Pragmatic Supernaturalism
My name came up in a discussion over at SfSignal. http://www.sfsignal.com/archives/2011/03/which-book-should-i-read-first/#comments
Apparently a number of readers are willing to admit some of my books are not bad (humbly I thank you!) but they want to warn the unwary that I myself, being a Christian and a conservative, a philosopher, newspaperman, attorney and general man of letters, am therefore reprehensible, any my ideas range from insane to silly.
To those readers who regard me as insane, all I can answer is that the voices in my head say I am not. To those who regard me as silly, all I can do point to the sentence prior to this one, and admit the gravity of the charge.
One of my silly and insane ideas is my belief in the supernatural, or, in other words, the belief that the surface appearance of a world controlled by blind and mechanical laws of natural processes is indeed the surface, and that there is a world controlled by a mysterious intent beneath the surface world, a legislator behind the laws.
No one, except, perhaps, a solipsist, is shocked if I apply to my fellow human beings the idea that the surface appearance of bodily motions is not all that there is, or if I conclude (as an act of that blind and superstitious faith that seems insane or silly) that people are alive, their words are meaningful and not mere mouth-noises, and people are not merely the mannequins nor automatons poseurs with an incomplete modern education and a smattering of scientific vocabulary are wont to think we are. (I use the word “think” ironically: because if thinking is a mechanical process, its outcome is determined by material properties of the thought, not by any alleged truth value of thought, ergo the poseurs, if correct, assert that no human being thinks at all, but somehow do not include themselves in that conclusion. Whatever.)
The belief in the supernatural not only explains such basic things as why we have free will, it also allows an doubleplus-ungood author like yours truly to right a good book.
I write by inspiration: call it the Muse, or call it what you like, but it is a primary and irreducible fact that meaningful patterns emerge in my writing of ideas and thoughts I did not consciously put into it, and which cannot be explained by the Rorschach effect, where observers see patterns in chaos. To me, it looks like I am the donkey carrying the letters, not the letter writer. That source is outside myself.
Now, modern people are superstitious, and their greatest superstition, one they can never question, is the idea that they are scientific and rational in their beliefs.
All one need do is ask them for a definition of empiricism and listen to the farrago of nonsense that comes forth to realize that even men with degrees in scientific fields will often know little or nothing about the basic philosophy behind science; and some don’t even seem to know what the scientific method can prove and cannot prove. It cannot prove, for example, a statement about non-empirical reality, such as a statement about human consciousness, or a statement of metaphysics or epistemology or ontology or aesthetics or ethics or jurisprudence.
The scientific method cannot prove, for example, that there is a scientific explanation for everything, or the Occam’s razor is valid, or that cause and effect do not exist at a sufficiently fine level, or that the scientific method discovers truth. The scientific method cannot prove ghosts don’t exist or that events before the Big Bang do exist or that repressing vice is bad or that the internal contradictions of the Capitalist mode of production leads inevitably to a socialist overthrow of the existing world order. These are all philosophical and metaphysical or (in the latter case) theological conclusions that do not depend on observation and experiment for their proof or disproof. And it has nothing to say about where authors get their ideas from.
The inability of the moderns to define their terms, or even to recognize what science is and what it is not does not by one jot or tittle stir their faith that their undefined smog-cloud of fads, fashions, and feverish emotionalisms is “scientific” — whereas a perfectly reasonable conclusion from examining the nature of human life and the universe that nature must have something behind it — whoa, Nellie, the moderns dismiss this as irrational and unworthy of discussion or comprehension.
As in many other fields of life, in this case, a belief in the supernatural is both fitting to the facts, as well as beautiful and practical to the act. For a supernaturalist can love my books and hate me, because he can correctly identify the muses as the true inspiration and source of what is lovable in those books, and correctly recognize that my role is more akin to that of a lazy amanuensis or secretary taking dictation. On a practical level, this allows the supernaturalist to read and enjoy books otherwise disqualified by a personal distaste for the author or the author’s political party.
The non-supernaturalist, or “muggle” (as we call them) is forced by his shallow attention to surface things to conclude that no one can be responsible for any beauty or grace found in my work aside from me myself — a most unlikely and risible conclusion: as if an obese troll could lay faerie eggs of crystalline gold.
And thus anyone who disagrees with my view of bimetallism or the Caledonian war (or whatever the issues of the day might be) is barred from reading my work, but also the work of any man not of his party; and ergo barred from the work and words of all men of the past, for no party is old enough to have been spoken of in tongues now dead. Only nations, races and the Church enjoy that longevity.
Whether true or not, non-supernaturalism decreases (at least in this one regard) the pleasure and benevolence between men, and fails to explain the obvious, and robs life of its rightful magic.
About John C Wright
John C. Wright is a practicing philosopher, a retired attorney, newspaperman, and newspaper editor, and a published author of science fiction. Once a Houyhnhnm, he was expelled from the august ranks of purely rational beings when he fell in love; but retains an honorary title.
