Game of Thrones and Philosophy

by Jacoby, Henry, Irwin, William

  7. Sartre does not mean by this that we can succeed in becoming anything we choose. No human will ever succeed in becoming a god, and it’s probably safe to say that no human will achieve immortality. On a more mundane level, most of what we choose to do or be meets with only partial success. So Sartre is not saying that I can be whatever I want to be. His point is that I can try to be anything I can conceive, while of course recognizing that both the world and other people constrain my chances of success.

  8. It’s worth remarking here that if we accept the Sartrean terminology, “taking responsibility” and “taking responsibility for oneself” are two quite different things. Responsibilities are something that the world puts on you. Sartre might admit that there are responsibilities, but these responsibilities have no power over you unless you choose to let them. You are, however, absolutely responsible to yourself; in fact, it is the only true responsibility that you have and one that you cannot evade.

  9. See Aristotle, Categories and De Interpretatione, trans. J. Ackrill (Oxford: Oxford Univ. Press, 1963).

  10. The term for authenticity in German is Eigentlichkeit, drawing on the root word eigen, meaning “own.” Eigentlichkeit might more literally be translated as “ownedness.”

  Chapter 18

  NO ONE DANCES THE WATER DANCE

  Henry Jacoby

  “Who are you?” he would ask her every day.

  “No one,” she would answer, she who had been Arya of House Stark.1

  It’s a long journey from being a nine-year-old tomboy playing with wooden swords, to learning the Water Dance, to escaping King’s Landing after her father’s beheading, to hiring an assassin in Jaqen H’ghar, to becoming an apprentice assassin herself with the Faceless Men at the House of Black and White in Braavos. It certainly makes Arya Stark one of the most compelling characters in A Song of Ice and Fire. She faces all that life throws at her with a fierce determination that’s rare, especially for one so young. Some readers may see Arya as one who becomes a crazed killer, perhaps even a psychotic, driven mad by her thirst for revenge. I see her, however, as a strange mixture of moral virtues and Zen sensibilities. How can this be? What do moral virtues and Zen have to do with each other? And what does either of them have to do with our favorite skinny girl from Winterfell?

  This chapter is about Arya’s journey and what it can teach us about how to lead a good life. It’s also about stabbing people—you know, sticking them with the pointy end. Interestingly, as we will see, they turn out to be much the same.

  Virtues and the Good Life

  In moral philosophy, a distinction is often made between an ethics of doing and an ethics of being. Roughly, the idea is that while some ethical theories attempt to tell us what to do and what makes our actions right or wrong, other theories focus more on how we should live and what we should be like. These latter theories comprise the field known as virtue ethics.

  The goal of all virtue theories is to instruct us on how to lead a good life. The theories disagree, though, on what constitutes “a good life” as well as on the necessary means for achieving it. Many of the ancient Greek philosophers held that the good life equals the life of reason. By contrast, the great spiritual and philosophical traditions of the East tend to distrust reason, and instead would have us focus on living authentically. In Zen, this means having direct experience of reality and finding the true self, whereas in Taoism it means living in harmony with nature in an effortless way. Arya’s journey—from Water Dance beginner to apprentice assassin in Braavos—encompasses all of these. After all, I’m not just writing this because she’s my favorite character (well, maybe).

  If you’re going to map the tricky path to the good life, and thus present any virtue theory of ethics, the first thing you need to do is explain what a virtue is. Aristotle (384–322 BCE) was the first to do this in any sort of systematic way in his Nicomachean Ethics,2 so that’s a good place to start. He explained that virtues were character traits; but not just any character traits are virtues. After all, Littlefinger is devious; Sandor Clegane, the Hound, can be vicious; and Joffrey, well, Joffrey needs to be slapped. The point is that these character traits are not virtues. A virtue, said Aristotle, is a character trait that is good for you to have. “Well, isn’t it good for Littlefinger to be devious and the Hound to be vicious?” you might ask. These traits serve their purpose, that is true, but they are not good for them in the sense that they do not bring them true happiness. Certainly these traits don’t bring them eudaimonia, the Greek word sometimes translated as happiness, but better translated as well-being or flourishing.

  In discussing happiness and the good life, Aristotle is not talking about pleasure. Like his teacher Plato (428–348 BCE), Aristotle denied that pleasure was “the good.” He is talking instead about a life lived with the rational part of the mind controlling our desires and appetites, a life in which we fulfill our proper function as rational beings, living what Socrates (469–399 BCE) called “the examined life.” Virtue is thus not some prize to obtain; it is a process that one works through in an entire lifetime. The person without reason in control—or any immoral individual, for that matter—might obtain various pleasures, but such a person could never attain true happiness. On this point, Socrates, Plato, and Aristotle all agreed.

  Since the proper virtues are needed when engaged in the process of living a good life, the next thing we need to know is how these virtues are obtained. Aristotle thought that the moral virtues could be acquired only through practice, and not through instruction. So, for example, Maester Luwin’s having Bran read all about brave knights is not sufficient to make Bran himself brave. He might come to understand the concept of bravery in this way, and thus recognize it in his brother Robb. But for Bran to actually possess the virtue, he must practice performing brave acts until it becomes natural for him to react bravely. It must become a habit.

  This leads us back to Arya’s beginnings with the Water Dance. As we will see, the martial arts are a good way to illustrate what Aristotle had in mind. But since the martial arts originated in the East, they are infused with, and help illustrate, the philosophies of Zen and Taoism as well.

  Martial Arts and Virtues

  Before he leaves to “take the Black” and join the Night’s Watch, Jon Snow gives Arya a special present: a thin sword, made of the finest Valyrian steel, which she names “Needle” (special swords need to have names, of course). Arya Stark may be a very young girl, but unlike her older sister Sansa, who dreams of being a princess, Arya has no time for such foolishness. She’d much rather be a knight. She is already aware that the training she receives from Septa Mordane is not the sort of training that is needed for the life of well-being; she needs a different sort of “needlework.” Jon Snow’s present, on the other hand, resonates with her, and sets her on her path of self-discovery.

  At first, all Arya knows of swordplay is that “you stick ’em with the pointy end.” “That’s the essence of it,” her father agrees, but seeing that she’s genuinely interested, he arranges a proper teacher for her (“Lord Snow”). And not just any teacher, we learn, but the Dancing Master from Braavos himself, Syrio Forel. What she learns from Syrio—the Water Dance—is not just how to hold the sword and how to position her body to avoid attacks, but something much more. Indeed, she begins to learn how to live. Just so.

  True martial artists will tell you that martial arts are not just about self-defense, but are also about health and well-being. Studying martial arts can help us acquire moral virtues while teaching us how to live, and like Aristotle’s life of virtue, the martial arts stress the importance of the process over the prize. When studied seriously, a martial art is a spiritual practice as well. More on this later.

  When I first began studying martial arts, I asked my sensei (the head instructor—literally, “one who has gone before”) how often one should train. He replied that you never stop training; everything you do is part of it. What you learn in the dojo—the place of training—obviou
sly has application on the outside, if you ever have to defend yourself, for instance. But it’s not just about defense. The awareness you learn, the respect and compassion you show for your training partners, and how you learn to conduct yourself all carry over to the rest of your life. If you think of every action in your life as part of your training, then all your interactions, with people, animals, and the environment, require the same care and focus you must have in the dojo.

  Now, let’s return to Aristotle’s idea of virtues as habits. Aristotle wants us to practice honesty, courage, justice, and so on until they become a natural part of us. In martial arts training, something very similar takes place. For example, in karate, students practice various movements, like upward blocks, endlessly. An upward block is an unusual sort of movement—not something that one routinely does—but over time it becomes a simple automatic movement. And that’s a good thing, because if someone attempts to strike the martial artist over the head, you want the block to be an automatic response. If it was not so—if it was instead the case that you first had to think about how to respond to the attack—it would be too late. The same is true for all the movements Arya learns in practicing the Water Dance. The sword thrusts and blocks, the graceful movement of the body, chasing cats through the castle, as well as standing on one leg or walking on her hands to create a new sense of balance, are all meant to train Arya to respond instantly and appropriately to any dangerous situation.

  Similarly, the honest person responds automatically with the truth in every situation; he doesn’t have to think about what the proper response should be. This idea, that the “proper response” does not involve thinking, is not only shared by martial arts and Aristotle’s virtue ethics,3 but is also an essential part of the philosophies of the East. And further, the common theme in each is that character is developed through discipline, practice, and attention. In martial arts, without this training of the mind, you’re just learning how to fight. With this training of the mind, though, you’re learning how to live authentically.

  The Water Dance

  “This is not the dance of the Westeros we are learning. . . . This is the Braavos Dance, the Water Dance.”

  —“Lord Snow”

  Virtue theories such as Aristotle’s are concerned with how we should live. Since martial arts share this goal, they can be put in the same category. But there are many differences. For Aristotle, to lead the good life, reason must be in charge. The rational part of the mind must control the irrational part so that we are not ruled by our desires. For the martial arts path to the good life, we must also control our desires, but this is not accomplished by living “the examined life” of Socrates or “the life of reason” recommended by Aristotle. It instead requires an egoless presence with a “mind like water.”

  It’s not for nothing that the sword style Arya is learning is called the Water Dance. For one thing, water is a very important concept in Taoism. Taoism’s main work, the Tao Te Ching, attributed to the great sage Lao Tzu, is full of passages encouraging us to “be like water.”4 What does this mean?

  In their first lesson, Syrio explains to Arya: “All men are made of water; do you know this? If you pierce them, the water leaks out . . . and they die” (“Lord Snow”).

  Water is essential to life. The Water Dance mirrors the very dance of life. Water flows and adapts to its surroundings, filling containers of any shape, going through holes or cracks, and moving around an obstacle when it can’t go straight through. In martial arts, there must be a flow as well—a dance, if you will. The martial artist adapts to the situation, using only the amount of force necessary, and never more. To lead a good life, we too must be able to adapt, and go with the flow.

  Several characters in A Song of Ice and Fire adapt well to their surroundings, and their lives, while still containing tragedies and suffering, are the better for it. Tyrion and Daenerys come to mind as excellent examples, while Daenerys’s brother Viserys illustrates the opposite. But no one is a better example of harmonizing with one’s surroundings than Arya. From working in the kitchens at Harrenhal, to becoming “Cat of the Canals” in Braavos, she learns to accept her situation for what it is, and thereby to do what is required. This involves, at Harrenhal, enlisting the help of Faceless Man Jaqen H’ghar to assassinate some of her enemies and lead a revolt, and killing a Night’s Watch deserter in Braavos. Using Needle is sometimes, unfortunately, what the situation calls for.

  Another feature of water is its flexibility, which enables it to withstand great force; the martial artist can likewise withstand attacks by being flexible. An important skill in martial arts involves redirecting an attacker’s own energy against him. Doing this properly requires little energy of your own. If you’re struggling to make it work, using all your strength, you’re not doing the technique properly.

  This idea of avoiding struggle involves one of Taoism’s key concepts: wu wei. This is the idea of responding to every situation in life effortlessly and naturally, like water. Lao Tzu tells us that “the way of the sage is to act without struggling.”5 When you achieve this, you are in harmony with the Tao itself—the flow of nature, or the very dance of life. In martial arts, this is nicely illustrated by performing a Tai Chi form, which is a series (sometimes quite long) of choreographed movements done very slowly. To the outside observer, it looks like a graceful dance; in reality, it consists of a series of deadly self-defense blocks, strikes, and kicks. To do it properly, thinking must be put aside; one becomes the form. Again at her very first Water Dance lesson, Arya complains that her wooden sword is too heavy to hold in one hand. “What if I drop it?” she asks. Syrio replies “The steel must be part of your arm. Can you drop your arm? No” (“Lord Snow”). That’s the idea.6

  Zen and the Sword Master from Braavos

  “There is only one god and his name is death. And there is only one thing we say to death: Not today.”

  —“A Golden Crown”

  To be able to respond effortlessly, and to be able to become one with the dance around you, requires that your mind be like water. But Zen has us go further, as we strip away the ego in order to find our true self. Indeed, a famous Zen koan asks, “What was the face you had before you were born?”7 Slaying the ego—which, as we will see, is perhaps the most important part of Arya’s later training at the House of Black and White—is also crucial in Zen.

  Zen is a way of seeing the world, and a way of authentically being in the world. It can be thought of as a philosophy of life, yet it has no theory. And unlike most philosophical systems, it deemphasizes the intellect in favor of intuitive action. As its approach to life is often illustrated in the interaction between student and master, Arya and Syrio will thus do just fine.8

  Syrio Forel tells Arya that he was first sword to the Sealord of Braavos. He explains how this came about:

  On the day I am speaking of, the first sword was newly dead, and the Sealord sent for me. Many bravos had come to him, and as many had been sent away, none could say why. When I came into his presence, he was seated, and in his lap was a fat yellow cat. He told me that one of his captains had brought the beast to him, from an island beyond the sunrise. “Have you ever seen her like?” he asked of me.

  And to him I said, “Each night in the alleys of Braavos I see a thousand like him,” and the Sealord laughed, and that day I was named the first sword.9

  At first, Arya doesn’t understand, but Syrio explains to her that the others saw what they were expecting: a fabulous beast. Whereas he saw what was there: just an ordinary tomcat. He continues:

  Just so. Opening your eyes is all that is needing. The heart lies and the head plays tricks with us, but the eyes see true.10

  This idea, this “seeing with your eyes,” is an essential part of Zen; we might even call it “Zen seeing.” Recognizing the flow of all things—the Taoist idea alluded to above—is also part of this. For example, earlier in the lesson when he explains how he became First Sword of Braavos, Syrio was calling out his moves,
indicating which direction Arya should move to be able to defend herself. One time, though, he doesn’t go where he says, sends her a stinging blow with his wooden sword, and says, “You are dead now.” When Arya protests that it was unfair because he had lied, he replies:

  “My words lied. My eyes and my arm shouted out the truth, but you were not seeing.”

  “I was so,” Arya said. “I watched you every second.”

  “Watching is not seeing, dead girl. The water dancer sees.”11

  Watching and seeing are clearly two different things. Zen is an attempt to train the mind in order to bring it into contact with ultimate reality. Partly, this is done by using your senses to perceive what is there without any preconceived notions, as in the tomcat example. Another example occurs much later when Arya first enters the House of Black and White in Braavos. She sees old people lying around in alcoves who appear to be sleeping; but, as she reminds herself to “look with your eyes,” she realizes that they are either dead or dying.12 She will soon learn that this is why they come to the temple.

  Seeing rather than just watching also requires that one must be fully present. In one of their lessons, the training isn’t going very well. Lord Eddard has been seriously injured, and Jory, the head of his guard, has been killed. Arya is naturally worried about her father. Syrio says to her:

  You are troubled. . . . Good! Trouble is a perfect time for training. When you are dancing in the meadow with your dolls and kittens, this is not when fighting happens. . . . You’re not here; you’re with your trouble. If you’re with your trouble when fighting happens . . . more trouble for you. Just so! (“A Golden Crown”)