…In
my last posted entry The Dogs Of Virtue, I pointed out that it is most
unfortunate that the modern usage of the word “cynic” is so
misleading toward the original meaning of the word. With regard to modern
usage, the great “cynic” Oscar Wilde
describes a cynic as “a man who knows the
price of everything and the value of nothing.” (Lady Windermere’s Fan, Act ii.) It is toward the same kind
of cynic as described above that
Bertrand Russell writes: “Cynicism such as one finds very frequently among the most highly
educated young men and women of the West results from the combination of
comfort with powerlessness.” (From the Conquest
of Happiness, x, 1930.) Obviously, this type of cynic is entirely
different (although I wouldn’t say irreconcilably
different!) from the original practitioner of the trade.
It
is also obvious that Russell chooses not to take notice of the multitudes of
the proverbial cynical politicians, or those wealthy and openly
unscrupulous get-rich-quick wheeler-dealers, and the rest of their far-from-powerless cynical crowd.
Granted, though, that this yet another modern meaning of “cynical” does not necessarily a “cynic” make, in Russell’s understanding.
Here
is how Bertrand Russell summarizes the “old”
cynics’ doctrine, and puts it in the context of some later trends that carry
traces of similarity with it: “The teaching of
Diogenes was by no means what we now call “cynical,” but quite
the contrary. He had an ardent passion for virtue, in comparison with
which he held the worldly goods of no account. He sought virtue and moral
freedom in the liberation from desire: be indifferent to the goods that fortune
has to bestow, and you will be emancipated from fear. In this respect, his doctrine
was taken up by the Stoics, but the Stoics did not follow him in rejecting the
amenities of civilization. He considered that Prometheus was justly punished
for bringing to man the arts, which have produced the complications and
artificialities of modern life. In this he resembled the Taoists, and Rousseau
and Tolstoy, but he was more consistent than they were.” And further
still, he says this: “Diogenes personally was a man
full of vigor, but his doctrine appealed to weary men in whom disappointment
had destroyed natural zest. And it was certainly not a doctrine calculated to
promote art or science or statesmanship or any other useful activity, except
one of protest against powerful evil.” (The
History of Western Philosophy, Chapter xxiv.)
I
like and respect Bertrand Russell, whether I agree or disagree with him. With
regard to that last paragraph about Diogenes’ appeal to “weary men,” I find him
very wrong. Weary men are hardly moved by any kind of philosophy, or by a novel
way of life, which implies the need to upset their own weary inertia. Besides, Diogenes
was by no means some run-of-the-mill cynic. He was an exceptional man,
reputedly appealing to such colossi of his age as Alexander the Great and
Plato, who do not qualify as “weary men” by any stretch of imagination. But
otherwise, Russell is right about the cynics. Even the greatest of them were
not creators or contributors to culture, and there was little more about them
than personal charisma and a few spuriously quotable gems bequeathed to
posterity.
Yet,
there is also that peculiar collective
philosophy which characterizes them as a “school,” rather than as a constellation of individuals. In the
absence of their own writings, we have learned about them secondhand, and,
frankly, that knowledge is not specific enough. It is probably the experience
of their more successful Christian kin, which may help us shed some extra “inner”
light on the mystery of their experience.
From
what we have just read about the Greek Cynics in Russell, an immediate
comparison to the Christian Ascetics is only natural. They, too, had an ardent
passion for virtue, in comparison with which they would hold worldly
goods of no account. They, too, sought virtue and moral freedom in the
liberation from desire: By being indifferent to the goods that fortune has to
bestow, they hoped to be emancipated from the sin and corruption of the ‘evil’ world around them. Of course, they
rationalized their “cynical”
lifestyle in Christian terminology and teleology, but the striking
similarities between their two lifestyles allow us to draw certain interesting
moral parallels, which will be great fun to bring to light and analyze later on.
Are
we then to assume that the Christian Ascetics are Greek Cynics in Christian
clothing, that is, in simpler terms, Christianized Cynics? Not only that: this
example allows us to follow the most interesting process of what I would call theologization of philosophy. The same
intellectual disposition of an individual that has produced the cynic, when
compelled to bring such philosophy onto sacred ground does exactly that, helped
by the fact that both the original cynics and the resulting Christian ascetics
are dogmatic thinkers, making the theologizing transition easy and painless.
Ironically, by the same token as Jewish Christians would look down on
unconverted Jews, non-Jewish Christians would look down on untheologized
philosophers, allowing, say, St. Augustine, a pillar of Christian Asceticism,
to refer to the cynics derogatorily as “those
canine philosophers” (De Civitate
Dei, xiv), deliberately refusing to acknowledge his own kindred spirits. I
bet had these “dogs” of his time
chosen to become Christians, Augustine would have been all over them with glowing
praise, and invited them with open arms to his ascetic Christian community. But
having been exceedingly disappointed in their lack of enthusiasm for the
Christian religion, he just struck back at them with scorn and disdain… I wish
he had been more God-like in his attitudes, to better deserve his Sainthood,
especially since the Christian Church of his time was already all-powerful
enough to afford some tolerance and patience toward her by then powerless intellectual
opponents.
Yet,
this kind of enmity does not deny, but even reinforces their close spiritual
affinity. Apparently, both the cynics and the Christian ascetics have a great
fear of the external world, and they only feel empowered by a total separation
from it, and by becoming impervious to it. Whether this reveals a sense of
inferiority within them, or, perhaps, an even greater sense of superiority, I
suspect that these two complexes somehow always go together, not unlike the
sadistic-masochistic duo, which may also be related to the group of two,
forming a group of four.
The
present inquiry into the common nature of cynicism and asceticism requires
a much more thorough and comprehensive treatment than I can allow myself at the
moment, but the purpose of this entry at this stage is not the writing of a
scholarly essay on this subject, but setting for myself a reminder to take up
this topic as soon as I can do it, which makes the present entry in its current
shape little more than a memo to myself. I am, however, still posting it, as an
indication of a work in progress.
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