Author: skzb

I play the drum.

An Abstract Comment on Abstraction

In the previous discussion on ownership and property, Lee Gold said the following: “I own my thoughts and my actions — at least to the extent that I am willing to stand up for them.”  This is a very interesting remark, and set me to thinking.  Let me see if I can both work this out and express it (usually the same process for me).  We’re going to ignore the fact that this remark makes “ownership” meaningless because it ignores the role of the State, which is what defines ownership.  I’m going in a different direction.

My American Heritage Dictionary (I less than three my American Heritage Dictionary) defines the noun “abstract” to mean, “The concentrated essence of a larger whole.”  More important for this discussion are two of the definitions of the transitive verb:  ” 1. To take away, remove.” and  “3. To consider theoretically.”

To abstract, as I’m using it here, means to mentally pull a part out of the whole. Abstracting, in this sense, is a necessary part of thought.  In order to count the number of books on my shelf, I must abstract the quantity–that is, consider nothing about them except the number.  Abstraction is a prerequisite for object permanence, a vital stage in human development.  That our minds are able to do this is, obviously, a key element of thought; but, “this power must be used only for Good;” that is, we are able to do it incorrectly.  Because we have imagination, we are perfectly capable of making invalid or false abstractions–that is, abstractions that do not accurately reflect real world processes and conditions.  To take an obvious example, we can consider only the backbones of snails, but it won’t get us very far as snails, like Democratic politicians, lack backbones (okay, sorry, that was mean).  We can also abstract the backbones of snakes in order to consider, for example, how snakes move.  But this is something we do in our minds; in reality, if you remove the backbone, you no longer have a snake–you have snakeskin, some random organs, a couple of souvenirs, and a decent meal if you know how to prepare it.

The comment I quoted at the start of the post above is an interesting case.  By saying, “I own this,” or even, “I possess this,” we are abstracting the thing from ourselves.  The idea, “I own my actions,” or, “I own my thoughts,” implies “I possess my thoughts” or “I possess my actions.”  This has as much meaning as, “I own my leg,” or, “I possess my leg.”  This has significance today in, for example, the fight for reproductive rights of women–to what extent do you have the right to the control parts of your own anatomy?  But philosophically, what is happening by formulating it in that way, is that you are abstracting a part of yourself, and treating it as if it were separate from the whole.  Clearly, if my leg were amputated, stuffed, and given to me, no one would argue that I don’t possess my leg.  I should prefer to avoid this experience.  In reality, my leg is a part of me.  I would argue that this is a false abstraction.  I do not possess my thoughts, and I certainly don’t own them–rather, they are a part of the unity that is me.

Okay, that’s as far as I’ve gotten.  If you enjoyed reading this anywhere near as much as I enjoyed writing it, seek professional help.  I have no shame, but, hey, at least I own it.

On Ownership

I had an interesting conversation with three friends not long ago.  They were trying to convince me that they didn’t actually own their homes, because if they didn’t pay their taxes, the government would take their homes away.  Hence, they argue, they were only renting their homes–from the government.

After thinking about it, I realized that, although specious, this argument provides an opportunity to examine the question:  what does it mean to own something?  I speak of this briefly in point #7a here, but it is perhaps worth expanding on.

First of all, there seems to be some confusion between “possession” and “ownership.”  While we often colloquially refer to stuff we own as our “possessions,” I want to use a more narrow, precise definition. When I possess something, it is under my immediate control.  Right now, I possess a guitar, and I also possess a book that my friend Will loaned me.  I own the former, not the latter.  Ownership implies a legal right, which, by definition, invokes the courts, the laws, the police–in short, the mechanisms of the State that exist to protect property.  My possession of my guitar implies a relationship between me and the guitar; my ownership of it implies a relationship between me and the State–in other words, between me and other people (many of them carrying guns).  These people are paid to (barring unusual circumstances) prevent someone from depriving me of the control of something I own, or punish someone who has done so.

This approach makes even more sense if you look at it historically. The question: what can and cannot be considered property? is something that each social class immediately redefines when it takes control of the State.  For example, when the State is controlled by a slave-owning class, human beings can be property, and the force of the State is used to protect that property.  When the slave-power is overthrown, either by feudal lords (in Asia or Europe), or by emerging capitalists (in 19th Century America), this changes, and those who lately owned property in human beings cry out helplessly against their property being stolen.*  And the history of when, where, and how land can be owned, and what can be done with it, is a long and complex tangle of culture and class that I’m not even going to attempt to describe in detail.

At the moment, we live under the control of a State run by capitalists, hence, property is defined in such a way as to serve the interests of those who exploit the labor-power of others in order to appropriate surplus value. The fight over the exact degree of exploitation involves conflict with the individual capitalist, and also, at times, with the State itself, when the State is forced to recognize certain rights that work against the direct interest of capital (the fight for the closed shop, the right to strike, civil rights, &c).  As long as class society exists, this fight will exist in some form.  It is called the class struggle, and, when carried to its conclusion, it is called revolution.  But what I want to emphasize is that now, and at every period of history as long as there has been private property and thus a State, the State gets to decide what property is, and what you may do with it, and when you may keep it.  It does not always get to do this however it wants, without conflict or contention; but at the end of the day, it is the State that decides, and it decides in the interests of the ruling class.

So my answer to my friends who say that they are only renting their homes from the government is: Sure, you are welcome to define ownership in such a way that makes that true, but, if you do, the words “ownership” and “property” immediately lose all meaning.  The only meaning those words have ever had, is to describe a relation among people in general, and between an individual and the State in particular.  The right of the State to define and control property flows inevitably from the interests of the class that controls that State (that is, after all, what “ruling class” means).

In conclusion, if you are going to discuss ownership, or property, be aware that you are talking about property as defined by a particular State working for the interests of a particular class at a particular time.  To even discuss the concept as a pure abstraction is unscientific and ultimately useless.

*ETA: I think my favorite music is the wailing of an expropriated ruling class about how their property has been stolen.

Payback’s a Bitch, Isn’t it, Scott?

Gentleman Bastards

Tune: My Little Pony

My Little Bastards, Gentlemen Bastards
What will today’s big caper be?
My Little Bastards, Gentleman Bastards
Let’s loot a pirate ship on the sea!
What are you stealing?  Is it appealing?
Will Father Chains make you share?
My Little Bastards, Gentlemen Bastards
Hey look! That’s Sabatha there.
Let’s all go back to the lair.

By Jennifer Melchert and me, inspired by @zarhooie and the god Nemesis

Who Do You Write For, and The Effect of Good Criticism

One of the fun things to consider about writing is: who are you writing for?  My stock answer is that I’m writing to entertain an imaginary reader out there who just happens to like everything I do.  In fact, it is a bit more complex than that.  Sometimes people who are important to me get passages.  “I’m going to put this in there for Jen,” or, “Pamela will like this,” or, “This will make Will chuckle,” or, “Okay, Adam, here’s one for you,” or, “I wish I could see Emma’s face when she gets to this bit.”  Obviously, this is even more fun when collaborating: writing to delight your collaborator is a big part of what drives you.

That’s one of the things that makes writing fun and enjoyable.  And I make no apologies, because if Adam, for example, is going to be pleased when I make fun of elaborate, stupid dream sequences, well, I’m pretty sure some other readers will also be tickled.  And tickling the reader is good in at least two ways:  One, I like to make readers happy.  Two, a good tickle tends to disarm the reader, thus setting him up for a good, hard, kick in the ‘nads.

I now abruptly change subjects.

I adore good criticism.  By good criticism, I mean a piece of writing that makes me go, “Oh, man.  I hadn’t noticed that.  Cool!”  The platonic ideal of a critic for me has always been the late and very much lamented John Ciardi.  Of those working currently, one of my favorites is David Walsh of the World Socialist Web Site (he’s just written this, which I highly recommend).  Now, unfortunately, Walsh doesn’t often review Hollywood movies, which means he rarely discusses anything I’ve seen.   But, in the first place, his insights can be delightful even if I’m not familiar with the work, and, in the second, that makes it all the more fun when he covers something I have seen.  A good critic makes you think about how the creator achieved the effect, about subtleties that are obvious now that they’ve been pointed out, and about how this work fits into a broader context both within the genre and within the society that produced it.  This is stuff that I happen to enjoy, and is obviously useful, at a minimum in the sense of making you go, “Oh, hey, I know what I could do!”

And now we tie the two sections of this post together.

I’ve been reading Jo Walton’s essay collection, What Makes This Book So Great.  It is delightful on several levels, not the least of which is that I come in for a lot of ego stroking.  To semi-quote Twain, we like compliments. All of us do: writers, burglars, congressmen, all of us in the trade.  But with Jo’s book, I’ve noticed something else.  She keeps nailing me on things I did right, then backed away from.  I still remember writing my first book, Jarhead or whatever it was called, and thinking, “Why the hell can’t people write books with ongoing, happy romantic relationships where that is just part of the backdrop?  Fuck it, I’m going to do that.”  Then I didn’t hang with it, and Jo called me on that.  Or when I wanted to add a bit of revealing background by talking about how there weren’t carriages any more, now that teleportation was so common.  Then I slipped away from that, because I wanted a carriage in a particular story, and she noticed that (I’m working on a retcon for that one).  Critics who notice what you’re doing, like what you’re doing, and can point out things about your work that you didn’t notice, are incredibly valuable.

It just hit me today, as I was looking over the final draft of Hawk and considering the early chapters of Vallista, that at the moment I’m kind of writing for Jo Walton.  I can live with that.

I’ve Been Meaning To Say

You know how by the time you think of what you should have said in that conversation, it’s too late? Well, I mean, why should that stop me?  Here, with no context, are some things I ought to have said at the time. Most of these are at least 20 years old and I very much doubt anyone but me remembers any of them.  So what.  And none of them refer to anything on this blog.

Greg: I’d thought it was a pretty obvious rhetorical device, but I’ll explain the subtext if you’d like.  When I observe that we disagree on nearly everything, and then say that I agree with that remark, it makes my agreement more emphatic. I am inviting the reader who is inclined to dismiss your position to take another look.  If your question was in turn rhetorical, and intended as a criticism of my rhetorical device, then I’m sorry, but I missed it.

Pamela:  Oh! I ought to have clarified. My use of “exploited” was in the extremely narrow, scientific sense.  That is, a worker is exploited insofar as the wages he’s paid are less than the value he produces.  I did not mean to imply unfairly exploited, or treated badly.

Greg (again):  And where in Joyce is the snappy dialog during a sword fight?  For that matter, where are the sword fights?

Pamela (again):  I apologize.  Your question deserved a more thoughtful answer.  I do consider myself philosophically a child of the Enlightenment.  And while I think “perfectibility” is nonsense, I do believe in the improve-ibility of Man, and believe rational thought an important tool in that regard.

Greg (yet again):  Oh, for Heaven’s sake.  Let me try to explain this using, if not short words, at least short sentences.  Yes, I am in a critique group with that writer.  However, I don’t know where you get the idea that this means, “Therefore the author is a friend whose work I will defend even if I agree with the criticism.”  What it means is, we’re in the same critique group.  That means (pay attention now) that I had the chance to critically read the work before publication.  If I’d had a problem with that passage, I would have said so to the author.  If the author then chose to ignore my suggestion, and you had brought up the criticism I had mentioned, I’d either maintain a discreet silence, or find a way to say to the author, “Neener neener neener.”  If I did neither of those, it means I didn’t have a problem when I read the passage.  Now, perhaps I am wrong, and the passage really does have the problem you suggest.  But when you imply–uh, excuse me, when you state–that I’m only saying that because we’re in the same critique group you are being, at best, muddle-headed.  Have you considered the possibility that I liked that passage for exactly the reason I gave?

Patrick:  Of course, you’re right.  Too often discussions–especially on that subject–come too close to saying, “Believing that makes you a bad person.”  And the kindest thing one can say about that is that it isn’t useful.  But it seems to me that every passionate disagreement, even the most esoteric disagreement about theoretical mathematics, has underneath it the suggestion that the world will be a little better if you see and/or do things this way instead of that way.  If not, why the passion?  And whether something makes the world better seems to me to be the very definition of a moral question.  Again, this is not to disagree with the point you were making, I just want to point out that the opposite side can also be carried too far.

DDB:  You were right about the tires and I should have said so then.  But it is interesting to consider that that subject provides a lovely example of some of the accidental social mechanisms that make the rich richer and keep the poor poor.   Also, sorry about the soup thing.  I get that way sometimes.

There.  That should do it.  I feel worlds better.  If any of you have any of those arguments lying around, please feel free to post them here (but nothing from this blog; that would be cheating).