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What is free will, and how do we represent it to others and ourselves? If we say we believe in it, do we also leave at least some sort of room for the romantic fatalism we so enjoy in narrative? By romantic fatalism, I mean something like the idea that: no matter how or when or how many times we attempt things, the result is the same and predetermined by our character. It's a nice variation on predestination, which would make puppets of us at every step. Predetermination, as opposed to predestination, would have us make our decisions but somehow reach the same result anyway. It grants agency and confirms identity through choice while offering a comforting surrender in the end. It's a perspective that wisely parallels life.
One thing I've been wondering about recently is whether there exists a model for predeterminism that has less to do with fate and more to do with kinds of truth? Are our choices perhaps more proscribed than we think by truths about ourselves that we fail to see? Perhaps an our notion of fate is only our way of making sense of events in hindsight. Yet if we could see ourselves truthfully, or at least differently, might our choices then differ? Would we even make different choices in the first place? Truths can betray us, but they can also, like a stronger current beneath the surface, pull us forward inevitably without our knowledge. In this model it would be the recognition of truth that would lend us the power to change ourselves. The responsibility of choice would hinge upon observation. I'm curious, finally, about the relationship this implies between character and action. Psychologically, I think this becomes interesting when our motivations are complex and not obvious. For instance, when someone acts selfishly, we tend to assume that they are self-focused. But perhaps that person was brought up with a strong sense of community and learned to make selfish choices because it was necessary as a way of asserting oneself in a community-centered environment. Similarly, when someone acts considerately, we tend to think of them as particularly empathetic or caring, but perhaps consideration is an adaptive mechanism in people who are in fact more naturally isolated and self-focused, as a way of connecting to those around them. Tied up with both of these examples is, of course, the question of how well we know ourselves. On a given day, how capable is any one of us of distinguishing our behaviors from our character? And how deeply embedded is something like empathy or selfishness? Is it possible to be fundamentally empathetic or fundamentally selfish, and is that something determined by nature or nurture? Or are we all fundamentally one or the other? Perhaps these are questions better answered by neuroscience than philosophy. Perhaps none of these perspectives, philosophical or scientific, are as important as simply being able to ask, and try as best we can each day to answer, "What feels true to us?"
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There is a soldier, Joseph, returning home from war. He travels with a few souvenirs and his fiddle. Resting for a moment, he meets the Devil disguised as an old man.
* "Hello," says Joseph. "Hello," says the Devil. "What's your name?" asks Joseph. "Surprise," says the Devil: "I'm the Devil." "The Devil, you say?" Joseph asks, nonplussed. The Devil is suddenly hesitant. "Yes…" "And what do you want?" The Devil rallies. "I can teach you to become the greatest violinist in all the world. And I can make you rich." "And in exchange?" "Your soul!" The Devil is back on track. "Didn't see that one coming," says Joseph. The Devil hesitates, then forges on: "So you accept?” "Sure, why not," says Joseph. He continues apathetically: "War is hell. My family won't remember me. What else is there to lose?" "All right," says the Devil, gleefully, ignoring the red flags. "Here you go," says Joseph. "Kind thanks. I'll be on my way." The Devil vanishes in a puff of smoke. * Five years later, Joseph is enjoying life as a celebrity violinist. It's the 19th century and he's basically German Paganini. Kings are throwing gold at his feet. One night after a concert the Devil reappears. "Hello," says the Devil. "Hello," says Joseph. "Fancy seeing you here." "Listen," says the Devil, "I need some of that money back. Tragedy's been trading hot and I’ve got some new souls lined up but they're not going cheap." "Sorry," says Joseph. "No can do." Both of them now have inexplicably transatlantic accents. "Look," says the Devil, "Do you want your soul? I'll return it to you for your gold." "Can’t help you.” "Half your gold." "Sorry, nope." "You don't want your soul??" "Well," says Joseph, "at first I missed it, but seeing as I'm soulless I don't really much mind. And besides, I'm living my best life." "After all I did for you," teases the Devil, seemingly casual, but really he's feeling a bit emotional and trying to hide it. He'd always thought himself cool in these exchanges. He tries again: "You think money grows on trees?" He's trying to guilt Joseph a bit now. Joseph isn't having it. "Look," says Joseph, "Things are a bit different since we last met. I might seem to be living the life, but I've also got a mortgage and two kids. So right at this moment I don’t really have the cash to spare." "And how's that going for you, without a soul?" the Devil asks sourly. "Actually fine, thanks. It's Germany in the 1830s. The middle class is on the up and up. You should really consider moving to Düsseldorf.” "Thanks," says the Devil. "I'll keep that in mind." They come to a pause. Suddenly the Devil realizes he’s about to lose the deal. He needs Joseph more than he thought. Joseph breaks the silence: "I might go grab a glass of --" "Wait," says the Devil. "When I take someone's soul," he pauses (he hadn’t expected to be so emotional but he suddenly is and leans into it), "I give them a piece of myself. It’s a deeper exchange. Now you're telling me it was all just about the money?" Maybe it's not so bad, the Devil thinks: playing the victim. "Come on," says Joseph. "No hard feelings. We had a good run of it." The Devil's spirits sink. "At least play me a tune," he says. "Ah," says Joseph, smiling. "Now you’re speaking my language. For that you'll have to pay." |
Lee DionnePianist, arranger, writer, coach. Archives
November 2022
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