Wednesday, September 15, 2004

Notes on the Times September 2004

Our Unbearable Lightness of Being (Why We Exist)

By Steven Rybicki and David Shaw
(Reprinted from the inaugural issue)
When we arrived at Patrick Henry College as freshmen, we knew that we had all the right answers. College, we deduced, would be a good opportunity for us to iron out some minor epistemological details. Cocky and eager to impress, we were quick to assert ourselves; resolutely explaining our opinions, our "knowledge." We spoke arrogantly, desperate to dis­play our wisdom, but really only revealing our engrained insecurities and overall naiveté. We were dogmatic, excited to argue—not to learn, but to demon­strate superiority. Both of us exuded a divisive arro­gance which manifested itself in a convert-or-kill men­tality. We had little tolerance for those with whom we disagreed. We cannot over-emphasize the height of our folly: to paraphrase Bob Dylan, we knew about Man, and God, and Law, and we knew that we were the brains behind it all.
Then, our classes started to have their effect. Initially, we offered our pat, Sunday school answers. And for those dutiful purges of recycled ignorance, we received poor grades. Those mediocre marks from genuinely unimpressed professors shook our smug attitude. Our interaction with the faculty at PHC led to a deconstruction of our pretensions and laughably sim­plistic presuppositions. It began to dawn on us that our "knowledge" was terminally deficient. Both of us being motivated perfectionists who genuinely fear any form of "failure," we started seeking to learn.
The genesis of this organization lies in the essen­tial fat that our professors have offered sensitivity and guidance hand-in-hand with their constructive and complete devastation of our intellectual "accomplish­ments." Our professors pushed us and, in doing so, provided us with an opportunity to learn, grow, and
mature. We owe them a debt we cannot easily repay.
The beauty of a liberal education is not the knowl­edge accumulated, but the chance to learn how to learn. To be completely honest, we are still in the process of discovering the proper questions. Consequently, it is apparent that our goal is not to find or assert "answers," but to discern how to continue to uncover and posit the right questions. Perhaps the most important thing we now know is who little we actually knew. In this environment, we have discov­ered the virtue of critical reflection. Hopefully, enough of our ineptitude and folly has been stripped away so that we are in a better position of demanding and understanding internally coherent, intellectually accomplished conclusions.
With our minds broadened we are now beginning to sense the immensity and complexity of the world around us. Accordingly we acknowledge the immatu­rity and childishness of our previous assumptions. When we were children, to echo St. Paul, we spoke like children, thought like children, reasoned like chil­dren. In our time at Patrick Henry College, we have resolved to give up our childish ways.
With this background, the Alexis de Tocqueville Society exists to foster and further the spirit of critical reflection that has given us and continues to give us so much. We are not a group of people who have arrived; our goal is not to substitute sophisticated arrogance for simplistic arrogance. Rather, we want to create a context wherein we can continue to mature and where we can help to cultivate collective intellectual growth on campus. So, we invite you to join us as we begin to discover what it means to pursue Beauty and Truth.

Bourgeois Nation: a review of "The Right Nation"

By David J. Shaw
Conservative watching is in vogue these days. Formerly the domain of left-wing groups seeking to marginalize conservatives, mainstream media is increasingly beginning to pay attention to conserva­tives as conservatives. From the Washington Post to CNN, more and more stories are focusing on the con­servative movement, not merely as a subgroup of the Republican Party, but as a movement in its own right. Most notably, the New York Times now has a reporter dedicated to the "conservative beat." Joining the fray are two British writers. John Micklethwait and Adrian Wooldridge, with their new book The Right Nation: Conservative Power in America. Micklethwait and Wooldndge, both writers for the Economist, approach America as detached foreigners and veteran observers. While not without bias or preference, they are never­theless able to view America and its conservative movement as a whole, and frame their analysis within a larger picture. The result is a remarkably insightful, relevant, and readable book on the American conser­vative movement. This accomplishment is achieved because Micklethwait and Wooldridge understand that American conservatism and American exceptionalism must be understood in relation to one another.
I.
The :hes;s of 7>:e Right Nation is that American con­servatism exp'.r.ns American exceptionalism. The rea­son Amer.cj :s so d-.rYerent from France or the rest of Western Europe :s recause of the modern American conservative moverr.er.:. There is no foreign equiva­lent to American conservatism. Indeed, Americans largely misunderstand "conservative" European par­ties. "Christian Democrats" are not "Christian" in the same way that James Do'oson is "Christian." Conservatives in Europe are nothing like conserva­tives in America. As a result. Micklethwait and Wooldridae araue, America is fundamentally a more
conservative nation.
Micklethwait and Wooldridge's thesis is com­pelling in that America is different from Europe and one of the most striking differences between the two is the existence of a distinctively American conser­vatism. But, is America different because America is conservative or is America conservative because America is different?
II.
The Right Nation is both a "portrait and an argument." The portrait is better than the argument. Micklethwait and Wooldridge provide a Tocquevillian survey of modern American conservatism, ranging from an overview of the past to an analysis of the present to predictions about the future. With brevity and wit characteristic of writers for the Economist, Micklethwait and Wooldridge are able to give a broad overview while also providing a plethora of detail and careful analysis. The book is divided into four parts: history, anatomy, prophecy, exception. The first three sections are the portrait; the last, the argument. Before these topics are discussed, however, Micklethwait and Wooldridge define American conservatism and what makes it distinct. American conservatism shares with traditional conservative political philosophy a deep suspicion of state power, a preference for liberty over equality, and an abiding patriotism; it deviates from traditional conservatism in that it is populist, anti-establishment, and progressive in outlook. Thus, American conservatism is a contradiction. It is con­servatism heavily influenced by classical liberalism (and I believe a dose of progressivism). The result: social conservatives and libertarians, both operating under the same basic rubric, both part of the same "movement." Despite the incongruity of American conservatism, this meshing of competing ideologies has produced a vibrant political force. How? in.
Chapters one through four answer this question, cov­ering the rise of conservatism in America. Micklethwait and Wooldridge's history of modern American conservatism is concise and compelling. It is the most interesting aspect of their work because it lays the foundation necessary to understand the rest of The Right Nation.
The story of American conservatism's rise to dominance begins, ironically, with its utter defeat. In the 1950s, conservatism was the refuge of marginal­ized cranks. Some of these were deservedly marginal­ized: elements of Ayn Rand are goofy and Joe McCarthy was both a bully and a shameless self-pro­moter. Others were simply born in the wrong century. Whatever the case, liberalism dominated. Three things began to spark a change. The first was the rise of credible right-wing intellectuals-most notably econ­omists. These economists, ranging from Hayek to Friedman (both at the University of Chicago), argued for the superiority of the free market over government interference and clashed directly with the Keynesian orthodoxy of the day. The second and third factors Micklethwait and Wooldridge point to can be general­ized as the shifting of the political center of gravity to the South and the West. The South began to be dissat­isfied with the Democratic Party-particularly its stand on civil rights-and the West continued to grow and its population tended to be more libertarian in outlook. These strands-the intellectuals, the demography, and the racism-all came together in the person of Barry Goldwater and his 1964 presidential candidacy. Goldwater, an Arizonan and thus a westerner, was a conservative of libertarian leanings who relied on the ideas of the free market intellectuals and who broke the Democratic stranglehold on the South. He also lost in a landslide. In his loss, though, was the fore­shadowing of the coming conservative dominance.
Revitalized conservatism, while necessary to explain the "Right nation,7' is not sufficient in Micklethwait and Wooldridge's estimation. The con­servative rise to power must be understood both
through the emergence of a credible conservative alternative and the liberal loss of credibility. The 1960s was a remarkable decade. The optimism of the early 1960s is only matched by the pessimism of the late 1960s. And in this shift, the unified liberalism that had confidently governed the country since the 1930s cracked. The New Left radicalized the Democratic Party and, in doing so, alienated millions of tradition­ally Democratic voters-white ethnics, Roman Catholics, union members, and more. Nixon built on this with his rhetoric of the "Silent Majority"' and, while not a conservative by any means, continued to lay the foundation for conservative power. All of the elements that had begun to germinate with Goldwater were in full blossom by the time of Ronald Reagan.
If the story of the latter half of the twentieth century, at least in terms of American politics, is the rise to dominance of conservatism-as Micklethwait and Wooldridge claim it is-then how do you explain Bill Clinton? The answer is threefold: (1) Bill Clinton was elected as a moderate-a Southern centrist correc­tive to Northeastern liberalism; (2) when Bill Clinton tried to govern as a liberal, as he did from 1993 to 1994, he was soundly rejected; and (3) the successes of the Clinton era are moderate, even conservative, in nature: welfare reform and balanced budgets. Bill Clinton illustrates not that liberalism was still viable but that the only viable national Democrats were mod­erate, non-liberal ones. Thus, The Right Nation argues, the political center of gravity has shifted right. George W. Bush may have just barely won in 2000, but America is more conservative than it is liberal.
IV.
Surveying the current landscape of American conser­vatism. Micklethwait and Wooldridge note p.vo main thrusts: the first is the intellectual and political ieader-ship-the brains: and the second, the grassroots-the brawn.
One rhing that separates American conser­vatism from American iiberaiism-and helps explain its dominance-is the sense of purpose that is possesses. The current conservative establishment, or counter- establishment, came to maturity and defined itself against what it perceived as a liberal monolith. It is ridiculous to speak of the conservative movement as a "vast right-wing conspiracy." at least in the sense of a coordinated cabal, but there is a sense of "us" versus "them," and "we" are all on the same side. The Right Nation captures this as it examines the intellectual and political leadership of conservative America. Think tanks, such as the American Enterprise Institute, the Heritage Foundation, and the Cato Institute, feature prominently as does Bill Kristol's Weekly Standard. Micklethwait and Wooldridge also highlight the emer­gence of right-wing media outlets, most notably the Fox News Channel and the "blogosphere," including Andrew Sullivan and Glenn Reynolds. These new media are more than simply a corrective to an estab­lishment media biased against conservatives; they are more potent because they are self-consciously conser-vative-they take sides without apology, something established (liberal?) media can only do with great risk to its own reputation.
The brawn of American conservatism can be roughly divided into two categories: antigovernment conservatives and social conservatives. The former is composed of an assortment of tax-cutters and gun nuts; the later, primarily religious conservatives. The superficial contradiction is striking: the first group wants government out of people's lives; the second group wants government in people's lives. This con­tradiction would seem insurmountable (and might indeed be) except for the fact that there is significant overlap between the two: the same people who own guns, want lower taxes, and think the government should stay out of their lives also attend religiously conservative churches and -.van: :o see both abortion and gay marriage bar.r.ed. The ideas defining American conservatism may be dichotomous, but the movement itself is a spectrum. There are enough con­servatives who define themselves as both pro-gun and pro-life to bridge the gap between the libertarians who desire to legalize marijuana and the Christians who want to ban alcohol (at least for now).
V.
Having observed both conservatism's rise to, and its possession of, power, the authors next address its future. Will conservatism dominate or decline? In Micklethwait and Wooldridge's estimation, both are possible. Demographics, cultural trends, and recent history seem to point to a bright future for conser­vatism in general and the Republican Party in particu­lar. At the same time, conservatism has its pitfalls. There is much contradiction in the conservative move­ment-is it too much to imagine it fracturing and imploding? The Right Nation explores both possibili­ties. The advice it offers? The Republican Party must avoid becoming "too Southern, too greedy, too contra­dictory." That is, avoid overemphasizing divisive social issues such as abortion and avoid abusing the privileges of power and running up massive deficits. In order to grow and maintain hegemony, conserva­tives must keep their current coalition together and continue to attract more people to it. Extremism scares moderates, so, Micklethwait and Wooldridge stress, conservatives must shun extremism.
In the final aspect of their portrait of American conservatism, Micklethwait and Wooldridge examine conservatives "behind enemy lines": black intellectu­als, college students, and women. Blacks, youth, and women are traditionally liberal constituencies. Conservatism is making inroads, though. Black intel­lectuals, ranging from Thomas Sowell to Alan Keyes to Ward Connerly, are strong advocates against affir­mative action and for school vouchers. The College Republicans is a massive student organization that boasts of producing Karl Rove and serves as a farm team for the Republican Party. Conservative women, particularly the blonde bombshells on Fox News, are wrestling "women's issues" away from Democrats. The trend for conservative America is bright.
VI.
Is American conservatism the cause of American exceptionalism, or is it a consequence? The Right Nation argues that it is the cause. America is different because America is conservative. I disagree. America isn't truly conservative, or, rather, America is only con­servative according to a thoroughly American defini­tion of "conservatism." There is no true Right-wing in America, nor has there ever been. Monarchy and fas­cism never caught hold in America; nor, for that mat­ter, did true Left-wing movements such as socialism and communism. The United States may be to the right of contemporary Europe, with its greater toler­ance of economic inequality and support for the death penalty, but not long ago it was to the left. Fundamentally, though, America is neither Left nor Right but Center.
The reason, I believe, lies in America's found­ing. America represents a pre-radicalized version of modernity. The roots of the American Revolution are, at their most ambitious, classically liberal. Thus, America is essentially moderate. Regime level ques­tions were settled irrevocably in 1787 and nothing since then has represented any significant deviation from them. The Civil War, even, was fought over the appropriate application of those founding principles. Have there been changes or shifts? Undoubtedly, but they have been subtle and without acknowledgement.
The Progressives are, perhaps, the most ambitious American movement since its founding. Even they, though, sought not to repeal or overturn but only mod­ify what the founders wrought-to achieve Jeffersonian ends through Hamiltonian means.
America is comfortably liberally democratic. I mean that not in an Americanized understanding of "liberal," which thinks only on the level of small party politics, but rather as a statement of great party poli­tics, for all modern American conservatives are liberal democrats at heart. And they share this heritage with "Liberal Democrats." The quibble between American "conservatives" and American "liberals" has nothing to do with liberalism or conservatism. At best it deals with an argument over the precise interpretation of "life" or "freedom," and typically only truly relates to power and who gets to dole out the rewards to whom. "The business of America is business," the saying goes, and how true it is. Americans care about money. Religion is important, too, but only to a moderate degree. America isn't the Right nation, it's the bour­geois nation.

The Protestantism of Kierkegaard

By Matthew Brownfield
Søren Kierkegaard concludes the third problema of Fear and Trembling by writing, "Either there is a par­adox, that the single individual as the particular stands in an absolute relation to the absolute, or Abraham is done for" (144). According to Kierkegaard, the knight of faith carries on an unmediated relationship with God. By necessity, he is "God's confidant, the Lord's friend, and... [addresses] God in heaven as Thou'" (105). These statements, if read in isolation, might pass as Protestant platitudes; however, their implica­tion for ethics merit a more serious exploration. When Kierkegaard speaks of an "absolute relation to the absolute," he is placing the knight of faith, in this case Abraham, beyond the realm of the ethical. Through Abraham's active willingness to sacrifice his son, the patriarch transcends the universal (ethical) on the strength of the absurd. According to Kierkegaard, this necessary "leap of faith" frees Abraham, and all subse­quent knights of faith, from ethical considerations. One is to act only in "absolute relation to the absolute." This suspension of a shared ethic marks Kierkegaard's departure from general Protestant thought.
It is an accepted Protestant belief that Christ is the sole mediator between God and man. Since Christ is one with God. and since man knows Christ through faith, Protestants should agree that a knight of faith knows God in an absolute way through faith. However, Kierkegaard goes further than most Protestants by claiming that this intimate relationship with God necessarily transcends the ethical. This dif­ference in position stems from two related disagree­ments. First, Kierkegaard considers the ethical to be the sole property of the "systematizers," a group of philosophers whom he despises. And, second. Kierkegaard believes Abraham's act must be replicable by others in order for Abraham to be the "founder of faith."
Both the Preface and Epilogue seem to suggest one of the underlying purposes for Fear and Trembling was to expose the inhumanity of the moral musings of Hegel and Kant. Kierkegaard responds to their sys­tematic, antiseptic view of man's interaction with God with a bold cry for faith. He attacks the notion that "the ethical is the universal and as such, in turn, the divine" (98). For Kierkegaard, there must be a higher telos than the ethical, and God must be known more intimately than "in an altogether abstract sense as the divine" (98). Kierkegaard wants the modem moralist to look into the souls of individual men, not to force a general framework on top of humanity. He also wants people to taste the fear men once felt toward God and to recognize the struggle of faith. For Kierkegaard, neither God nor mankind can be categorized in neat divisions.
An attack upon the ethics of modernity is not necessarily in contradiction with Protestantism. However, denying the basis for shared, knowable stan­dards for actions presents a conflict with Protestant thought. Kierkegaard, using the narrative of Abraham, totally individualizes the ability to judge moral action. He says, "Faith is just this paradox, that the single individual is higher than the universal,...that having been in the universal, the single individual sets himself apart as the particular above the universal" (84). Abraham, the knight of faith, breaks an ethical com­mand not to murder by his plan to sacrifice his son. Through this action, Abraham receives God's praise and proves his faith. Therefore, for Kierkegaard, the act of faith can include the breaking of an ethical stan­dard. Kierkegaard does not make a public transgres­sion of the ethical a necessary part of becoming the knight of faith (e.g., the knight of faith described on 68-69), but, rather, requires an internal denial of the universal and an absolute trust in the absolute. This paradox, the teleological suspension of the ethical, explains how Abraham can be the knight of faith while disobeying a universal commandment of God.
Kierkegaard succeeds in destroying the idea that obedience to a systematized ethic is the highest end of man, but he also destroys the idea that any uni­versal (i.e., known and shared) ethical standards bind the knight of faith. Protestants can agree with the first point of destruction. For the Protestant, ethics is a sub-category for judging action, not the end of action. Man's highest duty is to God. However, in contradic­tion to the second destruction, man also has the duty to love his neighbor. The Bible is very specific about the ways one loves his neighbor. Scripture relates many universal prohibitions against actions, such as theft, murder, rape, and lying. These standards are written for all to see, and scripture commands Christians to rebuke one another when individuals transgress these rules. Protestants cannot ignore these scriptural com­mands. Therefore, while they may agree with Kierkegaard that the "systematizers" needed to be destroyed, Scripture provides a basis for ethics apart from the theories of modernity.
The problem for the Protestants centers on the fact that God commanded Abraham to kill Isaac, an innocent. This appears to be inconsistent with even the scriptural ethic. So, Protestants must provide a solution that allows for Abraham's action to be praise­worthy, but still maintains the universal principles revealed in Scripture. The solution to the dilemma involves the second Kierkegaardian and Protestant disagreement.
The general response to the question of replic-ability concerning Abraham's act, a response which seems to chafe Kierkegaard, is that God was testing Abraham's faith at a very specific time, in a specific manner, and for a specific purpose. Kierkegaard's response is that if Abraham's act is qualified by con­text, then "let's forget him, for why bother remember­ing a past that cannot be made into a present" (60). In order for Kierkegaard's framework to hold, in order for Abraham to be the "founder of faith," an act similar to Abraham's must be replicable by any knight of faith. He makes this point by condemning the modem-day
preacher who overflows with righteous indignation toward the insomniac who considers killing his own son (58-59, 81). Kierkegaard does not want to judge off-hand, for perhaps the insomniac, like Abraham, is a knight of faith who stands in an "absolute relation to the absolute." However, a Protestant would quickly condemn the insomniac, for it is against the law of God to murder, and the killing of an innocent is mur­der. The Protestant position is that God does not reveal himself in an individual fashion in order to command an individual to transgress scripture.
Protestants do not need Abraham's act to be replicable in order for Abraham to be the father of faith, for Protestants make a distinction in the way God relates to man. Man receives salvation directly from God, knows God in a personal way, worships God without mediation, and prays directly to God. In this regard, man stands in an "absolute relation to the absolute." However, God has revealed his laws for action in a universal manner. All men can look at Scripture and can discern the way they should act. In this regard, man's understanding of God is mediated by Scripture, and he is then bound by the universal.
Therefore, Abraham is still the founder of Faith, for he was the first to receive the promise of the Messiah. He teaches Christians the way to worship God, and the gives an example of humble obedience. However, Abraham is not the founder of ethics. Instead, Abraham operates in a similar way as Aeneas did for the Romans. He transmits an ethic from one city to the next. Both Aeneas and Abraham left the land of their fathers for the purpose of establishing a new kingdom. As such, the ethics of a people were internalized in one person for the purpose of transmis­sion to a new land. This arrangement was not perma­nent. When Rome rose, and law was established, citi­zens obeyed it. It did not matter that Aeneas, the model for the pious man, did things they were forbid­den to do. for he was in the special position of bearing within his family the gods of future Rome. In the same way, Abraham the man represents the whole peo­ple of God. God planted within him and his seed the ethic for His future people, and gave Abraham direct revelation in matters of both faith and action. Hence, for Abraham, there was no distinction between the way in which God revealed himself-Abraham stood in an "absolute relation to the absolute." However, after Christ, the Promise of Abraham, established the church and the apostles completed the Scriptures, Christians began to obey the fulfilled law of the city of God. This law presents God's complete revelation concerning action, and does so in a universal manner. As such, Christians are not to transgress the law, for in doing so they disobey God. Furthermore, the com­pleteness of the law means that God will not reveal
Himself in a different way in the future. Therefore, Christians stand in an "absolute relation to the absolute" in matters of faith, but God mediates himself to them through Scripture for matters of practice.
In conclusion, while Kierkegaard effectively destroys the shallow view of ethics presented by the "systematizers," he fails to address a Protestant view of ethics and the distinctions Protestants make con­cerning the way God reveals Himself to man. In doing so, he too hastily relieves the knight of faith from his secondary duty to the universal for the purposes of his primary duty to God.

Christian Love and Patriotism

By Michaela Willi
I am glad I live in the United States. I am frightened when its security is breached. I feel more kinship with Americans than with people from other countries. Yet I wince when a politician implies that American patri­otism is something holy. This is because I do not attribute my "patriotism" to my Christianity, but to my self-interested human nature. As a selfish human being, I naturally will prefer to belong to the strongest and most prosperous nation in the world. I will be frightened when the collective security is threatened because my security and that of my family and friends is also threatened. I will feel a greater attachment to the people who share a common language and culture. Christians can certainly be thankful that they live in a nation that enjoys relative security, liberty, and pros­perity. Since they will presumably be living with their fellow countrymen, Christians also have the responsi­bility to act towards them in a loving manner.
However, the absence of national awareness in the New Testament, the division of humanity into believers and non-believers, and Christ's own detach­ment from nationality, has led me to believe that national identity itself is a-Christian, and its exacerbat­ed form, termed "patriotism," can become anti-Christian.
The New Testament recognizes civil govern­ment. In general, the governments that exist are sup­posed to render justice and order society. Romans 13 is probably the most detailed. Here Paul tells us to "submit" to the government. In other places, Christ tells us to "render unto Caesar what is Caesar's." All of these directives were issued toward the Roman gov­ernment and sound rather like passive acceptance. Christians weren't the only ones practicing passivity at this time. There are few ways to react to omnipotent emperors who claim they're gods, appoint their horse consul, and murder senators. Submission would have been easy enough, but try to conjure up patriotism for
Tiberius or Caligula. Interestingly, the Bible lays out codes of behavior for fathers and church elders but none for rulers. Of course, it would have been rather futile to sculpt anyone in the Roman senate into some­thing resembling a biblical leader.
1 Peter 2:17 and Matthew 19:19 are amazing verses because they succinctly summarize Christian attitudes toward our brothers, our neighbors, our God, our family and our government. We are supposed to "love," or or/c^ei^etc our neighbor (Mt. 19:19), aycc-Trare our brother (1 Pet. 2:17) and, in another verse (Eph. 5:25), our wives. We are supposed to honor (Tiu.a) our parents (Mt. 19:19) and our king (1 Pet 2:17 - pamAecc Ttu.(XT£). We are also supposed to honor everybody (TiavTCtq TtiraaT£). Thus, the gov­ernment can claim none of our love and only the "honor" Christians are supposed to show to every­body, including, one might venture to conjecture, the French and the Palestinians.
St. Augustine did believe people were divided in their allegiance. They owe allegiance either to the City of God or the City of Man. God certainly favored one nation, Israel, above all the others in the Old Testament. Nations that threatened the Israelites were destroyed and Israel was used as a tool of judgment against the wicked nations. This changes in the New Testament. Israel is conquered and scattered and the Church is the new recipient of God's revelation and favor. This Church is a supranational entity, extending to all parts of the world. Granted, certain nations have a larger concentration of Christians than others, but this does not sanctify a nation as a whole, nor does a constitution that allows and even fosters religion make a nation "Christian." God's work will be done in the world whether nations persecute Christians or not. In Revelation. God does not divide people to be judged by nations. He divides Christians into churches and everybody else into Jews and Gentiles. Christ himself remained aloof from the fierce battle the Jewish zealots were waging against the occupying Roman superpower, although the Israelites, more than any other national group, seem to possess divine patronage. Both Jewish and Roman officials baited him, but he responded almost evasively. He neither condoned nor condemned either side.
In fact, national identity, like racial identity, can lead to bigotry when taken to the extreme. Love of country should never supercede affection for the people whom God clearly commands us to love: our families, our Christian brothers, and our neighbors. Hatred of other people based merely on their national­ity is un-Christian. We are supposed to be globalists, meaning we are supposed to love all our Christian brethren and have compassion on all the lost. Ignoring these Christian principles for the sake of nationalism has caused the tragic wars of the modem era.

Eliot's "Reflections on Vers Libre"

By Roger Emmelhainz
T.S. Eliot's well-known essay "Reflections on vers libre" is a notable manifestation of the author's pen­chant for presenting excellent, intriguing, even strik­ing passages and insights (and this is occasionally true in his verse as well as his criticism), without managing to coalesce the insights into an effective whole. In this particular case, he marshals arguments containing a number of suggestive insights into the nature of verse and its development, and then attempts to draw a con­clusion unmerited-in fact opposed-by the material he bring to bear on the subject.
Eliot argues that vers libre ("free verse") is not even to be given the credit of being criticized as a potentially viable aesthetic theory. He believes that vers libre is not and never can be a legitimate school: "vers libre does not exist, and it is time that this pre­posterous fiction followed the elan vital and the eighty thousand Russians into oblivion/' Beginning his argu­ment proper with the wanton assertion that vers libre "is a battle-cry of freedom, and there is no freedom in art"-his later observations on "the most interesting verse which has yet been written in our language" demonstrate that he himself will not accept this state­ment absolutely (see below)-, Eliot then suggests that "If vers libre is a genuine verse-form it will have a positive definition," yet one can "define it only in neg­atives"; but let us leave aside the issue of the largely semantic distinction between positive and negative definitions. Eliot's real argument centers on his defi­nition of vers libre as "(1) absence of pattern, (2) absence of rhyme, (3) absence of metre."
The argument, on its own terms, is valid and justifiable. Absence of metre is a nonsensical concept; one might employ scansion on any collection of sylla-bles-and by implication, prosaic speech is in fact met­ric in nature. Absence of rhyme had been employed and embraced by innumerable English versifiers long before the emergence of "vers libre" as a movement.
And true absence of pattern, Eliot maintains, degener­ates inevitably into chaos-or at least into prosody-, while the best of vers libre is marked not by "absence of pattern" but by its tantalizingly obscure presence. From this argument, Eliot concludes that "the division between Conservative Verse and vers libre does not exist, for there is only good verse, bad verse, and chaos."
This conclusion is where the essayist intro­duces his characteristic questionable extrapolation from a solid argument-in this case, revealing that his definition of vers libre is in large part a "straw man." That vers libre defines itself in much the same manner as does Eliot is true. That vers libre cannot exist as defined is also true. We may now safely conclude that the type of verse sketched in Eliot's definition does not exist; we might conclude as well that the name "vers libre" is a misnomer; but it is not valid for Eliot to con­clude that there exists no form of verse signified by that perhaps mistaken phrase. I would argue that there in fact exists something both unique and valuable known by the name of vers libre-and it is Eliot himself who offers all the necessary arguments to defend both parts of this proposition.
Eliot argues, as mentioned above, that vers libre is not truly "free" because its only worthwhile representatives function on the boundaries of blank verse-"the constant suggestion and the skilful evasion of iambic pentameter." He then transitions into a dis­cussion of the way in which John Webster and other early 1 "th-century dramatists (such as Shakespeare) produced the same effect by approaching the boundary of metre from the other direction: the simultaneous "evasion and recognition of regularity." These drama­tists functioned within a metric framework that they often violated for various effects. This digression offers no direct support for Eliot's argument, but indi­rectly it provides us with support for our redefinition of the import of vers libre: we have now an illustration of that phenomenon in "conservative" verse, the inverse of which is likewise the mark of mastery in "free" verse. As Eliot concludes, "freedom is only truly freedom when it appears against the background of an artificial limitation"-conceding the possible exis­tence of freedom in close enough proximity to regula­tion as to retain the quality of "verse," although we may want to qualify his absolute statement, such that "freedom may only be recognized to be freedom" in this situation. Just as regular verse does not cease to be largely regulated as it crosses the boundary condition, so also free (or unregulated) verse does not cease to be essentially free by flirting with a mask of metricism. In fact, the most interesting verse which has yet been written in our language has been done either by taking a very simple form, like the iambic pen­tameter, and constantly withdrawing from it, or taking no form at all, and constantly approxi­mating to a very simple one. It is this contrast between fixity and flux, this unperceived eva­sion of monotony, which is the very life of verse.
These comments point the way to an intriguing theory of aesthetics: that the greatness of art is produced out of the plexus between form and chaos. The artist is the one who can create by contradiction-art is play, as it were, within the Dionysian! But this is not directly rel­evant to the point; it serves rather to illustrate the focus, as it were, of verse, allowing us better to under­stand the relation in which vers libre stands to conser­vative verse, vers libre is the far side of the boundary condition; it approaches this plexus in exactly the same manner as the best of the 17th-century iambic pentametrists-only approaching from the opposite direction.
This, then, is the first error of Eliot: vers libre in fact exists. It is not, perhaps, what it thinks itself to be-it does not function without recourse to pattern or metre-but it is quite definitely a verse-form, not mere­ly a variant on blank verse, to which Eliot hoped to reduce it. It is moreover unique, as posited above; it is not just "another" verse-form, a variant within the
same structural scheme (as iambic pentameter is to, e.g., dactylic tetrameter) but one which holds a posi­tion in opposition to all other verse-forms. Its play in the boundary condition moves in the opposite direc­tion to that of traditional verse, and as such "the divi­sion between Conservative Verse and vers libre" does in fact exist.
It will not suffice, however, merely to disagree with Eliot in the particulars of his conclusion; the heart of his animosity will only be dispersed upon the estab­lishment, not only of the existence, but also of the importance and even value of vers libre to the revitalization of poetry. And it is here that, once again (and characteristically), Eliot himself provides the evidence that shall, when reapplied more effectively, produce for us a worthwhile conclusion.
The relevant comments in Eliot's piece concern the advent of rhymeless verse and its significant con­tribution to the art of poetry-the other major digression of the essay, offering fascinating insights which pro­vide no direct support to Eliot's actual argument. "Excessive devotion to rhyme," Eliot argues, "has thickened the modern ear." Abandonment of rhyme has several significant effects. It makes the actual dic­tion and grammatical constructions more significant, without a comforting "form" within which to obscure negligence. It allows "much ethereal music" to'reveal itself from within the word-"music which has hitherto chirped unnoticed in the expanse of prose." But most importantly, it frees rhyme from "its exacting task of supporting lame verse," allowing it to be applied with greater facility and greater effectiveness. In essence, the advent of blank verse has added a new technique to the arsenal of the poet.
The key to the importance of vers libre is the realization that every point that Eliot makes in praise of unrhymed verse (and Eliot himself was perhaps the master of this effective use of rhyme within the con­text of its absence) applies with equal validity to the nature of the contributions of unpatterned or "free" verse. Without the comforting regularity of a patterned metrical structure, rhythm-and particularly fluctuations therein - is free to become a more effective tool, while simultaneously one more distraction from the while simultaneously one more distraction from the language of the poet is removed. Verse that is both patternless and rhymeless-which we must recall to be verse that, if well-accomplished, plays at the borders of both rhyme and pattern-is verse requiring a greater mastery of language than any other verse-form, vers libre must be an even more delicate endeavour than blank verse, perhaps the most ambitious verse-form yet conceived; it must be expected often to fail-but the very act of avoiding this failure may well promote the work to greatness, being birthed so close within the perilous Dionysian realm.

Where is Able, Your Brother?

By Brooks Lampe
You and I, one blood.

God and I were chatting when (you had forgotten to
put on the emergency brake) God broke off our
conversation and ran to your red car, rolling toward the
road. He put his hands on the hood and pushed-just in
time.

I always watched out for you. but that time
if God hadn't been there, there could've been blood.
We wedged a stone under the tire, shook hands
and waited to tell you that you had forgotten
again. When you got back you blushed red
to find out that your car had been saved by God.

But then you drove off, said goodbye to God and went
to the farm-always working overtime. He and I
watched the animals and the big red sunset. We
huddled together to warm our blood against the vast
evening sky. I had forgotten that I existed that night-
God and I holding hands.

Where were you, O brother? Washing your hands?
Helping Aunt Martha cook supper for God?
All your fussing and cooking...You had forgotten
that in the car that one time
He said He likes meat. Meat has blood.
Blood is red.

Mother's womb was red, and our hearts beat red: thus
we enter and pass through life. Our hands squeeze and
flex with the pulses of flowing blood. It's only right we
give something back to God.

He gives us everything: life, time,
even the memories we have forgotten.

I must admit, I too had forgotten
how red
your face was that last time,
your angry eyes and hands
were raised toward God,
but He did not hear-it was not blood.

And then my red was on your hands.
I had forgotten that (O God!)
this was the first time you had shed blood

A Review of the Film "Garden State"

By Steven Rybicki
Much has been made of Zach Braff s egotism. He's written and directed a movie where he's the sympa­thetic star who gets the girl (in this case that girl hap­pens to be Natalie Portman). Sure, my experience tells me that this is not the way "it" works. But this doesn't necessarily demand that the film is fatally flawed. Instead, the driving force in the film is Braffs focus on the feeling of being lost, confused, and stuck. And the method he chooses to cast his film is a fairy tale of sorts. In fact, this method may be the best way Braff is capable of expressing his thesis, so there's really no shame in thinking, "while I'm at it, why not write for and attempt to cast Natalie Portman?"
If criticism of Garden State fixates upon an unfit male finding a deep, intimate, meaningful rela­tionship with a woman who is too beautiful for him, then it would be best to expand those harsh words to a total broadside assault on the film. Let's not labor under any false delusions: this film's focus and execu­tion is dripping of American bourgeoisie conceit. It points the cinematic gaze towards pampered, pathetic white boys. They are "condemned" to a life of pills and psychologists, and the time to be mired, in various degrees, in epistemological and metaphysical crises. Not to mention: what are they going to do for a career... especially when they aspire to proper employment in a post-industnal society? What about happiness? And what about girls1 The questions con­tinue and, of course, overlap.
But I can't brash off :his film because my mind identifies and my body literally aches with congruent concerns of Andrew Large in an. Garden State's protag­onist. Therefore, I will ihaif-;okingly) posit: this will be a thoroughly historicistic reflection upon, and rec­ommendation of. Zach Braffs Garden State. Now might be the only time and place where it resounds as a significant statement from its creator to me. I recog­nize the film has problems. The direction and editing
are, at points, sloppy. This dovetails with the occasion­ally disjointed and mediocre plotting of the script. But two aspects of Braff s writing elevate the film: sections of his dialogue between Andrew Largeman and Natalie Portman's character, Sam, and the beautiful way the a few key sequences and visual flourishes dur­ing his series of vignettes reflect and refine the mental state and psychological longings of the protagonist.
An endearing sequence, staged in a swimming pool, contains one of Garden State's best proposals. The scene is set with a line of twentysomethings jump­ing into the glowing, chlorinated green of a swimming pool leaving Andrew standing alone, isolated on the far left of the frame. Subsequently, from overhead Andrew is seen with Sam in the far left of the frame and in the extreme of one end of the pool. The focus of the sequence becomes a conversation on "home" and its relation to people (parents) and things (houses). He mournfully concludes: "Maybe that's all family really is. A group of people who miss the same imaginary place."
But where Braff denies a comfortable and con­crete conception of "home," he quickly asserts human interaction must be the truly valuable axiom of action. So emphatic is his conviction of this, it's easy to see that the entire film is his offering and example of the importance of just being in the company of others. The theme of the thrill of human contact underlies the film and intersects with another facet of Garden State: detachment. Braffs most visually complex images, including a boozy, X filled homecoming, the afore­mentioned swimming pool, a hamster funeral, and a wonderfully expressive time elapse shot of an expres­sive Portman in front of a flickering fire, are deliber­ately juxtaposed to highlight the joy of contact between the characters, and yet their fundamental detachment from one another.
A first verbal interchange of note from Portman's Sam is her description of the indie band, The Shins. "It will change your life" she reports in a beautifully delivered line that has an ironic and blase tone that captures both her adoration of that darling band and a conviction that as good as records get, peo­ple provide a superior, more stimulating thrill. Yet, what is vital to keep in mind is the action Sam takes: The Shins are great because Sam wants to share their music with Andrew.
The climax of the film retraces the themes of home, interaction, affection, and feeling with a tender sequence that situates Andrew in Sam's arms. Conveniently, he seems to be literally surrounded by almost every external artifact that has contributed to his psychic oppression. Andrew breaks down: "Safe... when I'm with you I feel safe... like I'm home." Due to his awareness of the irony of the proposition, Braff is obliged to contextualize the proposition a "safe" "home," with pain: "this hurts" Andrew whimpers.
Sam responds: "I know it hurts... and it's pretty much all we got." The scene fades to a pan of Sam and Andrew asleep with each other while the withered tones of the Florida band Iron & Wine cover "Such Great Heights" (and yes we get the joke/nod to Ben Gibbard). But it's alright: the correspondence of those images and that music works. And the hipster senti­mentality of Braff s script has been preserved and an ending is in sight for this tragically hip fairy tale.
Again, it's fair to see the film, including that scene, as being implausible to the point of laughable, maudlin excess. But right now the film makes sense to me. I don't believe Braff is condescending with the narrative absurdity in his yam. But I'm definitely not convinced that his vision will stand any given period of time. Then again, I certainly don't want to be this confused about the future for that long of a time, either. Regardless, Garden State, is a consoling experience, for now.

Film as Historical Perspective: Vietnam through Two Perspectives

By Jonathan Krull
For those of us who were born in the 1980's, the Vietnam War is a conflict to which we cannot truly relate. We live in a historical hang time: the war is far enough into history that many now living did not expe­rience it, and yet. it is still in recent enough memory that a full historic examination of the conflict is not yet possible. To fill this void, film has become the media whereby 20 and 30-somethings attempt to understand the experiences of previous generations. This film-driven historical dialectic is relatively simple for the struggles that faced our grandparents. Saving Private Ryan and Schindler's List provide, if not historical accuracy, at least a general feel for the period. The his­torical book on WWII has been closed, at least in the modern western mindset, and most specifically in American pop-culture's historical viewpoint. Sentiment is relatively one-sided as to the reasons and justifications of World War II.
Such clear demarcation is not available for a conflict as complicated and still, as of yet. relatively unresolved in the American consciousness, as Vietnam. Out of this cultural uncertainty arise two films, both set in the Vietnam War, that have very dif­ferent, and yet at times, complimentary perspectives. These are the Stanley Kubrick classic, Full Metal Jacket (FMJ), and the relatively recent We Were Soldiers.
Kubrick's film is clearly the more artistic of the two. Aesthetically, the film is well done, and Kubrick uses the characters in the film to great effect. The script and casting of FMJ have made it a classic. FMJ is based not on a particular event or battle. Rather, it is the story of a platoon of men who experience the de­humanizing influence of life in the Marine Corps in Vietnam. The war tears them apart, puts them back together, and ultimately changes them on the most basic of levels. Some cope, others do not. Kubrick deftlv weaves a storv rife with morallv ambisuitv. The
Marines at the center of the film are not all evil, nor are they all psychopathic. However, they all lose part of their humanity as the horror of a war with no clear pur­pose slowly takes its toll. While FMJ?, view of the war is far from rosy, it is clearly not the nihilistic Vietnam of Apocalypse Now. Full Metal Jacket effec­tively makes its point about how war brutally changes men, without resorting to portraying drug use as the norm, or relying on the "smell of napalm in the morn­ing." FMJ uses fiction to capture the feel of the time. Soldiers takes on the decidedly more docu-drama feel of modern war movies such as Black Hawk Down. The film, directed by Randall Wallace, who wrote Braveheart, emphasizes the humanity of the sol­diers who fought, on both sides, in Vietnam. Extensive family scenes build up an emotional con­nection with the men in the viewer's mind. Several commentators have criticized the movie for this senti­mentalist approach to storytelling. However, this tech­nique is not an unnecessary emotional manipulation of the viewer any more than is Private Pyle's suicide in FMJ. The very real humanity of Soldier's characters emphasizes the tragedy of war, and yet through it Wallace preserves a purpose for the bloodshed. Perhaps because the film is chronologically far removed from the conflict, it is one of the few movies that actively attempt to portray American involvement in Vietnam as, at the least, a potentially noble-minded enterprise. Soldiers attempts to avoid the political questions of the war, and focuses on the men who fought honorably, a refreshing counterpoint to decades of denigration of principled men who went to war. In the end. it seeks to validate the contribution of those who fought, without passing judgment on the ends for which the politicians sent them to fight. Below the surface, however, one can detect an undercurrent that emphasizes the ultimate futility of American involve­ment. The events of Soldiers, the first battle between NVA and U.S. troops, hint at the long stalemate that the war would become.
Soldiers draws from the experiences of a num­ber of men to gain insight about the nature of the men who fought the war. FMJ, in contrast, uses the expe­riences of a few to draw conclusions about the nature of war. It is through this contrast that the two can be reconciled into a coherent character study of the Vietnam War. Ultimately, a more accurate perspective on the Vietnam War, and by application, all war, can be gained by synthesizing the messages of the two films. The dehumanizing effects of war, even on good men, will leave them permanently changed. Those who return home physically unscathed are still mentally scarred by "seeing the elephant.'1 The effects of the terrible nature of war are amplified on those who fought in a war that our nation seeks neither to under­stand nor tuily remember. To come to grips with the Vietnam conflict, we must look at it as a time when men-many of whom on both sides were honorable sol­diers fighting for what they considered moral reasons-were subjected to the dehumanizing horrors of war. To consider one perspective or the other as a complete picture would be a mistake.
War cannot dehumanize unless it has real human beings to act upon, and this is ultimately the great tragedy of any war. The lives that are destroyed are not those of theoretical, impersonal soldiers on
paper, nor are the effects of war restricted only to legit­imate combatants. Film is an effective media for pro­moting this awareness. No longer are war movies the sterile realm of clearly defined "good guy vs. bad guy" stereotypes as seen in John Wayne's Iwo Jima or Rambo's Afghanistan. True, caricatures will always exist, whether it's the war on Communism, or the War on Terror. We should reject the tendency to treat war films as a form of entertainment. If we do this, they become reduced to the level of Rome's gladiatorial games. Modern wars of the 20th Century have lead to modern war films. They are a cultural and emotional dialogue with the past. It is a good thing that our war films are so horrible; else we should grow too fond of them. While history passes judgment on the justifica­tion for past wars, I believe that film holds the poten­tial to make the men who fought them human. While we will not completely understand war through film, perhaps we can gain a closer understanding of the lives touched by war, a closer understanding of our own humanity.
Will the wars of our generation be commemo­rated in a similar way? If this trend continues, then in much the same way our children and grandchildren will look to film to understand. If so, will they look to probing, questioning war films like Black Hawk Down, or to films merely set in war, like Three Kings, to try to understand why we fought, and who we were?