The logic of language (All stories are true)

Logic — at its most basic, the rule that a statement and its negation cannot both be true at the same time — is a feature of our language, an unavoidable consequence of the fact that we like to name things, invent categories to represent our experience, then use those categories to talk with each other and ourselves.

Outside of language (say, in a world of direct experience, unmediated by concepts of any kind), logic is meaningless. Negation is not a feature of reality per se. That which is “not” can never be perceived; “not” is just a word that helps us communicate more easily by directing our attention.

Whenever people argue about whether a given statement is true or false, the first step in resolving the argument is to clarify exactly what the statement means. Once the debaters clearly agree on the meaning of the question, the debate often disappears. If it doesn’t, then new facts may be brought forward, or gathered where evidence for a contention is lacking…

Because our languages change so quickly, and because each individual mind approaches each word with a different set of associations, our entire body of written and spoken knowledge is continually being re-invented and re-imagined every time the words are read, heard, or spoken anew. Likewise if we wish to hold on to the wisdom of our ancestors, we must regularly retell it in terms that are meaningful to modern, local minds.

When looking for meaning in the symbols provided by myths, fairy tales and wisdom texts, one may use the same approach that one takes to learn the meaning of any word when no dictionary is at hand… look at every instance of use and seek a common thread. This may be called the “All Stories Are True”* approach… we assume that every storytelling conveys important truth, even and especially when stories contradict! If one experiment tells us that light behaves as a wave, and another tells us that light behaves as a particle, we consider (after ruling out experimental error) that our understanding of waves and particles may be incomplete. And so rather than hold to one version of a story and throw stones at proponents of another, we dig deeper, past the surface meanings, until we find a harmonious interpretation and our web of concepts, and our universe itself, grows.

“In formal logic, a contradiction is the signal of a defeat; but in the evolution of real knowledge it marks the first step in progress towards a victory.”
— Alfred North Whitehead

More to come on that particular topic, probably with respect to Kali vs. Raktabija.

* Thanks to Neil Gaiman (via, if I recall correctly, Rick Green’s amazing Prisoners of Gravity) for first introducing me to this phrase.

♥

Unhappy? endings: Orpheus and H.C. Andersen’s Littlest Mermaid…

Why can’t I stop thinking about these stories?

In each one the protagonist is on a quest to do something insanely ambitious, probably impossible, in the name of love.  The mermaid wants the love of a human, so that she can get an immortal soul.  Orpheus wants his bride back from the dead.  …And our heroes proceed to accomplish amazing feats!  The mermaid transforms into a human and walks on land!  Orpheus descends into the underworld and sways the hearts of the gods!  Our hearts are in our throats; we think they just might win after all; we start preparing for a Disney ending; we are ready to throw the confetti…

Ultimately,  these heroes are thrown gut-wrenchingly off course, resolving their quests in unexpected ways.  Bluntly, they fail.  But they are also completely transformed in the process.

What are we supposed to learn from these crushing defeats?

Orpheus

The tale of Orpheus is often spun as a lesson about resolve, or faith… as if we are supposed to learn from his mistake and not repeat it if we find ourselves in similar circumstances:  don’t second-guess the gods; don’t look back!

Really?

This explanation rings hollow to me.  First of all, Hades doesn’t strike me as a particularly trustworthy fellow.  More critically, the lesson just doesn’t feel proportional to the emotional impact of the story.  What if Orpheus had succeeded?  Wouldn’t the happily-ever-after be a big letdown?  Resisting the temptation to check on Eurydice would certainly be impressive… but not heroic exactly.  Nor would it be consistent with the overwhelming passion which has driven our hero up to this point in the story.  His very human vulnerabity is the hook that grabs us (she, on the other hand, is only human — and, ahem, dead — by virtue of his obsession with her; she was a carefree nymph before he came along).  Also, his troubadour personality is great for the wooing and sacrificing aspects of romantic love, but I can’t help but feel that however wonderful and numinous Eurydice may have been, before long she would have put a serious kink in his groove.  As it happened, the first guy to hit on her at a party was her complete undoing (ok, via a snake bite, but come on… a snake bite?).  Hardly the basis for a great marriage.

I suspect we’re supposed to learn something about the nature of romantics and enchanters and what happens to them and to the world they live in when their passions are played out to the limit.   Hint: they end up disembodied and spiritualized.  The Littlest Mermaid becomes a ministering wind; Orpheus gets ripped apart by the Bacchante, and his severed head becomes an oracle on the isle of Lesbos.  (!)

I’ve also seen Eurydice described as a metaphor for the soul.  I am even further away from understanding that interpretation, but enticingly, it does bring us back around to the Littlest Mermaid chasing her soul.

If you have some light to shed on these stories, or this story-structure in general, please share!

Thanks for reading.

♥