Sunday, 14 May 2017

Empathy is like cholesterol ...

... with a good type and a bad type.
I did a Coursera course on morality by Paul Bloom several years ago, so I was already familiar with his work when I requested 'Against Empathy' from the library. Just to reassure you the book is not an argument for cold hard logic and that human beings should not feel compassion for each other, just that empathy is often not the panacea for decision making (both personal and political) that it is often made out to be. He does say at the beginning that 'Empathy plus reason makes a great combination' is a less snappy and provocative title.

The book lays out definitions and explanations of the role of empathy in human relations, and the way our thinking about empathy is related to our thinking about morality; is it necessary to have empathy to be good, are empathic people 'better' people? In examining its definition he begins to outline what he sees as the weaknesses of empathy as a guide for human action, how it can make us behave morally, but it need not. Here he gives a literary example from The Island of Doctor Moreau, where a character hears the screaming of a suffering animal:

"This has been cited as an example of the moral force of felt experience and the power of empathy. But what does Prendick do? He leaves. He goes for a walk to escape the noise, finds a space in the shade, and takes a nap.
So if vicarious suffering were the sole outcome of empathy, empathy would be mostly useless as a force for helping others. There is almost always an easier way to make your empathic suffering go away than the hard work of making someone else's life better: Turn the page. Look away. Cover your ears. Think of something else. Take a nap." (p.75)

In the next chapter he looks more closely at empathy as something that leads to 'doing good', and how doing good for one person can often ignore the effects it has on others:

"This sort of effect takes us back to the metaphor of empathy as a spotlight. The metaphor captures a feature of empathy that is fans are quick to emphasise - how it makes visible the suffering of others, makes their troubles real, salient, and concrete. From the gloom, something is seen. Someone who believes we wouldn't help if it weren't for empathy might see its spotlight nature as its finest aspect,
But the metaphor also illustrates empathy's weaknesses. A spotlight picks out a certain space to illuminate and leaves the rest in darkness; its focus is narrow. What you see depends on where you choose to point the spotlight, so its focus is vulnerable to your biases.
Empathy is not the only facet of our moral lives that has a spotlight nature. Emotions such as anger, guilt, shame, and gratitude are similar. But not all psychological processes are limited in this way. We can engage in reasoning, including moral reasoning, that is more abstract. We can make decisions based on considerations of costs and benefits or through appealing to general principles. Presumably this is what people who choose not to move Sheri Summers up the list were doing - they weren't zooming in on her, but rather taking a more distanced perspective. Now one might worry that this less emotional perspective is too cold and impersonal - maybe the right metaphor for this type of impartial reasoning is the ugly illumination of florescent light." (p.87)

I ended up feeling as if he made the same argument several times over, phrasing it differently and citing different examples to make very similar points. Sometimes it was also a case of trying to show how non-empathic based decisions are often equally 'moral', as in this example about the arguments over slavery:

"Carlyle has a specific issue in mind, a case where he wanted to ridicule economists for objecting to something that was the subject of considerable feeling and heart, something that Carlyle had defended with great emotion.
What was this issue the economists were being so negative about? Slavery. Carlyle was upset because the economists were against slavery. He argued for the reintroduction of slavery in the West Indies and was annoyed that the economists railed against it. Think about this when you're tempted to scorn economists and the cool approach they take to human affairs, and when you hear people equating strong feelings with goodness and cold reason with nastiness. in the real world, as we've seen the truth is usually the opposite." (p.112)

He even gets right down to genetics in his argument, explaining how supposed having 'selfish' genes does not mean the same thing as selfish human beings:

"Genes that cause a person to sacrifice his life in order to help three brothers or nine cousins would have an advantage over genes that caused a person to save himself at all costs. The 'goals' of natural selection transcend our bodies. So, strange as it might seem, selfish genes create altruistic animals, motivating kindness towards others." (p.169)

I think he makes a good case for the fact that 'empathy' and 'morality' are often confused in the way people talk and think about human behaviour. So much of what we do, and also how we think about what other people do is dictated by our own perception of situations and behaviours:

"the moralisation gap leads to a natural escalation of reprisals, both at the everyday level - disputes among friends, siblings, spouses - and at the level of international conflict. You do something nasty to me, and this seems so much nastier (more significant, unjustified, just meaner) to me than it does to you. And when I retaliate in what I see as an appropriate and measured way, it seems disproportionate to you, and you respond accordingly, and so on." (p.182)

"It shouldn't be surprising that morality can incite violence. Morality leads to action; it gets you to stick your nose in other people's business. I don't like raisins. But this isn't a moral belief, so it just means that I don't eat raisins; it doesn't motivate me to harass others who behave differently than I do towards raisins. I also don't like murder. But this is a moral belief, so it motivates me to try and stop others from doing this, to encourage the government to punish them, and so on. In this way, moral beliefs motivate action, including violent action." (p.185)

I felt like the book almost became an argument against 'gut reactions' and in favour of reason. Empathy becomes another way of saying that people respond to how they 'feel' about a situation rather than thinking through what might be the best course of action. I don't think that Bloom is arguing that we should not be helping others or responding to emergency situations, but we should be honest about why we do things. Sometimes people respond empathically because it makes them feel better as much as it might be doing good for the person they empathise with. Recently the US dropped bombs on an air base in Syria, and Trump put on a big show of empathising with the victims of the chemical weapons attack; I didn't believe him for a minute, since every one of his other policies shows no interests is helping the victims fleeing the ongoing conflict there. Empathy is something that is so easy to manipulate, to appeal to people's innate empathy to justify policy is just the kind of thing that Bloom is arguing against. The book is an excellent argument for something that in some ways is bleeding obvious: life is mostly much more complicated than it appears and solutions to problems are rarely simple. The same people who donate money to famine relief because they see starving children on the television will often vote for government policies that exacerbate the economic, environmental and political situation that causes the starvation. Empathy so often offers only a short term fix. One last quote, just because he sums up a political dilemma quite neatly. The book is thoughtful, well researched and intelligently argued, certainly well worth a read.

"Unless I'm a member of a tiny powerful community, my beliefs have no effect on the world. This is certainly true as well for my views about the flat tax, global warming, and evolution. They don't have to be grounded in truth, because the truth value doesn't have any effect on my life.
I am unhappy making this argument, because my own moral commitments lean me towards the perspective that it's important to try to be right about issues even if they don't matter in a practical sense. I would be horrified if one of my sons thought that our ancestors rode dinosaurs, even though I can't think of a view that matters less for everyday life. I would feel similarly if he supported ridiculous claims as true just because they fit his political ideology. We should try to believe true things.
But that's just me. Others see things differently. My point is just that the failure of people to attend to data in the political domain does not reflect a limitation of their capacity for reason. It reflects how most people make sense of politics. They don't care about truth because, for them, it's not really about truth." (p.237)

Briefly, two readathon books

I picked up '38 Bahadurabad' by Zeeba Sadiq completely at random at E.J. Morton in Didsbury and was utterly entranced by it. It tells the story of a young girl, Zeebande, growing up in Pakistan in the 1960s. Much of it concerns her relationship with her beloved father, though the cast of family and friends is quite extensive. What is so engaging is the everydayness of the incidents that she recounts, you get such a vivid picture of what their life is like; there is a wonderful contrast of closely observed details and naive childlike impressions and thoughts. Here Bashi Mamoo comes around to take tea with the ladies:

"Bashi moved towards the doctor, hand outstretched, as Zeebande fell into line behind him, aping his curious gait, his spine arched backwards like a pregnant woman, his two huge feet set at a permanent ten to two angle. Lax, who had been alerted by the child's shrieks of delight, pretended not to notice and scuttled to the kitchen to make tea. The doctor chuckled.
Bashi was in every way an enigma to Zeebande, a story-book character. He wasn't family that she was aware of, and he had no family of his own. She didn't know where he lived, though she knew that there was an open invitation for him to join them at Bahadurabad, and she could never place the strange idiom in which he spoke, part Urdu, part Persian, and part a language that appeared to be of his own invention.
He was odd-looking, of indeterminate age, though his permanent grey five o'clock shadow suggested that he was nearer her father's age than her mother's. His nose started orthodoxly at the eyeline before flowering into a bulbous tip that very nearly reached to his upper lip. At a 45 degree angle to this nose a biri would invariably be perched between his lips, though seldom lit, and an antique pair of glasses balanced improbably on the nose, one arm long since broken and replaced by a sturdy elastic band that he somehow managed to manoeuvre round his right ear. Bashi Mamoo always wore pyjamas, ill-fitting and hoisted a good four inches above his ankles, and a long white shirt guarded by two sturdy waistcoats. It is entirely conceivable that Bashi's unorthodox walk was a counter to the weight contained in the pockets and lining of those waistcoats, for they accommodated a veritable warehouse of watches, lighters, pens, cigarette holders and rings that he hawked around the streets of the city each day. An additional array of watches was always hidden under the long loose sleeves of his shirt. 'These are my bread and butter,' he used to tell Zeebande as she gazed wide-eyes at this mobile market stall.
'Can I have tea too?' Zeebande asked ten minutes later as Laxmi poured from the delicate china pot.
'You don't like tea, beti,' her Nani interrupted as she stirred sugar into her own cup.
'I do today,' the child countered cussedly, knowing that she would get her way." (p.82-3)

I am not sure, like with 'Good Omens', that there is much to say about 'Neverwhere' by Neil Gaiman that has not be opined elsewhere. Two very unpleasant murderers are on the trail of a young woman called Door, and when she falls on the pavement at Richard Mayhew's feet he obeys his first instinct which is to help her. He comes to regret this in more ways that you can at first imagine. He finds his life rapidly spiralling out of control, or rather just disappearing, and he is obliged in his turn take refuge in a world below the streets of London of which he was hitherto unaware. While there is a dastardly plot afoot I felt it takes second place to the sheer inventiveness of the environment that he has created, peopled with a cast of characters that are quite literally London's landmarks brought to life.

Here is Richard, finding something to eat at the Floating Market:

"Another whiff of cooking food wafted across the floor, and Richard, who had managed to forget how hungry he was ever since he had declined the prime cut of roast cat - he could not think how many hours before - now found his mouth watering, and his thinking processes beginning to grind to a halt.
The iron-haired woman running the next food stall he came to did not reach to Richard's waist. When Richard tried to talk to her, she shook her head, drew a finger across her lips. she could no talk, or did not talk, or did not want to talk. Richard found himself conducting the negotiations for a cottage-cheese and lettuce sandwich, and a cup of what looked and smelled like a form of home-brewed lemonade, in dumb show. His food cost him a ballpoint pen, and a book of matches he had forgotten he had. The little woman must have felt that she had got by far the better of the deal, for, as he took his food, she threw in a couple of small nutty biscuits.
Richard stood in the middle of the throng, listening to the music - someone was, for no reason that Richard could easily discern, singing the lyrics of 'Greensleeves' to the tune of 'Yakkety-Yak' - watching the bizarre bazaar unfold around him, and eating his sandwiches." (p.112-3)

Sunday, 30 April 2017

The Gustav Sonta

The pleasure of the Readathon is taking in a book all in one go, and it was particularly lovely with 'The Gustav Sonata' by Rose Tremain, that I picked up from the library the other day. It tells the story of Gustav and Anton and a friendship that endures the years and the separations, but also touches on the wartime position of neutral Switzerland and what happened to Gustav's father, a local police chief who finds himself breaking an official edict about the entry of Jews from Austria. 

Gustav's stoicism helps Anton when they meet in kindergarten and they form a close bond, with Anton's affluent family providing Gustav with the small joys that soften the edges of his harsh and neglected home life. Here they discuss Anton's prospective concert pianist future:

"'How does she know?'
'Because I'm a "prodigy". That means I'm more brilliant at playing than almost everyone else my age. By the time I get to eighteen, I could be performing in huge concerts in Paris and Geneva and New York. You see?'
'Huge concerts?'
'Sure, Even at our age, my mother says, we have to think about what we're going to do later in our lives. What are you going to do Gustav?'
Gustav turned his face away. Into his mind came the image of himself, on his hands and knees, in the Church of Sankt Johann, searching for pitiful 'treasure' under the metal grating. And it was easy to project this forward into the future - as though there were no future for him, but only this: a man crawling along, growing older year by year, searching for things which other people had cast aside.
'I don't know what I'm going to do,' he said." (p.56)

But Gustav's quiet acceptance of life stands him in good stead and he forges a life for himself that is steady and contented. He struggles to gain the love of his mother but finds solace in friendships that he finds along the way. I liked the philosophical approach of this hotel guest:

"Gustav asked, 'What is gin rummy, Colonel?'
'Oh, yes,' said the colonel, 'I stupidly forgot that it isn't universal, because it's always seemed so universal to me. It's a card game. Fairly simple, yet with a little skill attached to it, but without the need for perpetual vigilance, as in bridge. Bee and I used to play three or four times a week for years and years. It's a game that calms your nerves. I would even go so far as to suggest that it may help regulate a human life, and make what is unbearable easier to be borne. And now I have no one to play with.'
'We play an obscure card game in Switzerland called Jass,' said Gustav. 'The cards are decorated and complex. The scoring is difficult. Perhaps, while you're here, you could teach me gin rummy, Colonel? Once the dinner is complete, I have very little to do, except make the rounds of the hotel before I go to bed. I would be delighted to learn.'
'Would you really?' said Ashley-Norton. 'That's very decent of you. None of my friends in England wanted to stand in. they thought gin rummy was an infernal waste of time. I said to them, "That's the whole point of it. Wasting time changes the nature of time. And the heart is stilled." But nobody paid me any bloody attention.'" (p.166-7)

It is the colonel's story of his war experience that leads Gustav to seek out answers about his father's apparent fall from grace and sudden death. If Gustav is somehow representative of the self-contained and inward looking nature of Switzerland the analogy diverges as his investigation leads him to learn new things about himself too.  Anton's more turbulent life causes him more troubles, but it is his bond with Gustav that brings him back from the edge. The person I most found myself sympathising with however was Gustav's mother Emilie Perle, who's disappointed desires taint her whole life. I very much enjoyed entering into the small lives of the characters in this story; it is often small lives that feel more real and relatable.

The morning after the night before

It's 7.37am. 
Cups of tea count : 7ish
Pages read : lots
Books finished : 3
Walks round the block : 3
Hours slept : none 
Neverwhere is growing on me, I am now at page 211. Dunk came down about 6.30 and made me a hot cuppa; I have mostly made and then forgotten to pour them all night. Monkey has made slow progress with Foundation having dozed on and off for a couple of hours, but has reached page 133. 
We are in the home stretch now.
11.23am. We finished our books simultaneously a few minutes ago, both satisfied with the outcome. Neverwhere 372 pages
Foundation 234 pages
Pizza all gone, fruit all gone but there is cake left.
I think I've had enough tea now ... to last me until next week (or till tea time, whichever is sooner)

We fizzled to a stop in the last half and hour and chatted, but we made it to the end, and this has been my first Readathon where I stayed awake for 24 hours. Time for sleep now I think.
Final totals 
Me: 853 pages
Monkey : 702 pages
Tish : 144 pages

Saturday, 29 April 2017

Readathon April 2017

Happy Readathon Day
We started the day a little early so are already making good progress. Monkey is enjoying the delights of Good Omens by Neil Gaiman and Terry Pratchett and has read 177 pages.
I have started with The Gustav Sonata by Rose Tremain and am at page 138.
Cups of tea count: 3
We have a healthy selection of roasted nuts and dried fruit to help us through the early stages. 
Over at Outlandish Lit Julieanne is currently running a challenge to draw a book cover from memory.
See you later for updates.
7.15pm. After a little coaxing we have been joined by Tish, who is reading The 100 Year Old Man who Climbed out the Window and Ran Away by Jonas Jonasson and has reached page 82. Monkey has read 282 pages of Good Omens and I have just finished The Gustav Sonata, at 240 pages, giving us a grand total so far of 604 pages read. I have ordered the pizza so we are all set for a few more hours.
11.30pm We had cake and then Monkey and I went for a little walk around the block to refresh ourselves.Tish went off to bed after 144 pages. Monkey has finished Good Omens at 404 pages and is now starting Foundation by Isaac Asimov. I read a bit of Eileen Myles 'I must be living twice' but found her poems a bit aimlessly meandering. I read 47 pages of George Monbiot's 'How Did We Get Into This Mess?', articles from the Guardian, published by Verso Books. I am currently giving 'Neverwhere' by Neil Gaiman an hour but am not sure about it yet (72 pages).
2.50am Monkey is snoozing. I have been reading '38 Bahadurabad' by Zeeba Sadiq (132 pages). Having spent that last couple of hours reading through her eccentric childhood and becoming enamoured of this wild and passionate child I find myself saddened to discover that she died in August 2010.

Friday, 28 April 2017

Biannual snooze on the sofa day

Life potters on, we read, and make stuff, and occasionally go to work. I took a brief break from the crochet granny squares (which are coming along pretty well),
to make a pair of socks,
and then another Shalom cardigan
I made one for mum quite a few years ago, and decided that an upcoming family wedding was an excellent excuse to make on for myself to go with my yellow Gudrun dress. Unfortunately I didn't order enough yarn ... oh what a pity, another visit to Black Sheep will be necessary.

Tomorrow sees Monkey and I settling down on the sofa for the Dewey's 24 Hour Readathon. We have been partaking in this for several years, and although we invariably do have a nap at some point we have cake and snacks to sustain us through the wee small hours. It feels wrong that we need an excuse to just read all day. 

Tuesday, 25 April 2017

Birdcage Walk

'Birdcage Walk' by Helen Dunmore. I like Helen Dunmore, and I enjoyed this book, but do not find anything much to say about it. It is basically the story of an abusive relationship, but set at the time of the French Revolution. The heroine Lizzie has been bought up by her ferociously political mother with whom she has a close bond, but against whom she has rebelled by marrying Diner Tredevant, a local property developer. Against the background of european political upheaval her mother has a second child, and the relationship with her husband becomes steadily more disturbing as the truth about the fate of his first wife gradually emerges. It has an excellent build up of tension and menace, but the ending was too neat to be truly satisfying. 

Here Lizzie watches her husband from inside the darkness of their house:

"But he did not see me. He turned towards me, but i am sure he did not see me. The moonlight lay faint and blue and init I saw his face. It was not distinct: I could not see any feature. He looked up, and seemed to be scanning along the terrace, searching for something in the jagged half-built outline. It seemed as if his eyes passed over me and my heart thudded again.
His hands were clasped behind his back and he stood for a long time, unmoving. It gained on me that he was not looking at the terrace. There was something else, something I could not see.
At last he moved. He stepped away to the edge of the pavement, and disappeared. He was climbing down the steps that led to the track which was not yet a road. He would be hidden from me by the height of the pavement, and then he would reappear.
Sure enough, he did. He was on the turf now, and walking towards the edge of the Gorge. Moonlight showed the clear outline of his body as he moved. He looked smaller that I had ever imagined him. I must not blink in case the Gorge swallowed him as I might swallow the night air in my breath. But even though I watched and kept in watching, he vanished." (p.118)


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