America has been searching its religious soul for a number of years now. The results of this search describe a cultural rift that can be neatly measured by data on church attendance. And by book sales.
On the right, everyone knows, one finds Jesus with a loaf of bread in one hand and the entirety of the Christian publishing industry in the other.
On the left, one finds . . . well, what does one find?
Strafing across recent titles on religion from mainstream publishing reveals a trend:
The argument from the left seems to be that if we stick to the old guns of evolution and reason we’ll soon banish the bugbear of superstition once and for all.
But is it correct to accept religion and science as squaring off across a red-blue scrimmage line? Cracks in the wall of fundamentalist Christianity appear to be widening, politically. And the latest book to claim that science has finally killed God—Richard Dawkins’s un-subtitled The God Delusion—was met with a hammering, led by Marilynne Robinson in Harper’s. Robinson eviscerates poor Dawkins (in a way that should get Oxford rethinking that tenure appointment), demonstrating in Dawkins’s own terms that his science wasn’t particularly scientific and that the rap sheet recited against religious history was matched by a list of indictments compiled against scientific history. And then some.
That religion would find defenders on the left is hardly new, and three recent books about William James, whose The Varieties of Religious Experience set about defending religion from just that perspective, may indicate another trend in modern publishing. One of the three books is my own, The Devil is a Gentleman: Exploring America’s Religious Fringe, which examines James’s thinking on religious matters as measured through narratives to modern “new religious movements.” The other two are Deborah Blum’s The Ghost Hunters: William James and the Search for Scientific Proof of Life After Death, which looks at James’s work with the Society for Psychical Research, and Robert D. Richardson’s just released William James: In the Maelstrom of American Modernism, an intellectual biography that completes the substantial trifecta Richardson began with celebrated biographies of Thoreau and Emerson.
Using science to evaluate religion returns directly to James. The Varieties of Religious Experience suggested that a “science of religions” could usefully examine our ever-growing set of myths, dogmas and metaphysical theologies. But obviously there’s a difference with James’s science. He didn’t want to exhaust religion, or strangle its mystery. He wanted to justify it. And James—who protested the occupation of the Philippines after the Spanish-American War, crusaded against lynchings, worked on behalf of the mentally ill, and lent his name to the anti-vivisectionist movement—was decidedly on the left.
But here he is explaining why, even as a scientist, he argued for religion:
The first thing to bear in mind (especially if we ourselves belong to the clerico-academic-scientific type . . . for which to ignore others is a besetting temptation) is that nothing can be more stupid than to bar out phenomena from our notice, merely because we are incapable of taking part in anything like them ourselves.
Sam Harris and Richard Dawkins appear unmoved.
James would not be surprised by our divided society. Indeed, he may have anticipated it with the basic classifications of people he distilled in The Varieties of Religious Experience. His “sick souls” and “healthy-minded” categories are perhaps the best-known aspect of his thinking, and together they very nearly describe the way things stand today.
The most troubling thing about our divided society, as I see it, is that each side appears discomfited that there’s a rift at all. Both the scientists and the fundamentalists conclude that their counterparts would be better off if they simply gave up their silliness and hopped on board with the living truth.
James would have been cynical of this prescription for a uniform world.
“Philosophy has often been defined as the quest or the vision of the world’s unity, he wrote, “but how about the variety in things?”
The Varieties of Religious Experience celebrated just that. Strict reason was no refuge. Even in James’s own time, “Science’ [was] . . . genuinely taking the place of a religion” and he worried about “the hideous rift that science, taken in a certain narrow way, has shot into the human world.”
One hundred years later, both America’s promise of religious pluralism and its cultural diversity rely on the strength inherent in variety—the same variety that James made the heart of his system. But philosophically we’ve lost this as our soul-searching has set us on divergent paths. Marilynne Robinson reminds us that we have as much to fear from the scientists as the fundamentalists, and advises that “it is diversity that makes any natural system robust, and diversity that stabilizes the eccentricity and arrogance that have so often called themselves reason as science.”
In 2000, when asked who his favorite philosopher was, candidate George W. Bush responded, “Jesus Christ.” And when Oprah Winfrey asked Al Gore roughly the same question, Gore responded, “Jesus Christ, you have to say that . . . “
Wouldn’t it have been nice if just one of them had said William James, a made-in-the-USA philosopher now fading from memory but still prepared to address the rift growing between us? Perhaps the new slate of James books means that, like those fundamentalists rethinking their fidelity to the right, at least some on the left have begun to question a science which, with its cold dead “no,” seems just as fundamentally wrong.
The latest posts at the blog of The Quarterly Conversation
I’ve been thinking a lot about heat waves. The thick summer weather has felt like a wall of fire that must be bravely pushed through to order to exit from an air conditioned office building and make my way to the corner to board a bus crowded with sweaty citizens. So perhaps it’s no surprise that [...]
"What’s not so up for dispute is that Markson accomplished what, by all rights, should be a literary impossibility." (Colin Marshall for The Millions)
"Ich liebe dich. No sentence pronounced by a judge could be more threatening. It means that you are about to receive a gift you may not want." Via Dylan Suher, Greg Gerke's sort-of review of William H. Gass's Reading Rilke in BIG OTHER.
A fan of Herman Melville must have patience. He must appreciate digression and the dissolution of pattern or plan. He must enjoy the sheer rush of words, a proper Biblical torrent of them. And he must be able to find pleasure in philosophical dialogue as much as in wild anecdote. But must he read Clarel? Can [...]
This is just one small example.
Thomas Bernhard is certainly one of the major, titanic writers of any era, any country. Enormously influential, unremittingly bleak and pessimistic but never without a sense of humor, his style evolved into single-paragraphed philosophical rants extending hundreds of pages, the best of which are Woodcutters, ‘Walking’ (from Three Novellas), and Gathering Evidence. I have finally [...]
Ever since Penguin's 75th Anniversary roadtrip I have intended to address the somewhat simultaneous release of Penguin 75, a sort of vanity book of Penguin covers. This book is delightful, but flawed. Delightful, but misleading.
In The Unicorn Hunt (1993), the fifth book of Dorothy Dunnett’s cycle of historical novels of early Renaissance Europe, the House of Niccolo, Dunnett tells of the deficiencies of wealthy merchant Anselm Adorne’s relations with women thus: His wife Margriet could have warned him. He was familiar with motherly wives and the skittish ways of other [...]
Janet Holmes, director of Ahsahta Press, based at Boise State University in Idaho, took the time this week to share her thoughts on poetry publishing as part of my ongoing series of publisher profiles. Ahsahta publishes seven full-length collections of poetry a year, including recent works by Kate Greenstreet, Lisa Fishman, Rusty Morrison, and Julie Carr. Like some other small presses, Ahsahta offers a yearly subscription option, which is one of my favorite ways to buy poetry and encounter the work of many poets who are new to me, as well as poets whose newest books I always look forward to reading. Janet says more about this and what it's like to craft a press's identity and consistent aesthetic.
An unfortunate side effect to the lengthy transition of print to digital is our long suffering endurance of stale articles in mainstream media rehashing the same points as every other article in mainstream media.
The latest articles published in between issues
In Ransom, Malouf satisfyingly gives us a meeting between Priam and Achilles that builds from the interiority of Priam. The novel seems to want to teach the importance of doing something human to those who might never get around to picking up Homer or who, if they do, might wish they could get into the character's heads.
Winterson has always told and retold the same fictions: of parents and children; of origins, and adoptions; of differences, of margins; of love; of passion; she has always manipulated rhythm and language as an excavation of sources. Much of her fiction mirrors what we know of Winterson's own story, but she agitates against the idea that her work has to be considered as fiction or autobiography, laying claim to both. In Art Objects she writes: "The question put to the writer 'How much of this is based on your own experience?' is meaningless. All or nothing may be the answer. The fiction, the poem, is not a version of the facts, it is an entirely different way of seeing"; a "separate reality." At every turn she eludes the critic, the interviewer, the reader; she offers truth, but not the truth. "I'm telling you stories. Trust me."
It's difficult to pin down exactly why books as objects mean so much to me. I wasn't alive when William Goyen's excellent Come, The Restorer was published, but owning an original printing with the dust jacket—as it would have been purchased at the time of its release—makes the book more special to me than some beat-up paperback reissue. If it's signed, even more so. I'm only really interested in modern first editions (say, post-1950 or so)—before that books get quite expensive, but also I don't think they look as nice, since many were issued without dust jackets, and at that time the dust jacket wasn't considered a permanent part of the book, so they're often missing. So why the obsession and collecting, and why is it so important?
Wood can be harsh, yes, but he is seldom unfair. Wyatt Mason was wrong to accuse him of having suggested, by dint of a string of negative reviews, that no good contemporary literature exists. (He has written favorably of McEwan, Bolaño, Robinson, Ozick, Kirsch, Sebald, Roth, Saramago, Swift, Carey.) He never simply dismisses a writer (in the manor of, say, Dale Peck); on the contrary, his criticism, even at its most polemical and uncompromising, is inexplicably bound to larger concerns about the direction of contemporary fiction. Two major concerns have dominated James Wood's writing: realism and religion. In The Broken Estate: Essays on Literature and Belief, his first collection, newly available in paperback from Picador, these two concerns are beautifully imbricated, resulting in what is surely among the finest achievements in recent literary journalism.
To say that Mark McMorris's Entrepôt is about writing poetry is to do a huge disservice to this beautiful and penetrating book, whose ostensible subject of contemplation is how to live, love, and make do in a time of war, if not cultural crisis. On the other hand, the book's greatest service, at least to my eye, is in its exploration of just what it means to be a poet—I should be more specific and say a lyric poet—amid our contemporary terrors.