch of irrelevant gossip that I suppose one would file under 'character development'.  Rucker should have stuck with his hardboiled pulp fiction style all the way.  Judging from the first two books, the results might still have been of uneven quality, but at least this would have fit with the spirit of the award. 

Already Free

I don't remember how I heard about Bruce Tift, but I've long been interested in the intersection contained in his book's subtitle, "Buddhism Meets Psychotherapy on the Path of Liberation".  Tift is both a practicing individual and couples therapist, as well as a long time student of Chögyam Trungpa's Vajrayna Buddhism, so I imagined he would be drawing parallels between the two approaches.  Since we've already seen a couple of books that discuss psychotherapy almost as if it were a spiritual path in its own right, one that the authors seem to take as almost perfectly parallel to Buddhism, I was a bit surprised when Tift began his discussion by suggesting that perhaps the two cannot be unified.  

While it sounds provocative at first, Tift hardly thinks that Buddhism and psychotherapy are incompatible.  What he wants to point out is that they have distinctly different aims.  Very roughly speaking, psychotherapy aims to give you a better, more adult, self, while Buddhism aims to let go of the self entirely.  Tift thinks that both the "developmental view" of psychotherapy and the "fruitional view" of Buddhism are valuable and can be effectively pursued in sequence or in alternation, but he wants to first emphasize how these different paths with different aims.  Rather than merging the two, his conception of their relationship actually reminded me more of Tucker's mantra "process when you can, content when you have to".  If we are able to step back and see the process by which our sense of self and its problems arise and pass away, then these phenomena suddenly become much less sticky and problematic just through the opening of this space of Awareness.  However, we are not always able to do this, and in these cases, we need to work directly with the problematic content to try and uncover exactly where the problem lies.  In the book, Tift mostly treats the relationship between the two approaches as a sequence of development.  He outlines a map that moves from a pre-personal phase through personal and interpersonal phases before culminating in the nonpersonal.  But it would probably be a mistake to interpret the map as exclusively linear, and if we recognize that we are all still in the pre-personal phase with some things some of the time, the whole schema may not different substantially from process when you can, content when you have to.

Naturally, the book contains much more than this simple thesis about the relationship between Buddhism and psychotherapy.  In truth, it's more of a dharma book that you value for its many little nuggets of insight than a traditional non-fiction book that you value for its information.  Which perhaps somewhat excuses the fact that it felt a bit repetitive and could have easily been half as long.  Some of the things that will most stick with me are simple but powerful ideas that Tift repeated many times -- don't be aggressive towards your experience, don't try to make it change, don't look for the source of problems outside yourself but try to uncover an internal fear or need that converts an experience into a problem.  All these fit well with my current practice of expanding the scope of receptive awareness to include and even love more and more unwanted and disturbing (in the sense of disequilibrating) content.  

The other bit of the book I found particularly useful were the two chapters devoted to Tift's reflections on how our intimate relationships can be powerful vehicles for waking up.  For a couples therapist, he presents a surprising view of relationships as fundamentally disturbing.  These are encounters where we find our buttons pushed hard and repeatedly, which, if we let go of the idea that the aim of intimacy is a harmonious calm, makes it the perfect place to apply our spiritual practices.  In fact, Tift almost treats being part of a couple as a form of exposure therapy -- through it we widen our tolerance for feeling anxious, misunderstood, suffocated, and alone (as well as sometimes delighted and comforted).  This seems like a powerful reorientation to what's 'problematic' in our lives.  Take my wife ... please.  If she doesn't kill me, she'll make me stronger!  Just kidding honey.

The Subtle Body

Let me keep this short.  Cyndi Dale's Encyclopedia of Your Energetic Anatomy is gobbledygook.  

I've been working with 'energy' in my meditation practice for a while now.  I can't tell you what energy is, but I can tell you that it is as real as any other phenomenon -- it has a repeatable structure independent of my whims that has a reciprocal impact on other structures I habitually take to be real like my thoughts and body.  To affect and be affected is pretty much the definition of reality as far as I'm concerned. So I don't think the book is bafflegab (op. cit.) because I think energy is bunk.  I picked it up in hopes of, well, better understanding my energetic anatomy. 

Instead, I got a rambling incoherent explanation of what energy is, filled with dubious metaphysical assumptions, junk science, and confused appeals to renegade 'authorities' (a contradiction in terms if ever there was one).  The most useful part of the book is the chapter entitled "Energy Practices", which lists out every different kind of 'new age' healing modality the author has ever heard of and provides a brief comment about each modality.  While I've only ever tried acupuncture, I'm quite sure that many of the other modalities listed here are very effective.  However, you certainly wouldn't be able to figure out which one is likely to be effective for you from this poorly organized and summary information.  This one is going straight into the cat bookstore pile. 

Underworld

I believe it was a recent NYT article that insisted Underworld was Don DeLillo's masterpiece.  Since I vaguely remembered enjoying White Noise, I thought I would give it a try.  Unfortunately, at 800 pages it felt to me too sprawling and overlong to really fall in love with.  However, there are lots of things to like about the novel.  The writing alone kept me from ever putting it down.  Mid-career DeLillo seems to be completely in command of his craft; at some points the writing is so dense with overlapping voices and textures that it feels almost woven.  The plot too has so many threads and characters that intersect in various ways that, when you don't feel smothered by attempting to reassemble the plan of all this complexity, you can always let yourself drift from one splendidly drawn detail to the next.  There are even certain moments of sublime beauty that will stick with me -- the painting on the B-52s, the climax with George the waiter.  But in many ways I thought the book was a bit ... indulgent, a bit nostalgic and autobiographical in a way reminiscent of Ada.  After a while it becomes like eating too much candy at once.  Or like idly reflecting on the unity, or lack thereof, in our our own lives.  Certainly, there are worse things that indulging the nostalgic daydreams of an aging great writer.  But, then again, perhaps there are better things. 

A Canticle For Leibowitz

Walter M. Miller's retro sci-fi apocalypse arrived in the mail as a birthday gift apparently designed to remind me of my mortality (thanks EA!).  While I don't want to spoil it by giving too much away, I think it's fine to say that it tells the story of how all things pass away from a deeply Catholic perspective -- roughly speaking, the endless cyclic instability of the world is laid at the doorstep of original sin.  That said, one hardly needs to be a Catholic to read or enjoy the book (though some knowledge of Latin would have helped).  It's a well told story with a number of surprising twists that, despite its clear message, does not browbeat the reader like a pedantic allegory.  In fact, in the end, there is even a profoundly weird and rather subversive ray of hope for 'humanity'.  Just don't pick it up with the expectation of feeling comforted about turning 50.