From Emotions, to Narratives, to Ideologies

In intellectual circles, it is common to believe that ideology is a decisive social force on its own -- that abstract philosophical systems underlie societies and cultures; and that to change a society, you need only promulgate a different philosophy/ideology.

Of course, intellectuals want to believe in the decisive "power of ideas," because as promulgators of ideas, this belief confirms their lofty view of their own social importance and power. And certainly the connection of ideologies to societies, movements, and governments is obvious and undeniable -- which is why, for decades, I accepted this conventional view, too.

But a lifetime of promoting philosophical ideas has caused me to reconsider my views about the role of philosophy/ideology in human life and society. Introspection, observation of people close to me, and sobering realizations about how marginal and fleeting the impacts of philosophical persuasion (by myself and by many other skilled communicators) have been -- all of that has led me to conclude that personal and cultural change is much more complicated than simply spreading the "right" philosophy.

Summarized simply, I now believe...

...that the vast majority of people, including intellectuals, are actually driven not by ideas, but by emotions, often fairly crude ones, rooted in values, often only implicit;

...that over time, these emotions and values, if shared widely in a society, become concretized and popularized in the form of Narratives -- of myths, legends, and stories that are causally instructive, personally motivational, and socially unifying;

...that only later do the more intellectual believers in these emotionally appealing, values-laden stories, myths, and Narratives try to buttress them with more sophisticated, abstract, theoretical rationalizations -- that is, with explanatory philosophies, ideologies, or theologies. They do this to flesh out and support the core themes and underlying motives of their Narratives, granting them the social weight and gravitas of an "intellectual" image and justification.

You see this pattern manifested historically with every creed that has attracted a significant following and become a mass movement. They start with a set of core emotions, rooted in values broadly shared across a large social group; then follows the development of a popular mythology that dramatizes and evokes the group's shared emotions and values; and finally comes a complex theoretical rationalization for the mythological Narrative (and its values-driven emotions), which is crafted by the social group's intellectuals. In this last stage, the abstract system can take on a life of its own: it is taught and promoted in "movement" schools and texts, and believers cling to it tightly, because it offers reassuring intellectual support and explanations for the core Narratives that give their lives meaning, identity, and purpose.

But the foundational appeal of philosophical, ideological, or theological systems does not lie in their theoretical abstractions themselves; pure abstractions carry no emotional appeal or motivational power. Instead, the believers' commitments are fundamentally to their core Narrative -- to their inspirational mythology, or story -- and to the emotions and values it embodies and evokes. All that the theoretical abstractions offer are rationalizations and reassurances that their story is valid.

Why is this so? It is important to come to grips with the fact that we humans are "the storytelling animal" -- that our earliest childhood grasp of causal relationships in the world, like that of primitive peoples, is enmeshed in storytelling. It's only later in life (or in human civilization) that we begin to abstract a systematic, scientific, causal understanding of the world apart from our storytelling roots. But our brains remain wired by storytelling patterns established from infancy, and even in adulthood we are still drawn like moths back toward the light (enlightenment?) that stories provide.

The indelible power of Narratives explains why so often you can argue with someone using reason, logic, and overwhelming facts, until you are blue in the face, yet get nowhere. Or why a person's "intellectual" commitments can seem so shallow and fleeting. Or why politicians and dictators rely so heavily on storytelling about their target constituencies' collective "identity," in the form of a high-stakes drama about villains (their political adversaries), victims (their constituents), and heroic rescuers (themselves). Or why a person's "conversion" requires not just a new ideological argument, but instead begins with an emotional upheaval rooted in profound personal dissatisfaction with their status quo -- which then leads them to an encounter with some appealing new Narrative that promises the dissatisfied individual a fresh identity: a meaningful new life role and purpose. The philosophical argument then comes along as a reassuring explanation for the wisdom of their conversion; but it alone is not the motivator of the conversion.

Abstract theory alone has little persuasive power to motivate major, enduring changes in individuals or societies. Karl Marx's global influence on millions came with The Communist Manifesto, his rabble-rousing Narrative about capitalist oppressors and the working-class oppressed -- and not with his Das Kapital, a theoretical tome read by only a tiny fraction of those whom the former pamphlet brought under his spell. Ditto the Gospels of the Christian Bible, whose stories touched more people, by many orders of magnitude, than did Aquinas's Summa Theologica, which used Aristotelian logic to provide supporting arguments for the Christian worldview. Ditto Ayn Rand's fiction: her novels have inspired and influenced many times the number of "Rand reader" fans than her nonfiction philosophical writings have produced "Objectivists," who are more intellectually inclined. Indeed, the overwhelming majority of self-described Objectivists got interested in Rand's philosophy only after becoming captivated by her Promethean fictional narratives.

Here's another example to ponder. Decades ago, in a lecture that touched on this topic, I observed that it was the seminal storyteller Homer, writing in the 8th century BC, whose mesmerizing epic poems inspired the birth of Ancient Greek culture and of Western civilization. By contrast, Aristotle -- Greece's greatest philosopher, the father of logic and systematic rational thinking, and of countless scientific fields -- came along hundreds of years later, during the decline of Greek civilization. If abstract philosophy were truly the source of cultural transformation, then in the chronology of Western civilization, Aristotle should have appeared long before Homer, and perhaps paved the way for him. But the chronology is precisely the reverse: it was the storytelling giant who preceded the philosophical giant; and the greatest philosopher's boundless contributions to human knowledge still were not sufficient to prevent the fall of Greek civilization.

Let me emphasize that an abstract philosophy can serve legitimate and important purposes; it does not have to offer merely sophistic rationalizations for a bogus Narrative. If the Narrative is grounded in reality, then philosophy can provide a valid rationale for it. A rationale differs from a rationalization, because the former is true (rooted in reality), while the latter is false. And a valid rationale can flesh out and clarify our understanding, teasing out many important and helpful implications of a good Narrative.

To sum up, I now believe that the objective of promoting personal and/or cultural change requires us to effectively present a compelling alternative Narrative to those people who may be open to its emotional appeal. But not everyone is -- not by a long shot. People who are emotionally committed to a Narrative that defines their identity and life purpose -- but which is hostile to one's own values -- aren't going to change, no matter how skillful and logical your presentation of facts and arguments. Abstract arguments will never penetrate the emotional/values barriers surrounding and insulating a contrary Narrative. Even a compelling counter-Narrative may not prove persuasive -- not unless the target of your communication is already deeply dissatisfied with his own Narrative, and thus searching for (or at least open to) a fresh worldview.

One important, corollary point. I believe people with good values, and correspondingly good emotions, will be attracted to good Narratives -- and perhaps later, to good philosophies. But the fact that they, too, may be only "Narrative-driven" rather than intellectually persuaded is not necessarily a bad thing: that doesn't mean they are irrationally driven. If a kid is raised without any explicit philosophy, or even with a bad one, yet becomes enamored of heroes in TV shows, movies, and graphic novels -- and then, inspired, goes on to do great things -- is that irrational?

Specifically, to my many Objectivist friends, I would point out that I've just described the childhood-to-adulthood trajectory of your heroine, Ayn Rand. If you know her biography, you'll realize that she didn't start out in life with a conceptual, philosophical understanding of the world; she started out, in the hellish environment of post-revolutionary Soviet Russia, simply as a brilliant child who became captivated by heroic literature and movies. That emotional orientation, driven by some core values she didn't understand at the time, were sufficient to propel her on a remarkable journey to becoming, as an adult, a great storyteller and seminal philosopher whose worldview was the opposite of everything around her.

And her values-driven emotions first took form as a romantic Narrative of heroic individualism. That Narrative became a core part of her character by the time she reached her early teens. Rand didn't even encounter Aristotle, Aquinas, Spinoza, and other thinkers who influenced her philosophical thinking until college -- by which time her character and sense of life was already established. Her systematic philosophy did not fully take form until she was middle-aged, during the writing of Atlas Shrugged; and I would argue that she had managed to become a heroic individualist long before figuring it all out.

So Ayn Rand's life and character were shaped, initially and indelibly, by a Narrative -- not by abstract philosophy or ideology. If that is true of her, then how can it not be true of others? And what is wrong with that? Do we need formal, systematic philosophy in order to be rational, honest, independent, just, and productive? Were there no such people on Planet Earth before Rand incorporated those virtues formally into her Objectivist system? And let's be honest: what percentage of those who have spent years diligently studying, even teaching, that philosophical system have become living exemplars of its virtues?

To those Objectivists who remain unpersuaded, I suggest that you read, or reread, her book The Romantic Manifesto, especially its opening chapters, where -- in words different from mine here, but very similar in meaning -- Rand explains the enormous power of stories, and of core Narratives, in shaping the human soul and our world. While she declared that art was not a substitute for philosophical thought, she also said that "without the assistance of art, ethics remains in the position of theoretical engineering: art is the model-builder." Specifically, the narrative arts -- stories -- can most fully present good models for our actions. Philosophical thought may provide an abstract rationale for positive actions; but a rationale is not enough. Just as a road map is no substitute for fuel in the gas tank, abstract philosophical guidance is no substitute for the inspiring vision and motivational energy that can be provided by a compelling Narrative. --March 13, 2024

Can We Please Stop Using the Term "Identity Politics"?

One thing neo-Marxist collectivists understand is the power of language. They know that if they can redefine concepts, they can manipulate how we think about things, and thus infiltrate their worldview into billions of uncritical minds. It's a strategy straight out of Orwell's 1984.

The collectivists do this redefinition game constantly, across a wide swath of issues. Take "progressive" (a term I always put in sarcastic quotation marks), which they use to assert they are in favor of some undefined social progress -- which, when actually defined, means a neo-Marxist, social-engineering agenda. Or "liberal," which long ago used to mean favoring freedom, but which today means the opposite: subordinating individual freedom to politically defined, coercively imposed, collectivist ends. "Gender" has supplanted "sex," because the former can be proclaimed subjectively and inflated infinitely, while the latter has an objective biological basis in one's chromosomes and genitalia (which are now dismissed as merely "assigned" at birth, apparently at the whim of the attending medical personnel). "Hate speech" is a term invented to criminalize, hence censor, any expressed opinion that conflicts with that of the collectivists. The charge of "hate speech" rests on psychologizing: ascribing malicious motives to opinions one doesn't like. Similarly, "hurtful speech," a term which attempts to criminalize any expression that allegedly hurts someone's proclaimed feelings.

Again, there is no objective, fact-rooted basis for any of this. But once personal subjectivity is elevated to the status of moral-legal supremacy, then anyone's mere assertions acquire the weight of unquestionable legitimacy.

What offends me most is that many people, including those on the so-called political right, tacitly accept this wholesale hijacking of language without critical consideration or pushback.

A while back, for example, I took issue with the term virtue signaling. This term was actually minted by the political right to criticize the common practice by "liberals" and "progressives" of making a public, symbolic show of their various philosophical and political commitments. Yet the term "virtue signaling" tacitly accepts the premise that what those people are practicing is, in fact, virtuous. That concedes morality to their motives and their causes -- exactly opposite what the political right intends. I suggested the term be replaced with virtue posturing, which indicates the behavior is a phony claim to virtue.

A similar way the political right tacitly, thoughtlessly concedes the premises of the political left is when they use the term identity politics. This term is intended to criticize the left's constant focus on race, sex, and ethnicity in their arguments and agendas. However, what their use of this term actually does is tacitly accept the premise that one's "identity" is equivalent to one's genetic attributes -- and nothing more.

But "identity" is individual, not collective. When we "identify" something, we distinguish it from everything else by focusing on its unique, particular attributes. Your identity is not my identity. But a so-called identity resting on widely shared attributes, like race or sex, is no "identity" at all. It is homogenized class membership.

Using the term "identity politics" thus concedes that identity is, in truth, nothing more than collectively shared attributes. It tacitly ratifies our thinking about identity in terms of groups and classes -- which is exactly the goal of the collectivists. In addition, it is too narrow a term: "identity politics" reduces to mere politics what is actually a much broader worldview and outlook.

Today's "woke" collectivists want to obliterate individualism -- seeing and judging people as individuals -- and instead to substitute tribalism: seeing and judging people as members of DNA-based groups, classes, and collectives. We need to employ language that makes this clear.

To that end, I suggest critics of collectivists use terms like racial tribalism/tribalists or sexual tribalism/tribalists to specify the mindset and worldview they oppose. "I oppose identity politics" is vague and misleading. However, "I see and judge people as individuals, not as racial and sexual tribes" is an easy-to-grasp, appealing, and ultimately winning position.

One caveat: There is a subset of collectivist tribalists on today's political right, too. It's understandable that they'd be uncomfortable with my suggestion that we identify ourselves as individualists who are opposed to all forms of tribalism. But those of us who are individualists can, by publicly rejecting "racial tribalism" or "ethnic tribalism" or "national tribalism," at least get right-wing collectivists to identify themselves. It's always good to know who your real friends and foes are, and it's time we smoked them out.

Thoughts About Stories, Myths, Narratives…and Ourselves

I haven't read Jordan Peterson sufficiently to know exactly how he uses the term "Narrative," and how it may differ from how I use it. But capitalized, I use "Narrative" quite expansively, to mean a fundamental "story" that explains for each individual the basic nature of reality, and of his or her own place in the world, and that provides a vision of "right and wrong" (hence, moral guidance) by which to navigate the world. Each of us experiences this worldview in the form of a usually implicit "story," in which the individual casts himself or herself as the main character.

What a "Narrative" is for the individual, a myth is for a culture. I believe they serve the same basic purposes.

Briefly, I believe that the initial source of Narratives (on the individual level) and myths (on the social level) lies in the nature of the human subconscious, and its interaction with lived experience.

Our subconscious automatically processes our lived experience in the form of concretes -- that is, in terms of perceptions and sensations, rather than abstractions. Our dreams are windows into that subconscious processing. We have no conscious control over dreams when we sleep, but our daily lived experiences become elements that our subconscious automatically, involuntarily sorts, associates, and integrates.

Also, during these associations, certain of our underlying emotions and past experiences -- often deeply buried in memory -- become fodder for psychological projections, in the form of symbols: images and "stories" that allude to what we have felt and experienced.

Again, we have no conscious control over any of this. That's just the way the human subconscious works. It is what makes we humans "the storytelling animal."

Unlike dreams -- which are subconscious, involuntary, automatic, and individual -- myths are consciously guided, symbolic projections that draw upon our subconscious reservoir of widely shared human experiences. But what "experiences" am I talking about?

I believe that the primary purpose of myth-making -- of storytelling in general -- is to help us grapple with causality in the world. Cause-and-effect is the universal "life experience" that stories are trying to sort out; and myths are accounts, in story form, of the most fundamental causal relationships in the world.

The relationship between abstract theory and story is important to understand. Both provide accounts of causal relationships in the world. You might say (crudely, and not entirely accurately) that a story is a populated theory, and a theory is a depopulated story. What an abstract theory does is generalize about causal relationships in the world. What a story (including a myth) does is personalize an abstract theory, showing the direct (or analogous) relationships and impacts of a causal process upon individuals, and its meaning for their lives.

For example, look at what may be the most popular or core myth: "the hero's journey" or "The Quest." It is a projection, in symbolic form, of the life experience of most individuals.

We are all born in a helpless state of sensory bombardment and confusion. As infants, we slowly begin to sort out sensations into perceptions, and then into very basic causal interactions. In myth, this primal chaos and early sorting-and-integration process is captured symbolically in the opening verses of "Genesis."

As infants and young children, we are utterly dependent upon our parents to meet our basic life needs. This is the comfort zone of our early lives, when we are taken care of and nurtured, and when we are not forced to take action -- hence, when we face no risks and exert no effort. In mythology, this is commonly symbolized as the "Golden Age," or "Garden of Eden": a past, primitive state of automatic wish-fulfillment that, in memory, seems like blissful "perfection." In the classic three-act storytelling structure, this is the "Ordinary World" at the start of every tale, in Act One -- the comfort zone of the protagonist.

But as we mature, we become more aware of the larger world outside of our little home-bound Eden. We become curious about it and wonder whether there are values out there to be obtained. So, we become more exploratory and active.

However, activity intrinsically entails effort and risk. To satisfy our curiosity and to achieve any of our individual goals, we must slowly venture forth from our comfort zone, from the automatic security of parental nurturing. We must begin a slow process of separation from them, and launch our independent life's adventure. In Greek mythology, this is the Iliad and the Odyssey; in Genesis, this is Adam and Eve; in the three-act storytelling structure, this is the Act One "inciting incident" or "Call to Adventure," followed by the protagonist's passage through a "Doorway of No Return," into the Act II "World of Adventure."

And on the story goes, along a course clarified by mythologists such as Joseph Campbell (drawing upon Jung's subconscious "archetypes"). Along the way, the life passages during our Hero's Quest lead us to encounter enemies, allies, mentors, shape-shifters, etc. We face mounting challenges and confrontations; encounter setbacks and betrayals; experience reversals of fortune, major turning points, and the darkest lows of failure. Yet in heroic stories and myths, the protagonist -- a projection of our own life journey -- presses on; faces the challenges and evil enemies; finds hidden resources and abilities within; and, in a climactic confrontation, overcomes all adversity to achieve his vital goals.

So this seminal myth, the Heroic Quest, is really a psychological projection of the basic course of our lives. Its source is the universal experience of all individuals in the world, from birth to maturity to death. We cling to this core myth because it speaks to our deepest experience and emotions as we navigate life -- which is why it is retold again and again, in novels, plays, songs, and films. In each telling, the story has its circumstantial variations, as does the protagonist: He is "The Hero with a Thousand Faces," as Campbell titled his seminal book. But it is a story we need to see and hear, again and again -- for encouragement, inspiration, and reminder of who we are and why we are here, and how we can create a life of meaning, purpose, and identity.

"The Hero's Journey" obviously is not the only myth. But if you examine the most popular, you'll find they are projections of common, widely shared human experiences. And most of them seek to grapple with the fundamental fact of causality. How does the world work? Why? What explains the natural processes we see around us? What are we going to do about it?

Seeing that humans and animals are causal agents in the world, it's only natural that primitives -- and children -- would personify natural processes, attributing to unseen spirits and demons control and causal power over them. That desire to understand the world has thus given birth to countless explanatory myths and fables.

But so too has the need for correct guidance in navigating the world: our need for a moral code. Through experience, societies realize that certain human traits are helpful and to be celebrated (virtues), while others are destructive and to be condemned (vices). These become symbolized in stories of heroes and villains, with their actions (and the consequences) becoming either sources of instruction and inspiration, or cautionary tales of evil and harm.

From our earliest childhood, we are exposed to these lessons in causality in the form of interesting stories: fairy tales, fables, myths, songs, cartoons, TV shows, films, novels, plays. Those that capture a common human experience and resonate most broadly with a vast number of people, become our cultural myths. Those that speak to us privately and intimately become our own personal "Narrative" -- our individualized "story" of how the world works, and our place in it.

This is why the most important battle of our time is the struggle to craft and establish a guiding myth for our society, and a Narrative for each of us as individuals. This battle is well-known to those whom historian Paul Johnson labeled the "Enemies of Society," in a book of that title. Their most consuming passion is "narrative control." They are telling an ugly tale about our civilization and its heroes, knowing that their success will deprive us of a unifying myth and tear our society apart.

Storytellers who understand what is at stake need to get busy. By providing a fresh, inspiring mythology for our time, they will become heroes of tales that will be told and retold to children in the future -- and the shapers of personal Narratives for generations to come.