Dr. Seuss and Philosophy
Page 9
In Seuss We Truth
Seuss has provided us with some tips for maintaining our own intellectual integrity.
Many of our emotions and desires certainly can skew our perspective. We see this easily in others and can note how effortlessly one can fall into the trap. Knowing this, we should be on guard with respect to our own intellectual commitments. First, when we feel strong emotions with regard to something, we should try our best to take a step back and see if we might be allowing the emotions to steer our understanding. Second, when we discover that we are easily accepting certain things as true, we should examine whether we have a preference for these things to be true. If so, we should begin to examine the strength of our evidence for them, if there is any. Finally, we should always be mindful of the tendency to disregard the truth. Throughout the day, we will deal in marketing rhetoric, ideological propaganda, flattery, and small talk; we’re mired hip deep in bullshit. No doubt we will produce some ourselves. We should do our best to curb both our intake and output of such nonsense.
It’s up to us to maintain our own intellectual integrity. Since we know we will fail from time to time, we should surround ourselves with reliable friends who help keep us straight. For that we have the likes of Socrates and Seuss, as well as all of our fellow collaborators on the quest for truth and wisdom. Following up on “On Bullshit,” Harry Frankfurt says at the end of his 2006 essay, “On Truth”:
To the extent that we learn in greater detail how we are limited, and what the limits of our limitation are, we come thereby to delineate our own boundaries and thus discern our own shape. . . . Thus, our recognition and understanding of our own identity arises out of, and depends integrally on, our appreciation of a reality that is definitively independent of ourselves. . . . How, then, can we fail to take the importance of factuality and of reality seriously? How can we fail to care about truth? We cannot.9
So when it comes to your own intellectual integrity, whether you have a desire to be famous as famous can be or to escape a dull Waiting Place or you have a fear of some scary thing down the road between hither and yon that scares you so much you don’t want to go on, step with care and great tact! And explore the world of ideas with an open mind. After all, “it’s opener there in the wide open air” (Places).
CHAPTER FIVE
Neither Here, nor
There, nor Anywhere?
Randall E. Auxier
Say It Isn’t So!
A “contrarian” is a person who just likes to disagree with everything you say. Most of us have a contrarian in our lives. You’ve probably had an uncle or a brother like that, or a boss or a friend—or if you’re saying “no, I haven’t,” you’re probably the contrarian in your own life . . . and, if now you’re saying “I am not!,” well, I rest my case.
Contrarians can be plenty annoying, but it’s actually good to have one around if you really want to learn something. One of the easiest ways to go wrong is to get all excited about something you think you’ve learned but in reality you haven’t fully understood it, and you haven’t yet discovered the gravity of your own . . . well, let’s call it “innocence.” (“Ignorance” is such an ugly word.) For example, I don’t know about you, but some of the best teachers I ever had were ones I didn’t like right off, and some of them I even dreaded after the first class or two. But by sticking with them for a while I began to recognize qualities that weren’t obvious at first. Maybe I needed a contrarian around to say, “Well, you think you don’t like Mrs. Jones, but you might be wrong.” Of course, sometimes I was right, and I didn’t need a contrarian at all. But how could I have known? And once in a while I meet someone and I’m so sure we will be good friends and I’m stoked about that, but after a while we may realize we don’t have much in common. A good contrarian would say, “You just wait, you’ll see otherwise in a few weeks . . .” You know the type.
Even if contrarians are a bother, they have their uses. That’s because learning is often a process of negating in your imagination what you believed at first, paring down your first impressions and eliminating gratuitous judgments and wild guesses until only the really stable and lasting ideas remain. And learning even more than that may require that you be a stick-in-the-mud, a wet blanket, a killjoy, a party pooper, in short, a contrarian.
A Little Bit Creepy
Sam-I-Am has one of these contrarians for a friend—well, are they friends? Sam is very much concerned to improve the life and outlook (maybe even the health?) of our unnamed contrarian (I’m going to call him “C”), but C does not like that Sam-I-Am, and he says as much. Can friends not like each other? I actually have a couple of friends who don’t like me, I think. It’s just the first of many educational puzzles in Green Eggs and Ham. Some people sort of like being not altogether likable. But Sam is, I think, an earnest fellow, even if he is annoying, and I see no reason to doubt his motives. He apparently wants nothing beyond the practical happiness of everyone, and for him that apparently involves getting shed of at least one meal at nearly any expense of effort.
We all know that there is something cool about this book. Even among the many works of genius created by Dr. Seuss, this one stands out. But the book is just silly, isn’t it? It was written on a bet, that Seuss couldn’t write a whole book using only fifty different words. And it has such a simple message, “You don’t know whether you like something until you try it.” Or maybe it’s “don’t be a contrarian.” Or perhaps it’s about the value of perseverance in helping others out of their narrow habits. Surely parents have appreciated these clear and convincing messages as they watch their children not only learn to read from this book but also memorize the book and even get excited as C finally agrees to try what he has been swearing he’d never like. It helps parents with their weekly broccoli argument, I’m sure.
But apart from what is obviously wholesome and good for the moral development of kids, there is in this book, as in many Dr. Seuss books, an element of mischief, something a little outside the rules, edgy, even dangerous. Part of the reason these books capture the imaginations of children has to do with just that mischievous element, and that is also part of what keeps adults reading them too—come on, don’t try to pretend you don’t still read them. There is just something sort of creepy about the Cat in the Hat, something deeply disturbing about the Fix-It-Up Chappie who sells stars to the silly Sneetches, and while we’re on the topic, who, by the way, is this Sam-I-Am, and why should he care whether C tries this meal that looks like it has gone over? Green eggs? Green ham? Those things ought not be green, as everyone knows. Has Sam taken out an insurance policy on C? Double indemnity for death by food poisoning? It’s a little creepy, a tad bit gross, and that’s part of the reason kids love it.
You Got a Problem with That?
Let’s slow down. Green Eggs and Ham is really quite rich with undertones, suggestions, and moral worries, and so the questions crowd in on every single page, if you’re of a philosophical temper or if you’re just plain contrary. But this chapter isn’t about your moral worries, it’s about three of the toughest branches of philosophy: metaphysics, epistemology, and logic, and how they come together to “settle belief.” Some philosophers who call themselves pragmatists say that when we are hindered by our doubts, we try to solve our problems with “inquiry,” and that means that we take on three really tough things at the same time—we want to know what is and is not a part of our problem (metaphysics), and how we should think about the problem (logic), and we want to know what we know when we know the answers to the first two parts so that we know why we solved or didn’t solve the problem (epistemology). Together these three branches are sometimes called the “theoretical” branches on the philosophy tree, as opposed to the “practical” branches: ethics, politics, and aesthetics.
Some philosophers like to separate theory from practice, and pragmatists have nasty names for philosophers like that, names such as “intellectualists” and “abstractionists” and some names even longer than those. The
ones who want to keep theory and practice together are those “pragmatists.” You’ve probably heard that label before, in epithets like “Oh, he doesn’t worry much about principles and scruples, he’s a pragmatist.” On the high side, it’s a word for people who get things done no matter what obstacles they face, but on the low side, it’s a word for people who will stop at nothing to solve their problems, no matter how nefarious may be the means. In philosophy, though, the word doesn’t stand for opportunists and bullies. It’s reserved for people who think that theory is really practical and that practical activities are the best source of theoretical ideas. They think, “Hey, when you have a problem, you have a problem, and whether it’s a math problem or what to get your mom for her birthday or the meaning of life it’s important to be able to think it through.”
To get us going then, pragmatists always want to ask what the problem is. In Green Eggs and Ham, then, what’s the problem, and how can we think about it? Is it one problem or several? Anyone can see that C has at least one problem, which is Sam-I-Am won’t leave him in peace. But maybe C’s real problem is that he doesn’t get out enough, try new things, and without some prodding he’ll miss what needs doing in the world. Sam has a problem, too, and his really is mysterious: C won’t eat the foodstuffs. But we all vaguely sense that Sam has made this his own problem, has chosen the problem, perhaps even invented the problem. And we have to wonder whether it is a real problem at all.
That brings us to our first lesson in pragmatism. There was a curmudgeon of an old philosopher named Charles Sanders Peirce (it’s pronounced “purse”) who lived from 1839 until 1914. He actually invented the philosophy of pragmatism, and everyone pretty much agrees that if there was ever a contrarian in the world, it was Peirce. And in fact, he actually looked a little bit like C in Green Eggs and Ham. Peirce noticed that when we have a problem, we become aware of it when it paralyzes the flow of our action and causes us to think, whether we want to or not. In the case of C, he has a problem with Sam because Sam interrupts his reading. C never would have formed an opinion about Sam otherwise. It’s like that with all problems. I suppose Sam doesn’t feel he can get on with his life until C eats the meal—although why that is so is exactly what we need to figure out. So, by listening to Peirce, we just figured out that we have a problem, too, which is: why is Sam so very serious about disposing of this meal in this way? I have a feeling that we won’t get to the end of this chapter until we have worked that one out.
So that’s our problem. We want to know Sam’s motives, why it’s a problem for him not only that this meal is uneaten but also that C must eat it. I assume that when he solves his problem, he’ll go back to whatever he does when he isn’t pushing ova and pork. I mean, where did he get his supplies? He clearly has lots of friends and a large menagerie of friendly beasts. So let us at least venture a hypothesis, because without that, we have no direction. What do you think Sam would be doing if not for this problem? Go on, think about it while I fill in a little more about pragmatism.
The Shadow of a Doubt
You already have lesson number one about pragmatism, which is that you would never think at all unless you had a problem, and a problem is nothing apart from the interruption of your usual activity. We can go a little further. Thinking is an activity that is a substitute for bodily activity. What we do when we think is we sort of pretend to act without really doing it—we see how this action or that action will probably come out, and then decide to try it out for real, or we think about a different action and imagine how that one will come out. It may not ever have occurred to you before, but thinking is just acting out in your mind what you might do and then saying either yes or no to really doing it. (Most of the time it’s no, thank heavens.) If the answer is no, you’re still thinking. If it’s yes, you’re through thinking and now you’re acting something out. This can happen very fast or very slowly. But that is all thinking really is, as far as we know: thinking is considering what to do. That’s why you don’t think when you don’t have a problem.
With the problems in Green Eggs and Ham, though, we come to a sort of moment of truth. Not all problems are equally important, and we can actually be mistaken about whether we really have a problem and about what the problem is, as well as about how we should think about it and what we should do to solve it. Some problems aren’t really problems at all, Peirce said. You can get so used to thinking about this, that, and the other that your habit of thinking can just take off on its own and invent problems for you to think about: stuff that isn’t really hindering your regular actions. I know you know what I’m talking about here. Chances are pretty good that you’re obsessing over something right now that doesn’t amount to a hill of beans. These are pseudoproblems, and a lot of problems in philosophy are like that.
For example, you may be convinced that your dog is embezzling from your bank account, and you may even be able to find suspicious bits of evidence that seem to confirm it. People have believed crazier things, after all. And in that case, you certainly do have a problem, but your problem is not that your dog is embezzling from you, it’s that your thinking processes and your habitual actions have come into an unhealthy relationship. And in fact that is what happens whenever we believe something that is false—we have a belief we cannot hope consistently to act upon without eventually coming to grief. So: Does C really dislike green eggs and ham? Obviously not. So why does he think he dislikes them? Now that is a grand puzzle.
To keep our thinking and our actions in a good, healthy relationship, Peirce suggests that we seek to discover whether any problem before us inspires “real or living doubt” or “genuine doubt.” Genuine doubt is an “uneasy or dissatisfied state from which we struggle to free ourselves and pass into a state of belief,” while belief “is a calm and satisfactory state we do not wish to avoid.”1 And that is really the key—if you don’t really feel dissatisfied, you aren’t in doubt. You are in belief. Now this sounds so simple, but when you take it to heart, it changes everything. A lot of people want to lead you into belief about lots of things, but not many people really want to lead you into doubt. In a condition of belief, you will act on what you believe. In a condition of genuine doubt, you won’t do what anybody says until you are satisfied that you do believe something. So, with you and your dog, your problem is not doubt, it’s a silly belief you’ve settled into. If your mind is still dissatisfied and uneasy, it’s because you doubt the soundness of your belief, not your dog’s character. If you really had no doubt, you would get rid of the dog, and without regret—try explaining that one to people.
People really get quite upset when you try to inspire doubt in them, which is why so few people set out to do it. One of the glories of Dr. Seuss is that he actually found ways to bring people into doubt without getting them angry, but it is good to remember that he was criticized by a lot of people—some called him a communist, some called him a fascist, some said he hated this or that or some other group, and some people said his books should be banned. They accused him of subverting the minds of children. This is sure evidence that he was inspiring genuine doubt in people, bringing their minds into a constructive and creative state of dissatisfaction. Be warned though: do what Seuss did and you will be attacked for it, even if you are loved by many who come to recognize that the uneasiness you brought to them was beneficial.
Sam-I-Am?
Do you have an idea yet about Sam-I-Am? I think that when we know what Sam does the rest of the time, we’ll know why it is a problem for him that C won’t try the green eggs and ham. So let’s brainstorm about Sam. What is he about, and what’s with the ova and shoulder routine? Does he do market research for the Associated Egg Producers? For the Pork Industry? Maybe Sam works for the U.S. Department of Agriculture? Maybe he gets a commission? I mean, he must have an angle, right? Is he trying to get C addicted, and the next batch will cost him but the first batch is free? Maybe Sam wants a favor and is softening C up for a request that won’t come until later. Maybe it�
�s a bet Sam made with the Grinch. If none of these suggestions has any purchase with you, then you tell me, what’s up with Sam? He’s just a silly character, you say? Part of the whole reason he is a comic is because no one would go to such lengths to bring a person into doubt about something so silly. The aim is to make us laugh. So maybe you’ll say that Sam is not real and his problem is not real.
But I don’t believe that, which is to say, I’m experiencing genuine doubt. And here is the reason. If you were right about this, that this character of Sam is just a puff of air, then why do I admire him? Why do I empathize with his struggle to achieve his goal? In short, why do I care about this story? I do care about it, and you do too, if you’ll be honest.
Oh, but that gives me an idea, because I remember reading about someone who was a lot like Sam-I-Am. Her name was Saint Monica, and her son became one of the greatest philosophers in Western history. He was called Augustine—Saint Augustine, Bishop of Hippo (354–430)—and he was a handful. He liked the loose life of wine and women and song, and all along Saint Monica stayed as near him as she could trying every day to tell him that he had serious and important work to do in the world and that he should become devout (that’s the ham) and pious (that’s one green egg) and serious (that’s the other green egg). In return, he was mean to her and ignored her and avoided her—in short, he was a contrarian, and worse. But she kept at it, and eventually he found himself in the midst of some genuine doubts. The answers to his problems were the ones she had suggested for decades, and the boy made good. That was over 1,600 years ago and people still read his books, and they even named a city in Florida after him (and one in California after her).