Columbus and the Hermeneutics of Pragmatic Materialism

In The Conquest of America, Tvetzan Todorov makes the claim that, "Columbus does not succeed in his human communications because he is not interested in them" (33). While Todorov repeatedly proved this to be the case via the analysis of multiple journal entries, to dismiss Columbus as uninterested in human communications sweeps away far too many questions to be considered a wise move on Todorov's part. Instead, we ought to examine communications across the range of Christopher Columbus's interests: human, nature, and divine.

Todorov later states that, "the readiness with which he alienates the other's goodwill with a view to a better knowledge of the islands he is discovering; the preference for land over men. In Columbus's hermeneutics human beings have no particular place" (33). By so doing, Todorov has revealed the source of his dissatisfaction with Columbus's actions: it is not that human beings have no place, but that human beings are treated as inexpendable, elastic, and without a static place in the explorer's hermeneutics. In Columbus's hermeneutics, which stem in part from his mission (to acquire gold) and his belief (in doing such things for the greater glory of God), nature and the divine repeatedly take precedence over and displace human beings. As such, Columbus could be likened to a sort of spiritual materialist. Furthermore, his method involves a pragmatic manipulation of the signs. Much like the Aztecs, for whom everything that happened was predestined by, Columbus twisted the signs of events to suit his needs. Mentioning gold for example, and interpreting signs (correctly or not) as being indicative of nearby land, were just two ways in which the explorer quashed dissent and unrest. In fact, that is how Columbus even received the opportunity for his voyages in the first place: by luring Ferdinand and Isabella with tales of riches from the Indies. And because Columbus had a hierarchical order of communications, with humans taking on a Machiavellian means to justify Columbus's desired ends: land (and thus riches), prestige, and glory to God.

Reading The Conquest of America after The Sparrow makes sense a lot of sense. In many ways, Father Sandoz and Christopher Columbus are one and the same. Both men are deeply religious. Both men are inspired by both the divine and nature, and find the divine in nature. Both men are intellectually curious, and have a penchant for languages (although Sandoz has a clear advantage over Columbus in this arena). And almost most importantly, the motto Ad maiorem Dei Gloriam could be applied to each men. I say most importantly in that, at least in Father Sandoz's hierarchy of communications, there exists a place for human beings. Todorov, while he would still fault Sandoz for failing to recognize the other's goodwill, would praise Sandoz for, unlike Columbus, approaching the other without authority or condescension. Todorov would recognize that, within Sandoz's hermeneutics, there is a place for human beings that is not always overridden by a desire to explore nature or know the divine.

Something to cheer all social/science/fictioners

Blind Eyes, Deaf Ears and A Numb Mind

My favorite philosopher of all time - who happens to be my mother- once told me: "never close the eyes of your mind- or your heart," because we are not isolated from others; we are surrounded. However, what use is seeing (with your eyes OR your mind) if we only see what we want or wish to see? This is when I see Cortes come in.

On page 91, Todorov writes "Durign th first contact of Cortes's army with the Indians, the Spaniards (hypocritically) declare that they are not seeking war, but peace and love; "they did not reply in words but with a shower of arrows" (Cortes, 21). The Indians do not realize that the words can be a weapon quite as dangerous as arrows." Yet, according to the Aztec culture words are for women and weapons for men. "what Aztec warriors did not know is that the "women" would win this war..." (92). However, Cortes understood his other better than Columbus. Yet, the consequences remain the same. Why?

This is the same question that Todorov wrestles with: "Should not understanding go hand in hand with sympathy?" (127). A paradox like non other: An understanding-that-kills. La Casas, a Priest witnessing all evil by the Spaniards loves the Indians. One might argue that he is more Christian than Columbus or Cortes, and yet he does not think violence is the answer. He knows his religion is the true religion without knowing anything about the natives. Adapting this to the current times, how can we know that our "just war" is a just war, when we do not know enough to justify waging of a just war? Or he who knows he is more civilized than the savages before his eyes, when he doesn't know about his inner savage who's after civilizing the Other? What's the solution?

Well, Todorov has a prescription: A Perfect Stranger. A man in an existential crisis, perhaps? It is true that we affect one another by merely existing. In such a circumstance, world will need more than A Perfect Stranger, but a world full of perfect strangers. To achieve this more mobility is needed, which we take as given in the 21st century. However, I do not think we are any close to Todorov's "Perfect Stranger" depiction for we leave ourselves...only to find ourselves. Being a sojourner, or a nomad, or "Perfect Stranger" loosens social ties, only to strengthen some inner ties to things we find in our true essence. For Emilio, this was faith...and at the end of the day that was all he was left with.

I won't be in class this week, so I'll appreciate if you could share your thoughts with me after you read this.

Reflection 10: Self-Annihilation On A Spiritual Level

Spiritual annihilation: I think this is precisely what Emilio experienced at the end of the book. However, since Emilio defines himself most with his spiritual side, this did amount to self-annihilation for him.  As I pointed out in class, the mission's members were very unreceptive of the signs around them. Emilio's late experience if anything, lead him to wake up from a long sleep. Yes, it was a bitter experience but it allowed Emilio to question how he made sense of his life and his surroundings. I think I made the claim that this was a test for Emilio's sanity: I take that claim back. I think what he experienced is considered generally wrong in 2 planets: 1. On page 260, we read that most Jana'ata "do not even like music," (sadly, an information which was never scrutinized) 2. It is considered morally wrong to "invade" someone else's body against his/her consent. Will Emilio ever recover? I guess I'll learn that soon. However, how can one reconcile with bitter experiences of their past?

On a broader scale...how could the oppressed come to love his oppressor? How could one come to terms with their past mistakes?  How could Tutsis and Hutus reconcile after so many bitter memories? How can we avert each other's nightmares, when we-ourselves- are incompetent of dreaming... each other's dreams?

Disowning the Children of God

In class on Thursday I questioned the idea of a mission "to know and love God's other children." What, I asked, happens if we simply can't love them? Do we turn around in failure, content with the fact that we gave it our all? Or, do we change them so that we can love them. A lot of our discussion centered around this notion, the morality of changing society on Rakhat into something that jives with our conceptions of right and wrong. This conversation usually heads down the road of a cultural reletavism debate, and I get enough of that in Cross-Cultural Communication. After class, I thought about a third option that makes sense in light of some of our other readings. The easiest solution is to accept that the aliens on Rakhat are not God's children.

As I have said a few times, Manifest Destiny is a constant re-characterization of our interests and motives. If we wanted to expand our territory, then we just rationalized our way right through the native Americans or other colonial powers. The indigenous people were hardly people at all, and therefor had no right to their land, or even their way of life. It is conceivable, then, that this could happen on Rakhat. If we failed to love them, it is not our fault; they are not God's Children. This paves the way for all kinds of injustices. I probably don't need to remind you what Carl Schmitt had to say about fighting for "humanity."

A tricky thing about Rakhat, however, is that there are at least two other species that one could safely call inhuman. It's hard to think of them as such, but the Jana'ata and the Runa are not genetically related. They are literally different beasts. There is a clear gradation of intelligences on the planet, putting outsiders face-to-face with realities of nature (as in vs. nurture) that make comparing the social structure on Rakhat awkward to compare to any historical human societies. Drawing a parallel to antebellum South feels wrong, because although there are some similarities, we can't forget that the Runa are, as a race, not capable of the same intellectual capacity as the Jana'ata.

I am looking forward to reading Children of God to find out what humans decide to do with this planet. I have become used to authors forcing readers to speculate at what happens next, and I would not have been surprised to see Russell do the same. Children of God is exciting because we the readers get a chance to sit back after reading The Sparrow, think hard about our predictions, and then see what actually happens. I know it'll probably be depressing, but I can't wait for more.

Betrayal

His Master's Voice and The Sparrow make for an interesting back-to-back read. Both books are essentially stories faith and betrayal. Obviously each book has a different substrate, so to speak. I read HMV, and I think SCIENCE. I read The Sparrow, and think GOD. The ingredients dropped into these drastically different broths are really quite similar. Both books end up saying a lot about faith, and how it feels to be let down.

In His Master's Voice, the main character and the people around him believe that science (well, maybe not all sciences), when applied to a problem should be able to solve it. When scientists in the US discover a radio signal that might originate with another intelligent species, the US government whips together a compound of 2,000something scientists of all kinds to decode the message, or at least determine whether or not it is really alien. The fervor with which they attempt to tackle the puzzle matches that of the Jesuits in The Sparrow.

Often in The Sparrow, the Jesuits insist that God is in the "why." One would imagine than scientists only concern themselves with "what," but His Master's Voice is a different scenario than most physicists or mathematicians are used to. As the narrator likes to point out often enough, there very well might be another sentient race on the other side of the beam, and that adds another dimension to its study. They don't just want to know what the beam is, but why is it there at all?

While Lem didn't let his characters get as far as Russell took the Jesuits, they were both confronted with failure of sorts. Ultimately, they were left with nothing but there faith in something they could probably never know for sure. Were they betrayed by what they believed in? Could be, but I don't think that there is doubt that there is potential that that "betrayal" could strengthen that faith, temper it. Maybe? We'll have to see what happens in the next book.

On "Running Low on Faith" -or God

I found it really ironic that I was reading the Sparrow this week given that only 2 nights ago I was listening to news about a priest who had abused 200 deaf children. News came into light when a 61 year old former victim (who was raped at the age of 12) confessed. When the topic is rape, we say "God forbid," yet which God do we trust? The God we share with, um, jerks out there? Or the God we share with moral elite? Is he the moral dictator, or the silent observer? Is God really "out there somewhere" (252)? How many ways are there to seek that God? One might say there are various ways to seek that God- you know, through mediation, chanting, praying, recreational drug use, even through orgasmic expeditions in other people's bodies (with or without consent). At the end of the day, we may or may not find what we are looking for. BUT if finding what we are looking for is not knowing what we are looking for, then where does that search begin -and more importantly where does it end? Who finds it first and who runs away with it?If there is some kind of God, do you think he's pleased with what we go about doing in the name of Him?

If alien encounter is equivalent to encountering something comprehensible, or experiencing something that almost amount to a traumatic experience, is it really worth the trouble? Well I think it really depends on what you experience...for human experience is inalienable as long as one remains sane. Given we are not robots to cast amnesia whenever we need it, we are very much defined by our life experiences and our most basic information about our selves. As human beings we are programmed to always go back to the start until we lose our way or our minds. Emilio found comfort in believing that the antidote of his experiences could be in thinking that God was with him or that he was still searching for God- a principle he followed for as far back as he could remember. His devotion was perhaps his sole cause of survival. Yet, did Emilio really survive? Some say being human is being a living soul.
After his confession, is Emilio still a living soul? He does request to stay longer with Giulani (to his suprise) and it is a good indicator of how he never gave up on his belief- and it was his belief that allowed him to survive despite all his misery/transformation.

A very powerful piece indeed.