Over the summer, I read a book called The Modern Gentleman. It’s a great book, one I intend to more fully review when Husserl has for a moment quit speaking to me; but for now, suffice this point to introduce a thought. From the very beginning of reading the book, I realized that what I enjoy about sophisticated discourse versus naïveté is the same thing that I enjoy in myself and others that allows my soul or others’ souls (as defined as “mind” and then some) to be or contain a dynamic fusion of opposites, in understandings, preferences, &c.

What I mean is this. People like simplicity; and it has its place. But people—myself included, of course, not as to seem to be addressing only the Other—tend to latch onto simplicity where it does not belong, or at least, where it is not best suited. People like to assume that an issue is settled, when it very well may not be, or should not be. I’ll come back to this momentarily.

Allow me the luxury of assumption here: you’ve all had mashed potatoes. Think about mashed potatoes before—and sometimes even after—they’ve been seasoned. It’s starch-mush. A little butter, salt, maybe mayo or sour cream or some such, and there you have it. Mashed potatoes. They’re good, sure. They fill you up, and that’s that. If there’s such a thing as a generic food in America, that may be it.

Then there’s [1] kimchi, which I’ll not assume you’ve had. (There are [2] two hundred different kinds, but that’s something like saying there are two hundred ways to make a spicy bean-and-meat chili. It’s true, but if you’ve had chili, you know what it tastes like.) Bottom line: kimchi is a dish of fermented vegetables that is usually served chilled, but is very spicy. It has a slick texture because of the nature of the vegetables, but these are also rather crisp. Part of the flavor-experience of this Korean dish is the Yin-Yang embedded into the food: this dynamic interplay of crisp/soggy, cold/spicy.

Sure, you may be frightened by the fact that it’s foreign, and it’s easier to retreat into your mashed-potato wonder(?)land, but I submit to you that kimchi is much more interesting. So is the soul that resembles it, holding within itself a broad dynamism that smacks of sophistication and, moreover, of wisdom.* Here are some concrete examples of what I mean.

From aesthetics. Let us say that, on the lowest level, the man or woman who has this capacity is more likely to try foods that he or she doesn’t like. (At the risk of angering the feminists who find the male normative voice offensive, I’ll dispense with the either/or nonsense for readability’s sake.) Hasn’t had sushi? He will try it, because it will be to him more important to broaden his horizons than to limit himself on the basis of a culturally-given natural tendency away from raw fish. Id est, he’s an adventure-taker. Let us again say, insofar as this doesn’t encroach on the second set of examples, that he prefers Baroque art. Can he extend beyond his sensibilities to grasp what is good, what is fair in modernist expressionism? The raw lines, the dark moods—can he see even there what there is to like, even if it doesn’t replace his favorite?

From mental life. Do you hold strong opinions? I suppose you would be rather easily convinced that I do! And yet one of the hardest things for a man who holds a strong opinion is to intelligently discuss a viewpoint that is in direct contradiction thereof. As Aristotle put it, “It is the mark of an educated mind to be able to entertain a thought without accepting it.” Can you, Christian, entertain Nietzche and Freud for long enough to answer them intelligently and unflinchingly in this present age when they turn up in your peers’ mouths? Can you, metal heads, entertain Haendel and Beethoven (et alia) long enough to literally hear them out and appreciate what they have to offer you? Let us think of Socrates for a moment: did he not have strong opinions? Yet did he not ask questions as though he were ignorant, and let the general rabble think him daft?

From religious discourse. There are foundational points on which to bend would be blasphemy, idolatry, or the like; yet on matters of freedom, you will see the dynamic gentleman able to tolerate and entertain thoughts from both sides of the table on even the most heated debates. Can you sit between Calvin and Arminius, unwilling to draw blood from either while agreeing heartily with one and yet abstaining from ad hominem? Can you sit between Thomists and open theists long enough to hear either out? Granted, this is the hardest, but the dividends paid to the one who is able are enormous.

The only way to really broaden one’s horizons is to fight entropy. It’s very difficult to maintain a fusion of opposites, granted; but the one who looks with disdain on the unfamiliar is doomed to ignorance and rigidity. Like the Sequoia trees, they will stand tall and proud of their singular notions, absolutely convinced of their own right-ness in matters X, Y, and Z (not to mention A through W!). But they are useless when a storm of unfamiliarity slams them to the floor and splinter into cracked bits. It is incumbent upon every philosopher, whether formally trained or not, to maintain as broad a scope as possible, so as to encourage meaningful, discovery-led dialogue. It is incumbent upon the Christian to be patient, to allow Christian freedom reign where the Word is silent, to be—insofar as it doesn’t cause a moral issue—an adaptable person. It is incumbent upon every rational being to continually expand his depth of knowledge, while not forgetting the way to the surface.

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* Please note that I’m not referring to the ridiculous sophism of quote-unquote “sophistication,” the image of quasi-avuncular fellows wearing vests and monocles chuckling muffled, self-aggrandizing nonsense at one another over some topic about which they ostensibly agree. No, I mean a genuine sophistication, the kind that allows for (e.g.) social graces not for their own sake, as though they were an end in themselves, but as a natural out-flow of their hard-won, seasoned imperturbability and ability to think prior to speaking, &c.

Over the summer, I read a book called The Modern Gentleman. It’s a great book, one I intend to more fully review when Husserl has for a moment quit speaking to me; but for now, suffice this point to introduce a thought. From the very beginning of reading the book, I realized that what I enjoy about sophisticated discourse versus naïveté is the same thing that I enjoy in myself and others that allows my soul or others’ souls (as defined as “mind” and then some) to be or contain a dynamic fusion of opposites, in understandings, preferences, &c.

What I mean is this. People like simplicity; and it has its place. But people—myself included, of course, not as to seem to be addressing only the Other—tend to latch onto simplicity where it does not belong, or at least, where it is not best suited. People like to assume that an issue is settled, when it very well may not be, or should not be. I’ll come back to this momentarily.

Allow me the luxury of assumption here: you’ve all had mashed potatoes. Think about mashed potatoes before—and sometimes even after—they’ve been seasoned. It’s starch-mush. A little butter, salt, maybe mayo or sour cream or some such, and there you have it. Mashed potatoes. They’re good, sure. They fill you up, and that’s that. If there’s such a thing as a generic food in America, that may be it.

Then there’s [3] kimchi, which I’ll not assume you’ve had. (There are [4] two hundred different kinds, but that’s something like saying there are two hundred ways to make a spicy bean-and-meat chili. It’s true, but if you’ve had chili, you know what it tastes like.) Bottom line: kimchi is a dish of fermented vegetables that is usually served chilled, but is very spicy. It has a slick texture because of the nature of the vegetables, but these are also rather crisp. Part of the flavor-experience of this Korean dish is the Yin-Yang embedded into the food: this dynamic interplay of crisp/soggy, cold/spicy.

Sure, you may be frightened by the fact that it’s foreign, and it’s easier to retreat into your mashed-potato wonder(?)land, but I submit to you that kimchi is much more interesting. So is the soul that resembles it, holding within itself a broad dynamism that smacks of sophistication and, moreover, of wisdom.* Here are some concrete examples of what I mean.

From aesthetics. Let us say that, on the lowest level, the man or woman who has this capacity is more likely to try foods that he or she doesn’t like. (At the risk of angering the feminists who find the male normative voice offensive, I’ll dispense with the either/or nonsense for readability’s sake.) Hasn’t had sushi? He will try it, because it will be to him more important to broaden his horizons than to limit himself on the basis of a culturally-given natural tendency away from raw fish. Id est, he’s an adventure-taker. Let us again say, insofar as this doesn’t encroach on the second set of examples, that he prefers Baroque art. Can he extend beyond his sensibilities to grasp what is good, what is fair in modernist expressionism? The raw lines, the dark moods—can he see even there what there is to like, even if it doesn’t replace his favorite?

From mental life. Do you hold strong opinions? I suppose you would be rather easily convinced that I do! And yet one of the hardest things for a man who holds a strong opinion is to intelligently discuss a viewpoint that is in direct contradiction thereof. As Aristotle put it, “It is the mark of an educated mind to be able to entertain a thought without accepting it.” Can you, Christian, entertain Nietzche and Freud for long enough to answer them intelligently and unflinchingly in this present age when they turn up in your peers’ mouths? Can you, metal heads, entertain Haendel and Beethoven (et alia) long enough to literally hear them out and appreciate what they have to offer you? Let us think of Socrates for a moment: did he not have strong opinions? Yet did he not ask questions as though he were ignorant, and let the general rabble think him daft?

From religious discourse. There are foundational points on which to bend would be blasphemy, idolatry, or the like; yet on matters of freedom, you will see the dynamic gentleman able to tolerate and entertain thoughts from both sides of the table on even the most heated debates. Can you sit between Calvin and Arminius, unwilling to draw blood from either while agreeing heartily with one and yet abstaining from ad hominem? Can you sit between Thomists and open theists long enough to hear either out? Granted, this is the hardest, but the dividends paid to the one who is able are enormous.

The only way to really broaden one’s horizons is to fight entropy. It’s very difficult to maintain a fusion of opposites, granted; but the one who looks with disdain on the unfamiliar is doomed to ignorance and rigidity. Like the Sequoia trees, they will stand tall and proud of their singular notions, absolutely convinced of their own right-ness in matters X, Y, and Z (not to mention A through W!). But they are useless when a storm of unfamiliarity slams them to the floor and splinter into cracked bits. It is incumbent upon every philosopher, whether formally trained or not, to maintain as broad a scope as possible, so as to encourage meaningful, discovery-led dialogue. It is incumbent upon the Christian to be patient, to allow Christian freedom reign where the Word is silent, to be—insofar as it doesn’t cause a moral issue—an adaptable person. It is incumbent upon every rational being to continually expand his depth of knowledge, while not forgetting the way to the surface.

---

* Please note that I’m not referring to the ridiculous sophism of quote-unquote “sophistication,” the image of quasi-avuncular fellows wearing vests and monocles chuckling muffled, self-aggrandizing nonsense at one another over some topic about which they ostensibly agree. No, I mean a genuine sophistication, the kind that allows for (e.g.) social graces not for their own sake, as though they were an end in themselves, but as a natural out-flow of their hard-won, seasoned imperturbability and ability to think prior to speaking, &c.