The Essential Kierkegaard

The Essential Kierkegaard, edited by Howard V. Hong and Edna H. Hong. Princeton: Princeton University Press, 2000. 524 pp., $29.95.

Kierkegaard is not light reading, nor is he easy to summarize or even paraphrase.  I am not a philosopher by training, and I fully admit to being out of my league here. There is a fair amount that I do not understand, despite having a fair grasp on Danish and after having taken a class on the author. But there are so many exquisite essays in this collection that I cannot fail to be impressed with this man's mind. Kierkegaard forces me to think and think hard. His writings force me to confront my assumptions and my religious beliefs. He forces me to dig a little deeper than is comfortable. And for all that I am grateful.

This abridged collection of Kierkegaard's work follows the author chronologically, with large selections from his most famous works, including Either/Or, Fear and Trembling, Concluding Unscientific Postscript, Works of Love, and The Sickness Unto Death.  I fear I cannot begin to summarize these works but only cite of my favorite lines. From The Concept of Anxiety (p. 153):

This is an adventure that every human being must go through--to learn to be anxious in order that he may not perish either by never having been in anxiety or by succumbing in anxiety. Whoever has learned to be anxious in the right way has learned the ultimate....Anxiety is freedom's possibility, and only such anxiety is through faith absolutely educative, because it consumes all finite ends and discovers all their deceptiveness. 

From Concluding Unscientific Postscript (p. 207):

Truth is precisely the daring venture of choosing the objective uncertainty with the passion of the infinite....But the definition of truth stated above is a paraphrasing of faith. Without risk, no faith. Faith is the contradiction between the infinite passion of inwardness and the objective uncertainty.

From The Sickness Unto Death (p. 361):

Sin is: before God, or with the conception of God, in despair not to will to be oneself or in despair to will to be oneself. Thus sin is intensified weakness or intensified defiance: sin is the intensification of despair.

I could go on, as this book is replete with underlined and starred passages along with my own thoughts in the margins. I think the passages above highlight, however, part of why I love Kierkegaard's writings so much: he deals with the ambiguities and complexities of a Christian life. Living a life of faith or striving for something better while recognizing one's faults is challenging and subject to each individual's experiences. Generally considered the father of existentialism, Kierkegaard is able to combine the importance of the individual experience with the Christian narrative, something subsequent existentialists were unable or unwilling to do.

The Hongs have dedicated their career to compiling, translating, and reinterpreting the works of Soren Kierkegaard. Their scholarly dedication is quite clear in this compilation. Footnotes are very helpful, the summaries at the beginning of each chapter provide valuable context, and references to the original books are clear but unobtrusive. I found the font a bit small, which became somewhat discouraging through some of the larger and more obscure works. But after nearly two years ago, three moves, a new job, a new son, and living in a new country, I was able to make it through the whole book. The journey was well worth it.

The Alliance

The Alliance by Gerald N. Lund. Salt Lake City: Bookcraft, 1983. 329 pp., $18.99.

This is my wife's favorite book of all time, and comes in pretty high on my own list as well. Just prior to departing on our epic vacation to Salt Lake City and Honolulu, I sat down one Sunday in December to reread this classic. (Again, as noted before, I was avoiding Kierkegaard at all costs.) As always, the novel did not disappoint. Fast-paced, imaginative, and containing all the necessary components of a well-thought out dystopia, this novel is the best science fiction novel I have read.

Unlike most dystopias, in Lund's novel the nuclear war has already occurred. World War III has wiped out most of the United States, and only pockets of survivors are found in areas that were not directly hit by nuclear and biological weapons. The novel starts with the world in the early phases of trying to rebuild itself, with a group of survivors in Star Valley, Wyoming quietly living as their pioneer ancestors did. Their pseudo-Eden is quickly shattered however when they are forcibly relocated to the Alliance, a growing society intent on rebuilding civilization without the horrors of war or violence. The method for removing these ills of society is an implant in the brain which conditions individuals to avoid incorrect thoughts and behavior.

Eric Lloyd, the protagonist of the novel, quickly sees through the pernicious effects of such a false utopia. The implants rob citizens in the Alliance of their ability to make choices themselves and ultimately undermines the good intentions behind the society. Thwarting the implant system is no easy task, however, and Lloyd goes to great lengths to free himself, his family, and ultimately the society from their electronic shackles.

The focus on free agency is a familiar track for many dystopias; but Lund is particularly adept in this realm because of his well-envisioned world and cogent dialogue between the characters regarding the positives and negatives of personal choice. I  am often frustrated by the lack of honest consideration of the very real downsides of agency in dystopic novels: the protagonist is without moral flaws and a post-dystopic society flourishes with no downsides. The Alliance does a decent job of reminding the reader why we so often seek to build utopias in the first place. A world of choices is a world of ambiguity, uncertainty, and--frequently--failure. Human beings are always striving to better the world; Lund reminds us there is no quick shortcuts in this path however. And there very well may be limits to just how much we can improve society. The truth is, without a higher source of inspiration, human society will be unable to rise above our "nasty, petty, and cruel" state.

But I don't read The Alliance for a moral lesson really. The action, fast pace, and intriguing world are the real draw of this book. Lund places the action in a world that is similar enough to this one I can relate but far enough removed in time and events that I can still get lost in the fiction thereof. The first time I read this book, I started it at 8pm and read all night. Every time I said I would read just one more chapter, there was something new and exciting waiting that I just had to check out. Even now, I find it difficult to put down. That is the true mark of a good science fiction novel.

Farenheit 451

Farenheit 451 by Ray Bradbury. New York: Ballantine Books, 1996 (first published 1953). $15.00, 179 pp.

I spent a couple Sundays in November rereading some of my favorite dystopic science fiction novels, and this classic was at the top of that list. Originally published in 1953, Bradbury's warning polemic against illiteracy, censorship, and entertaining distractions still rings true today. The author has an excellent writing style, the book is fast-paced but filled with evocative details, and I have to stop after reading to think about the underlying themes. What more could one want from a science fiction novel?

The book is set in a future America on the brink of war with a Soviet-like foreign aggressor. The domestic population, meanwhile, remains utterly impervious to the impending horrors of nuclear war, nestled as they are in their cocoons of ignorance and distractions. Firefighters in this world serve as the bulwarks against self-awareness and knowledge with the task of burning books and the heretics who would claim that historical knowledge, context, and complexity are necessary for the well-being of any society.

The protagonist of the novel, Guy Montag, is a firefighter who has spent his life burning books, but now encounters a crisis of faith when he confronts a young girl who thinks about the world she lives in. Like many dystopias, the world quickly unravels once the protagonist--armed with the knowledge that he is living in a sick society that does not know it is sick--begins to question and fight against the stated claims of his society.

In reading the novel this time, I was struck by two observations that undermine the author's thesis. First, Bradbury and other dystopic authors from the 20th century appear to universally overstate new technology trends while simultaneously failing to creativity imagine how such technologies could benefit the moral character of society. Bradbury foresaw no future for the radio and felt that television would quickly degenerate into bread and circuses. While I certainly agree that the form of media matters (see my review of Neil Postman's book on the subject), surely even Bradbury would have to acknowledge that television has also enabled broader audiences for intellectual discussions and has given birth to other, more interactive media via the internet. And lest we forget, radio is alive and well and may even be entering a renaissance era with podcasts and Pandora helping it along. No one technology or media trend has so captured society as to remove all other forms of interaction or discourse. And as such, we are left with the positives and negatives of many innovations, forms of media, and political inclinations.

Second, Bradbury takes himself and his message a bit too seriously. The ultimate message I take away from Guy Montag and his traveling companions/walking library at the end of the novel is that we should never be so presumptuous as to believe that our era has all the answers. Yet in an ironic way, the author establishes himself as a literary prophet, guiding society past the ills of censorship and frivolous entertainment. This tone is condescending at times, especially in the coda (written in 1979) and afterword (written in 1982).

With that said, I still love the book for its excellent story, important message, and imaginative world.  In my own life, I have my seashells, talking walls (my screens are admittedly much smaller though), fast transportation, and distracting pursuits. I struggle to find the time to read and the motivation to research the context and complexity behind modern issues. But ultimately, the world is not so bad nor ignorant as Bradbury might have predicted. For that I am grateful.

For the Good of Mankind

For the Good of Mankind: A History of the People of Bikini and their Islands by Jack Niedenthal, 2001. Majuro, Marshall Islands: Bravo Publishers, $16.95, 226 pp.

Anthropologists throughout the world spend significant time and ink chronicling lost cultures and dying languages. Frequently, such social scientists attempt to approach a culture objectively (as they might define such a word), draw broader conclusions from their case study, and leverage their newfound knowledge for academic promotions or designations as a "world expert in the culture of...." Niedenthal is not this type of anthropologist. In fact, he is not an anthropologist at all but rather a dedicated adopted member of the Marshallese community who  has compiled here an impressive number of first-hand accounts from the of the Bikinians in the sixty years since the United States tested its first atomic weapon on Bikini atoll. Peppered throughout the accounts are the author's own observations from the past three decades he has dedicated to the Bikinians. Although the book could have used a professional editor and the flow of the narrative is jarring at times, the underlying material is so impressive as to overwhelm any stylistic flaws.

The Bikinians left their island in 1946, accepting the statement of Commodore Ben Wyatt at the time that the move would be temporary and that doing so would be "for the good of mankind and to end all world wars." For the next three years, the 167 islanders would be relocated on Rongerik, then Kwajalein, then Kili Island. Each temporary home was unable to sustain the growing community. While Kili became something of a permanent home, it lacked a lagoon and could not naturally supply the people with food or shelter from the ocean. For twelve years Bikini and Enewetak atolls would be the location for over 60 nuclear tests. After 25 years, some were allowed to return to Bikini atoll only to have medical researchers report six years later, in 1978, that some exhibited high levels of radiation. The island was again evacuated. Today, there are no permanent residents on Bikini, but over 4,000 Marshallese trace their heritage to the island and are dispersed throughout the Marshall Islands and the United States.

Their six decades as an internally displaced population has not been entirely negative for the Bikinians however. Trust funds established by the United States government and medical treatment programs ensure that Bikinians have some of the highest living standards and longest life expectancies of all Marshallese. King Juda, the Iroij (high chieftain) of the Bikinians said "Everything is in the hands of God," And in the stories that Niedenthal has compiled here, we catch a glimpse of that quiet fortitude that enables the Bikinians to live and thrive even in difficult circumstances.

Even though it has been over 50 years since the United States tested nuclear weapons in the Marshall Islands, feelings are still raw and misunderstandings abound. I applaud the author for going beyond the nuclear angle of the Bikinian's plight and writing about the individualities, histories, and personal observations of the community. Niedenthal states in the introduction that he got the idea of recording the stories of some of the Bikini elders after discovering that some of their own offspring were unaware of the community's recent history. But he goes beyond a mere oral history compilation. Marshallese are excellent storytellers, but they won't just tell them to anyone. Jack has earned their trust through years of dedicated service, and the level of detail and emotion in each story is evidence of that fact.

The book lacks a strong overall narrative, and typesetting and design is relatively crude. But given that this book was written ten years ago and produced in the Marshall Islands, I am impressed that it was published at all. Books like these that tell the important story of marginalized and small communities will never make much money. But the stories are important nonetheless and are an important reminder of the hidden costs to the Cold War, nuclear weapons, and global realpolitik.

Untying the Knot

Untying the Knot: Making Peace in the Taiwan Strait by Richard C. Bush. Washington: Brookings Institution Press, 2005. $24.95, 416 pp.

With much of my academic studies focused on the European continent and its history of conflict and integration, I have not spent much time examining the central issues facing East Asia and the Pacific area. Living in the middle of the Pacific has helped hone my interest however, and I have been particularly focused as of late on the Taiwan Strait conflict. The subject is particularly applicable in the Marshall Islands, which recognizes Taiwan as the Republic of China. For a deeper look at this issue then, I turned to Richard Bush, who has been heavily involved in Taiwan-China issues for over two decades and who has the academic and policy background to properly contextualize the conflict.

The Taiwan Strait conflict strikes at the very heart of Westphalian sovereignty and security. Who represents China? Who has the right to declare independence and under what circumstances? When can a country respond militarily to a perceived threat? When Chiang Kai-shek and the Republic of China government fled mainland China in 1949, it was as if two parallel historical narratives were created. The communists and Mao Zedong had de facto rule of all of mainland China and acted accordingly. The Nationalists and their successors on Taiwan continued to claim de jure sovereignty over all of China. These competing claims continued apace but essentially reversed themselves: today, the Republic of China has de facto rule of the island of Taiwan while the People’s Republic of China claims de jure sovereignty. Who is right?

As the title suggests, the issues surrounding this conflict are complicated and yield no easy answers. Both political rhetoric and military resources plays an extremely important role. The People’s Republic of China (PRC) sees the question of international recognition at the core of its domestic legitimacy and will aggressively fight against any international role for Taiwan. Some of the most volatile flash points in the conflict have arisen from comments made by Taiwan leaders suggesting they have or will seek full independence. On the other side, the military buildup by China and the continuing sale of arms by the United States to Taiwan puts real firepower behind the rhetoric. For now, both sides have agreed to a tenuous truce, but the lack of trust, communication, and progress is frightening. The possibility of war is real.

Richard Bush writes well and is comprehensive in his examination. Drawing from his own experience serving as the Chairman of the American Institute in Taiwan from 1997 to 2002 and through a close examination of the major strands of the Gordian knot, he effectively conveys the seriousness of this situation for all parties concerned, especially the U.S. The Taiwan Strait conflict is not currently a major theme in current events, and for that we should be grateful. But if and when the situation escalates, I sincerely hope that cooler heads, such as Richard Bush, will prevail and be able to guide policymakers through the intricacies of cross-strait relations.

There are only three faults with the book, none of which can be directly attributed to the author. First, the book was finished in 2005, just as Chen Shui-bian won a second term as President of Taiwan. While Bush does a good job examining how his reelection will impact relations, I feel that if he had waited perhaps one more year he would have been able to provide a little more contemporary context for the new detente between the PRC and Taiwan. Of course, I cannot imagine any author sitting on a book for one year, and really the responsibility rests with the reader to take the book’s broad narrative and examine current events in that light. Second, the view of the conflict is in sharper focus from Taiwan’s perspective than from mainland China’s perspective. Bush himself acknowledges that he places much of the blame for current tensions at the feet of the PRC and is not surreptitious in his bias, understandable given his professional background. The existing governance structure of mainland China makes it further difficult to gather the full details about what is going on in the minds of communist leaders. Given these handicaps, Bush does a decent job exploring the conflict from the perspective of communist China.

Finally, the author fails to provide one quick punchy solution for resolving the conflict. In an age of talking heads and quick opinions, the lack of a comprehensive policy prescription is notable. He explores ideas such as iterative reciprocal agreements to escape the existing prisoner’s dilemma and institutional development, but ultimately throws up his hands and says, essentially, “Someone has to go first.” For now, we remain in a stable status quo. But when change comes, I sincerely hope the leaders involved can take the same measured and comprehensive approach this book does.

Presidents and Prophets

Presidents and Prophets: The Story of America's Presidents and the LDS Church by Michael K. Winder. Salt Lake City: Covenant Communications, 2007. 428 pp., $28.00.

With two Mormons vying for the Republican nomination, it seemed fitting to me to sit down and investigate historical relations between the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints and the Presidents of the United States. I was aware of the main arcs in relations--from Martin Van Buren's response to Joseph Smith,"Your cause is just but I can do nothing  for you," to Ronald Reagan calling the Mormon Tabernacle Choir "America's Choir"--but in this illustrative book, Michael Winder has compiled a more comprehensive and often surprising outline of relations between the spiritual and secular worlds. The encyclopedic scope of the book is impressive and the author's significant research on the subject is apparent, although the book lacks the polish of a comprehensive biography or history. In honestly examining the undulating and frequently rocky relationship between the LDS church and the government of the United States, Winder has created a helpful starting point for further studies into the early secular history of the church and a better perspective on current political dynamics within the LDS community.

Winder starts from the very first U.S. President, despite the church only coming into existence in 1830. For the early presidents, the exercise is more theoretical--what would the early founding fathers have thought of the church? While the author is able to provide some helpful insights into their religious views, this section is weak and a more proper history of such issues should probably be left to the likes of David McCullough and company.

From Andrew Jackson to Benjamin Harrison, the relationship between the Latter-day Saints and the U.S. presidency was fraught with marginalization and near unanimous antipathy. As early Saints moved west under persecution, presidents were unwilling to act in their official capacity to lend a helping hand. It should be noted, however, that there was little they could do as the presidents had little power prior to the Civil War. But the strong presidency that emerged after Abraham Lincoln were very inopportune for the Utah-based church as it struggled to gain statehood while remaining essentially a theocracy adhering closely to polygamy. I was particularly surprised by the level of rhetoric that polygamy elicited from presidents during this era. James Garfield even cited the "Mormon Church" in his inaugural address and spoke at length regarding the need to stamp out polygamy.

With the presidency of William McKinley, relations began to take a more nuanced and positive tone. Presidents had differing relations with the church and its leaders, much of it dependent on Senator Reed Smoot and his role in Washington. I was struck by how bipartisan and pragmatic the church was during this era. Although the Church was certainly not shy about recommending one candidate over another, the church as a whole evaluated candidates more on positions rather than party. And significant political divisions were often publicly aired, with apostles and prophets giving conflicting support for one candidate or another. It was perhaps this experience that led the church to adopt its current official stance on non-alignment.

And for the first half of the 20th century, the LDS church truly adopted this pragmatic principle, establishing relations with whatever political party happened to be in power. I was particularly interested in the close relationship between President Lyndon Johnson and David McKay and between Reed Smoot and Calvin Coolidge (who even went so far as to provide President Coolidge with a priesthood blessing). These touching relations with presidents from two very different political philosophies underscore that the underlying doctrines of the Church of Jesus Christ are compatible with various political philosophies.

And then there is the modern area, beginning during the Jimmy Carter presidency. Somehow, the political party has come to dominate church/presidency relations, with Democratic presidencies having limited engagement and hiring few LDS officials and Republicans speaking high praise for the church. After having read of so much diversity in the 150 years prior, I remain intrigued by the political homogeneity within the church in the past 30 years. Perhaps social issues such as abortion dominate the political psyche of church members to such an extent that all other policy issues fade in significance. Or perhaps this is only one phase in a much longer history. I sincerely hope the latter is the case.

I applaud Michael Winder for compiling this concise and fascinating history. The design, typesetting, and layout leave much to be desired and at times the book reads too much like a mere encyclopedia listing every interaction between LDS individuals and U.S. Presidents. Despite these faults, the underlying subject matter is interesting and captivating. I hope to study these subjects in more detail in the near future. And I also look forward to pulling out some of the author's random tidbits of presidential trivia at the next (non-alcoholic) Mormon cocktail party I attend.

1491

1491: New Revelations of the Americas Before Columbus, by Charles C. Mann. New York: Vintage, 2006. 560 pp., $35.00.

Speaking of ambitious goals (see the previous book review), how about an attempt to rewrite our understanding of all pre-Columbian civilization in the Western hemisphere in less than 600 pages? 

I turned my attention to this book after stalling out on my intense Kierkegaard tome. The book previously belonged to a colleague of mine who was moving on to his next post and was getting rid of odds and ends. The simple title caught my attention and the clean layout (as opposed to Kierkegaard's tiny and endless font) was also quite appealing. Mann writes well and the subject matter is compelling and extremely interesting. But despite the author's journalistic background, I can't help but feel as though he buried his lead. Reorganization, a stronger examination of biological evidence, and a more consistent thesis would have quickly vaulted this book to the top of my recommend pile. As it is, I still consider this one of most interesting books of the year for me.

Because Mann fails to really lay out the thesis of this book, let me pull instead from the back cover:

Contrary to what so many Americans learn in school, the pre-Columbian Indians were not sparsely settled in a pristine wilderness; rather, there were huge numbers of Indians who actively molded and influenced the land around them.

The idea is compelling and certainly controversial. The foundation of Mann's argument is that early missionaries and explorers who chronicled much of the first interactions with the original Americans were witnessing only the vestiges of societies decimated by disease from the very same explorers. What we often stereotypically view concerning Indians (Mann insists on the term Indian for the logical reason that "Native Americans" encounters many of the similar homogenizing hurdles and is really no better) is small bands in perfect harmony with nature--by which we mean, they utilized natural resources without manipulating the earth to their advantage. But Mann, and the researchers he uses to justify the argument, argue instead that Indians in 1491 were massive and ancient civilizations with unique technology designed to maximize the return on Mother Nature.

Mann's major fault is he saves the best for last. The first section chronicles how devastating and fast spreading European diseases were to American cultures; while moderately interesting, I feel this is ground Jared Diamond has already addressed adequately. The second section regarding the length of time American civilizations have been around is also relatively non-controversial and better covered by other works, some of them extensively cited by Mann. The third section--regarding biological evidence suggesting terraforming and intensive human manipulation of the natural environment--was the most insightful, novel, and intuitive for me.

There is of course a danger in falling in love with an idea that lacks the necessary evidence. But I think Mann is really on to something. Why were there millions upon millions of passenger pigeons and buffalos roaming the land when Europeans arrive? Surely such a glut of life would be checked by the inexorable demands of evolutionary biology. According to Mann's thesis, the terrible demise of Indians who succumbed to disease removed the keystone species of stable ecosystems throughout the Americas. The author (finally) emphasizes this important point on page 353:

American landscapes after 1492 were emptied--"widowed," in the historian Francis Jenning's term. Suddenly deregulated, ecosystems shook and sloshed like a cup of tea in an earthquake. Not only did invading endive and rats beset them, but native species, too, burst and blasted, freed from constraints by the disappearance of Native Americans. The forest that the first New England colonists thought was primeval and enduring was actually in the midst of violent change and demographic collapse. So catastrophic and irrevocable were the changes that it is tempting to think that almost nothing survived from the past. This is wrong: landscape and people remain, though greatly altered.

The unique perspective of Mann's book is his ability to link the Native Americans to their ecosystem better than any environmentalist or Thoreau. The jury is still out on his thesis--indeed, a major component of his argument is that much of the evidence was wiped out before any evidence could be collected--but I find his argument compelling on this point. It provides a valuable dose of humility for the anthropological and archaeological communities and reminds us how little we know about our own history.

I'm still frustrated by the organization of the book. The introduction does not map the book out adequately, the first section is repetitive, and the second section gets mired in academic squabbles. Unlike most books, the final section is the strongest. The codas and appendices at the end are fundamentally unnecessary and read like sections of the book the editor insisted be removed but Mann couldn't bear to part with. Thankfully, these are errors that are ultimately overcome by good writing, an interesting subject, and an ending that leaves a good taste in the reader's mouth.