The Qur'an: An Exploratory Introduction

For several years now, I’ve been considering the mere possibility of thinking about religious matters, and yet have avoided any sort of direct study of the subject. For reasons described just below, I now feel, however, that I might be able to provide some useful insight on Islam, and that I should make an effort to express my thoughts on some aspects of the faith.

I have a number of reasons for circumventing matters of faith and belief. First, I have felt that most discussions involving religion tend to be especially susceptible to emotionally charged debate. While this in itself isn’t necessarily bad, I find it uncomfortable. These sorts of debates often evoke anger when opinions differ on sensitive topics, and it isn’t difficult for such arguments to end in hurt feelings, fresh enmities, or several other kinds of equally unpleasant outcomes. I felt that this in itself was a strong enough practical reason to keep my distance from the subject.

Second, while I have been taught about Islam in my primary and middle school days, this hardly qualifies me as an expert on the subject. Since I tend to listen with caution to claims made by people that don’t appear to be particularly familiar with the matter they’re discussing, I should hold myself to the same standard. It’s generally a good rule to participate in discussions only to the degree that one is truly qualified.

Third, I feel that when it comes to Islam, the many opponents (either overt or unwitting) of this faith make it even more difficult to speak about. One runs the risk of being vilified by one group or another. Additionally, there are also people that, despite being proponents of Islam, nevertheless react unpleasantly when their beliefs are questioned, or even dispassionately investigated by curious minds. At times, the boundary lines separating acceptable inquisitiveness from faux pas can be somewhat fuzzy. For this reason, I have erred on the side of caution, lest I be misinterpreted and incur the wrath of others.

My fourth reason for treading lightly around discussions on religion feels very similar to my reluctance to say too much about wisdom. Like wisdom, religion is a topic of immense importance, for various practical, spiritual, psychological and ethical sorts of reasons. Beginning a discussion on religious matters deserves great care, and is an occasion for a degree of respect and humility. I have kept asking myself, “who am I to express my opinion on topics of such profundity?”, and have maintained that it’s simply not my place to talk about religion.

My fifth reason to leave religion aside is the difference between my own understanding of how Islam, and how it coexists with the modern world (including but not limited to “Science”, in several of that word’s connotations). Veering too far from any of the accepted “flavors” of the faith poses its own set of risks, and has kept me from sharing my thoughts.

So why throw myself into these waters, and why do it now? The catalyst is an article by Jerome Taylor that I found in a friend’s Facebook feed. It was about how anti-religious sentiment from a few prominent atheists appeared to be breaching the bounds of rational discussion. What struck me as particularly unacceptable was Richard Dawkins’ ignorance of the Qur’an’s contents; a claim he himself made. I suspect that if he were more familiar with the words within, his perspective would be clearer, and maybe somewhat different in other ways, too.

Although Taylor’s article spurred me into action, responding to it isn’t the primary reason for typing out my thoughts and posting them here. As I mentioned at the beginning of this post, I have been considering something like this for quite some time. Perhaps my motives have more to do with exploring my own beliefs, which I have until now left rather inchoate. In doing so, I also hope to better understand my own identity. Any new insights I can glean about myself will go a long way towards filling the gap left by my typically uncommitted, neither-Canadian-nor-Pakistani stance.

The particular aspect of Islam that I’d like to investigate is the Qur’an, with some focus on its references to wisdom in particular. I believe that the consensus on its authenticity and authority across a 1.5 billion strong faith is without parallel, unlike more specific details of Muslim life that might differ from group to group and place to place. This makes it a great way to introduce the core of this way of life. I hope to make my way through each chapter of the Qur’an, and have collected multiple English translations to mitigate the effect of any particular translator’s choice of words.

During this exploration, I’ll be satisfying different aspects of my curiosity by taking multiple perspectives. With respect to a particular verse, I might imagine the opinions, beliefs, or reactions of proponents or opponents of Islam, neutral individuals, or other groups of people that might be relevant to the discussion.

In the examples above, I considered perspectives distributed and varied across people. I could also switch perspectives across time, and assume a perspective that I myself might have had in the past. This might mean “longitudinal” differences between my current opinion on something, and the corresponding opinion held by my ten-year-old self. It also refers to more immediate changes in my perspective; my preferences and thoughts when I have just woken up are not the same as the ones I harbour after lunch. A third type of perspectival shift combines the other two, and considers how people of today might interpret something in a different way than people would have a millennium ago.

I hope to avoid content that could be outright disrespectful to Islam, just as I do not approve of disrespect to any other belief system. However, because of the multi-perspective approach that I plan on adopting, many of the points-of-view that I’ll be writing about will differ from my own. Depending on the section of the Qur’an that I happen to be investigating at the time, I might choose to omit my own opinion, or might even discover that I haven’t yet taken a stance on the matter at all.

One particularly important perspective that I plan to focus on is that of an ignorant person. I mean this in its literal sense, and not as an accusation of poor character, shabby upbringing, or anything like that. In other words, when I say “ignorant person”, I mean a person that simply doesn’t know about something. I don’t mean that the person in incapable of knowing, or that they aren’t intelligent enough to know it. I also do not mean ignorant opposition; the person I mean here has no opinion on the matter, as any ignorant-yet-rational person should. Furthermore, the ignorant person is neither opposed nor inclined to learning about the topic… they simply don’t know.

According to these conditions, Richard Dawkins appears to be largely ignorant of the Qur’an. Once again, ignorance isn’t a moral failing or sign of irrationality in itself. A person who is ignorant of the Qur’an just doesn’t know about it, and without further information, it might not be possible to determine whether he or she ought to have known more about it. That, of course, is an entirely separate question. For example, while a person that has never even heard of the Qur’an certainly can’t be blamed for his or her ignorance, someone that vocally opposes it has an intellectual obligation to be aware of that which he or she has chosen to speak against.

Even so, my purpose here is not to assign blame, but to explore a text that over a billion people hold sacred. I intend to keep my attention mostly on the text itself, though as many religious scholars from around the world (both ancient and contemporary) have noted, at least some context is required to understand the Qur’an. I will bring up some points of this kind as they are needed. However, I do not plan on discussing experts’ commentaries (which often accompany the text) to any great length. I might consult them when a particular verse piques my curiosity, but will otherwise focus my attention on the actual text.

One interesting method of conducting this inquiry might be to tell the story of some hypothetical ignorant-yet-unbiased person that discovers a printed copy of the Qur’an (translated into his or her own language), and begins to read it. The story might mention this person’s thoughts as he or she peruses the text. While I probably won’t write an actual story of this sort, it’s an interesting scenario to consider, and I suspect that I’ll bring it up many times as my work progresses.

I’m nearly ready to begin looking at the text itself. In this first post, I’ll begin at the beginning, and take a look at the seven-verse chapter that the Qur’an begins with. Before I get started, though, there are a few general points about the Qur’an that I’d like to bring up for your basic understanding.

“Al-Qur’an” translates to “The Recital”. I bring this up to emphasize that it is primarily a process (recitation), rather than a product (a book). Its essence should be understood as a set of meaningful sounds, instead of as a set of meaningful symbols on paper. Its written form is derived from its spoken form, and not the other way around.

There’s another very important reason to stress the sonic (as opposed to graphic) nature of the Qur’an. While it is not merely poetry, the Qur’an is a sonic work of such astonishing power that it is considered a miracle, or more strongly, the miracle given to Muhammad. While I can’t appreciate most of the nuances of the original Arabic recitation, even my untrained ear can tell that the patterns of sound that comprise the Qur’an possess characteristics that cannot easily be attributed to an unlettered trader from 7^th-century Arabia.

While I can recite the Qur’an in Arabic, I have to rely on English (and to a lesser extent, Urdu) translations to understand it. One reason why this is important to mention is to indicate to you my imperfect knowledge of its meaning. A translation can only impart approximate meaning. That’s why it was so important for me to collect multiple translations. I’ll use the 1930 English translation by Marmaduke Pickthall as a starting point, and will compare it with other translations (Abdel Haleem, Rodwell, Unal, Wahiuddin, and Yusuf Ali) as needed.

The Qur’an contains 6,666 verses or aayaat (singular: aayat) arranged in 114 chapters or surah of greatly varying length; the shortest contains 3 verses, while the longest contains 286. One important thing to note about the chapters is that their traditional order is not chronological. I’m not an expert on why the chapters are arranged the way they are, but it should be noted that while the sequence of verses within a chapter is very important, it might not be as useful for me to dwell too much on the sequence of the chapters themselves. That said, I’ll still be making my way through the Qur’an’s chapters in the traditional order.

It is time to begin. The Qur’an instructs readers to preface their recital by asking God for refuge from Satan. Protection from Satan’s influence is intended to prevent the reader from making mistakes, or misconstruing that which is read. In keeping with this instruction:

I seek refuge in God from Satan, the eternally rejected.

Chapter 1: The Opening

1.     In the name of Allah, the Beneficent, the Merciful.

2.     Praise be to Allah, Lord of the Worlds,

3.     The Beneficent, the Merciful.

4.     Owner of the Day of Judgment,

5.     Thee (alone) we worship; Thee alone we ask for help.

6.     Show us the straight path,

7.     The path of those whom Thou hast favoured; Not (the path) of those who earn Thine anger nor of those who go astray.

The first chapter is called, appropriately enough, “The Opening”, and is one of the most familiar chapters to Muslims. It is recited multiple times during daily prayers, and on other occasions, too.

I wonder what a total neophyte would think if they picked up a copy of “The Recital” and began reading from the first page. “The Opening” might call to mind the literal act of opening a book, or of opening an account or file. The reader might take the title as a literal description – The Opening of The Recital. The reader might imagine an entrance or some other physical manifestation of an opening. For me, the first chapter’s name accentuates the sense of discovery and curiosity that I already associate with beginning an unread book. Someone that isn’t very familiar with the Qur’an but knows of its significance might also interpret this chapter as a means of opening oneself to the rest of the text, and perhaps to Islam, too.

Just as the Qur’an’s first chapter is arguably its most familiar, so is its first verse. Usually identified by its first word, the “Bismillah” or (or “Basmalah”, depending on where you’re from) appears at the beginning of every chapter of the Qur’an, save for one. Since it is always counted as the chapter’s first verse, I suppose it shouldn’t be thought of as a mere announcement of or preface to the chapter proper, and should instead be treated as a an actual part of the chapter. So now we have an opening verse to the opening chapter. I find this recursive detail intriguing.

What does this opening verse say? That could depend on the person that reads it. The absolute neophyte, lacking any prior knowledge, might be limited to piecing together its meaning by paying attention to its grammar. There’s a proper noun, “Allah”, with whom are associated two attributes: “Beneficent” and “Merciful”. However, they seem to be more than just attributes, by the way they’ve been written: Allah isn’t simply beneficent and merciful; Allah is the Beneficent and the Merciful. So Allah is either the only merciful benefactor, or is the ideal of beneficence and mercy.

The first verse also declares, “In the name of Allah…”. So this suggests that the first verse might be something like a dedication, tribute or offering. However, acting in someone’s name or speaking on someone’s behalf come to mind, too.

To make sure I haven’t read too much into the connotations of the English words that Pickthall settled on, I’ve reviewed the others that I have. They all use “In the name of…”, but the proper noun and its two attributes seem to have a couple of noteworthy variations.

Firstly, of the six translations I’m using, four change “Allah” to “God”. There are many effects of substituting “Allah” for “God”, as the nuances of one are swapped for the nuances of the other. For the totally uninitiated reader, it might actually be considered a “spoiler” of sorts, as it immediately identifies Allah as a deity (assuming that the reader is familiar with the concept “god”). The reader’s perspective would immediately shift, depending on his or her beliefs and opinions on deities in general and the deity indicated by the name “God” in particular.

If the reader has access to both the original Arabic text and its translation, these past attitudes towards God will then be transferred, strongly or subtly, to the reader’s brand-new concept of Allah, unless the reader makes a conscious effort to suppress them. If the reader only has the English translation, then The Recital will be read as a book of God from the very beginning, and the reader will have no reservations about applying his or her existing beliefs and opinions about God to the deity that this verse and this recital mentions.

I don’t know whether it’s better to replace the name and “force” the reader to equate Allah with the God they have already heard of, or allow the reader to come to a fresh understanding of Allah’s identity. The former option provides a sense of continuity and familiarity, but also induces the reader to apply implicit assumptions and external biases to their reading. The latter option leaves it up to the reader to associate the concepts Allah and God, should they make that inference, leaving the reader less susceptible to forming premature opinions.

One detail in particular seems to apply uniquely to the name “Allah”. The Arabic prefix “al” translates to “the”. Therefore, unlike “the God” and “a god”, there exists no corresponding common noun paired to “Allah”. The implicit “the” in Allah’s name makes it inherently unique. This aspect of the name’s significance is entirely absent in translations that favor the use of “God”.

One last note about the proper noun “Allah” before I move on. I have deliberately chosen to avoid using any third-person pronouns to refer to Allah. While “He” and “His” are commonly used, Arabic is one of those languages (like Urdu, German, Russian, and many others) that treat all nouns as either male or female, even if they are artifacts, concepts, or other things that are ostensibly genderless. I have trouble thinking about Allah as either male or female, and am therefore reluctant to use either. However, I also have difficulty using the neuter gender “it”, which feels both demeaning and bereft of life. Simply using the proper noun “Allah” seems like my best option.

Secondly, the two attributes are translated variously as “[the] [Most] Beneficent / Merciful / Compassionate / Gracious”. The first attribute (Beneficent/Compassionate/Gracious) appears to be tougher to translate than the second (Merciful). While it appears to be some composite of beneficence, compassion and grace, it would also have to be sufficiently distinct from mercy to warrant the inclusion of a second attribute. To me, “Merciful” conveys forgiveness, as well as a tendency to refrain from exacting punishment. So Allah is the absolver of transgressions. However, this is Allah’s second Qur’anic attribute. His first contrasts with “Merciful”, and appears to not involve someone doing something wrong, and then being forgiven or spared from hardship. Instead, Allah’s first attribute identifies Allah as the supreme benefactor, the ideal of compassion and grace.

For what particular reason would these particular attributes be mentioned in the first, most-repeated verse in the Qur’an? I have a feeling that this has something to do with the role of this verse as a dedication. It is a request for Allah’s benefit, compassion, grace and mercy. This might be understood as asking for Allah’s favor in exchange for this pious act of recitation; or to be forgiven, in case the reciter makes a mistake.

However, it could just as easily be a reminder of the prominence of these two of Allah’s attributes. Among the 99 distinct aspects or facets of divinity that Muslims associate with Allah, being divinely Beneficent and divinely Merciful are two that are meant to be repeated several times each day.

While most (or perhaps all) of Allah’s 99 names will appear and be discussed in due time as I progress through the Qur’an, I would like to bring up a thought that they collectively inspire in me. These facets of divinity might also be ideals for people to aspire to, albeit within their mortal, finite limitations. While only Allah can be the Beneficent and the Merciful, I might strive to act with lowercase-beneficence and lowercase-mercy, should such opportunities arise. However, instead of claiming these actions to be their own, Muslims would treat acting with compassion or grace to be acting as a representative of Allah. Cultivating habits of beneficence and mercy, according to this perspective, are ways to become “closer to God”.

The second verse praises Allah, whom it identifies as the Lord of the Worlds. Worlds, as in plural? This is extremely intriguing. So many interpretations come to mind. Literally outlandish ideas include other planets, civilizations of sentient extraterrestrials, or parallel universes and spatial dimensions. I feel that these meanings are emphasized in Wahiuddin’s translation, which uses “Universe” instead of “Worlds”.

I also receive other impressions from this verse: The developed and developing First and Third Worlds. The samsara and nirvana of Buddhist cosmology. Christian concepts of Heaven and Hell. The concepts of life and afterlife that are common to many belief systems. Even though I can’t provide a definite answer about which worlds this verse mentions, these possibilities are definitely thought-provoking.

I also find that “praise” is used in many interesting ways here. Some translations portray the verse itself as an act of praising Allah. Others state that “Praise” (a proper noun, it seems) “belongs to” Allah. One says that all praise is for Allah. Another says that all praise is due to Allah. The word itself is the same, but it is being reported in very different ways.

I don’t think that any of these interpretations are particularly wrong. The verse is an act of praise, certainly. However, the “al” in the “alhamd” that opens this verse indicates something greater and more specific, too. This elevation of “praise” to “the Praise” is very similar to the way “beneficent”, “merciful” were transformed into their respective Platonic ideals. Furthermore, just as Muslims would treat acting in emulation of divine ideals to be acting as an instrument of Allah, praising other praiseworthy things are (or ought to be) treated as praising Allah by proxy. After all (according to this line of reasoning), anything worth praising draws its goodness from Allah, so Allah is the only true object of praise. This explains some translators’ preference for “All praise…”, and also helps me understand how “belongs to”, “is for”, and “due to” can result from translating the same verse.

The third verse continues in Allah’s praise, and reiterates the first two divine attributes: the Beneficent, the Merciful. There isn’t much more that I can say about this verse, since I’ve already discussed one so similar, i.e. the Bismillah. The only apparent difference here is that these attributes are being praised, instead of being mentioned in a dedication.

The praise continues in the fourth verse, and this time, Allah is identified as the Owner of the Day of Judgment. Some readers will already be familiar with the concept of divine judgment or a singular Day of Judgment. However, the verse on its own doesn’t tell us much about that day, except that Allah owns it.

To own a day isn’t a familiar concept, but it feels similar to presiding over an event, or having a day dedicated to someone or something. Then again, it could also be thought to be similar to someone “winning the day”, which connotes victory. Once again, I feel that all of these interpretations are appropriate and relevant. While some translators have used “Master”, “Lord”, or “King” in place of “Owner”, and “Reckoning” instead of “Judgement”, these differences feel relatively minor to me.

In the fifth verse, the reciter interestingly refers to himself or herself and the rest of the Muslim world as “we”, and (addressing Allah directly) declares Allah to be their only object and recipient of worship, and the only one they turn to for help. This verse might be treated as an oath that the reciter takes, pledging to only worship Allah, and only call to Allah for aid.

Two translators do not use “alone” or “only”, and appear to ignore or omit the sense of exclusivity that the other four translations convey. I’m inclined to side with the majority here; to declare Allah as one’s sole target of worship is central to this verse.

To believe in a single deity (instead of, two, indefinitely many, or none) is a foundational concept in Islam; not having any gods at all would result in chaos, and having more than one would lead to ambiguity and unending conflict. Exactly one god, on the other hand, speaks of order, purpose, and authority. Even people that believe in a different number of deities might understand the simplicity and appeal of Allah’s oneness.

In the sixth verse, the reciter asks for Allah’s guidance, just like the end of the previous verse says. The first-person plural (“us”) is used once again, which indicates that the reciter is requesting guidance for an entire group. It’s probable that the group being referred to here is the same one that the previous verse mentions (people that only worship Allah), this doesn’t seem to be specified explicitly. So the “us” in this verse might also refer to everyone.

Specifically, the reciter asks Allah to show them (or as some translators put it, guide them on) the straight path. All three of these words seem important here. The “the” suggests that there is only one straight path. While some readers might think that this indicates some strict set of prescribed rules that must be followed at all times, the verse doesn’t make any such demands. At most, it suggests that some ideal set of actions of way of life exists, and that people would do well to seek it. That the reciter asks Allah for help might imply that discovering the straight path requires divine assistance, or that it can only be approximated by mere mortals. So instead of a draconian requirement, the straight path becomes a highly desirable goal.

That the path being sought is straight is equally interesting, I find. Straightness connotes both efficiency and balance. It might also indicate an unswervingly resolute stance, free of deviation. So the reciter might be asking to be shown a course of action that (given a particular continuum of behaviour) avoids polar extremes, that exemplifies efficiency, minimizes waste, or is free of “slack”, and that can (or ought to) be maintained indefinitely.

The use of “path” in this verse should also be given consideration. While the Arabic word “siraat” shares its root with “street”, it isn’t used to refer to a physical path. Instead, its meaning is closer to how “way” is sometimes used – way of life; the way of the warrior; the way it’s done. Indeed, the Yusuf Ali translation uses “way” instead of “path”. I find this to be interestingly similar to the spatial metaphors that we use while discussing problem solving – search space; path constraints; progress. Rather than indicating an affinity for roads without bends, this verse might be asking Allah for an optimal solution to a problem.

When I think about “path” in this way, a question comes to mind: for which problem does “the straight path” offer a solution? The use of “the” lends the phrase an all-encompassing feeling, and so I’m inclined to guess that it might mean something like “way of life”. If so, this is the first verse that appears to be relevant to wisdom and leading a good life.

The final verse of the first chapter of the Qur’an provides a few more details about the straight path. The straight path is the path of those that Allah has favoured, and is neither the path of those that have angered Allah, nor of those that have gone astray.

What I find interesting here is that these three characteristics, on their own, do not provide a litmus test for whether a particular path is the straight path. The reader must rely on some other criteria that pick out recipients of Allah’s grace or anger. Once these people have been identified, he or she can then attempt to emulate the first group and steer clear of behaviour engaged in by the second.

As another way of thinking about this verse, maybe these three groups are not mentioned to assist in the identification of the straight path, but to illustrate the consequences of following or not following it. Follow the straight path and you will be bestowed with Allah’s grace; deviate from it, and you will incur Allah’s wrath. Once again, neither of these two interpretations strikes me as particularly incorrect.

Of the three groups mentioned in this verse, I find understanding the significance of “those who go astray” to be the most challenging. Since this group is mentioned in contrast to the recipients of Allah’s favour and wrath, it would appear that this third group receives neither. Maybe these people are mentioned to make the reciter’s request to Allah more explicit. “Please help me act in ways that You like,” the reciter requests, “and not in ways that You dislike. Also keep me from deviating from the way You want me to act (whether or not those deviations would actually make You angry with me).” If this interpretation is correct, the second group (recipients of Allah’s anger) is a subset of the third group (those who go astray), and the verse declares both cases to be undesirable.

I’ve reached the end of the first chapter of the Qur’an, and I feel that this investigative exercise has been worthwhile. By imagining the point of view of a tabula rasa reader and adding my own (admittedly non-exhaustive) impressions, I have tried to present this collection of verses in ways that are separate and distinct from the unpleasant image of Islam received by so many readers and viewers around the world. If I can keep this up, I’d like to continue this intellectual adventure and discover for myself whether the unsettling claims that Islam’s opponents make about the Qur’an are rational or incoherent, ill-founded or justified. More importantly, I’m eager to learn about what the Qur’an has to say about wisdom and matters of practical ethics.

It’s been a month since I began this post, and during that time, more than one young Muslim has been involved in terrible acts that have been widely publicized. Had a non-extremist, non-fundamentalist reading of the Qur’an been available to these people, their understanding of their own faith might have led them to behave differently. While many other factors affect people that commit such heinous crimes, any effort that might gradually shift the intellectual climate of the contemporary Muslim world away from unwarranted aggression is, in my opinion, of critical importance. Even though the primary goal of this introduction is discovery rather than rehabilitation, I hope that it serves as an example of how we can shift away from waging “war on terror”, and instead begin to counter terror with reason.

Personal Worth and Pursuing Wisdom

Before the impromptu tribute to The Doors in my last post, I had gone through the cathartic exercise of describing aspects of my life that I didn't find particularly agreeable. I intend for this post to be more positive and constructive, with a focus on solutions to those problems. Along the way, there will be opportunities aplenty for discussing big-picture concepts like wisdom and good lives.

I have a tendency to focus on knowing and learning, and am not as comfortable with bargaining and earning. I don't believe that a trade-off exists between these two activities – after all, many people learn to earn. Instead, I suspect that my discomfort stems from a difficulty to put a price tag on my skills. Neither do I want to undervalue myself and be taken advantage of, nor do I wish to exploit others by demanding more than what is fair. If there were a way for me to make a clear, objective self-evaluation, I would feel more at ease while negotiating a salary, setting a consultation fee, or engaging in similar business transactions that involve fuzzy, intangible services.

Even when there are established market rates for some of these services, the quality of work that different service providers offer can vary tremendously. There might be exceptions, where every service provider's output is worth the same. However, even a seemingly trivial task (like screwing caps onto tubes of toothpaste) can be performed with varying degrees of precision and diligence. Perhaps truly discrete, pass-or-fail activities don't exist at all, and if they do, there's a good chance that they're not worth enough to pay a human to perform.

While these sorts of conundrums probably don't faze the average businessperson or employee, I happen to be a student of philosophy. Questions of scruples have thoroughly trounced what little business sense I might have with astonishing regularity, or have at least crippled them by setting what André Kukla calls "mental traps". I don't have his book handy (it's sitting in a cardboard box in Toronto), I think he calls this particular trap "recursion". In essence, instead of continuing with the problem at hand ("How can I earn money from my expertise?"), I discover another problem nested inside it ("What constitutes a fair price?"), like a Russian matryoshka doll. I then find myself tackling the nested (though not necessarily "smaller") problem, at the expense of the first. What's worse is that the nested problem is usually far less practical, often offering no immediate return on the considerable intellectual investment that its solution requires. This problem becomes my own personal Zeno's paradox, preventing me from ever returning to the original matter, either because it's just too hard to reach an acceptably accurate answer, or because it begets nested problems of its own; onions within onions.

I bring up these bizarre mental gymnastics for reasons other than – okay... in addition to – comic self-deprecation. Firstly, my reluctance to assign specific value to myself or my actions provides a key insight into what motivates me to understand wisdom.

I'm not an economist, and I don't have a firm stance on whether capitalism is a boon or a menace to civilization. However, I do believe that despite the popular claim that there are some things you can't put a price tag on, the invention of currency has drastically reduced the number of things for which this is true. It appears that currency allows people to trade in their subjective evaluation of things in the world for an objective value, literally allowing them to compare apples to oranges. While this value is neither absolute nor accurate, it is irresistibly convenient, and this convenience has made monetary systems ubiquitous, if not entirely universal.

What of the things in life that don't readily lend themselves to monetization? Sometimes, a provisional, approximate value is assigned to them, as and when the need arises. These assigned values can have a major impact on a person's entire lifestyle ("Do I care for my child myself, or get a higher-paying, more demanding job and hire a babysitter?"), or might help resolve some urgent yet relatively unimportant matter ("How much extra am I willing to pay for the custom paint job?").

Other times, however, things that lack a tidy dollar amount seem to lose value, or at least perceived value. In the same way that easy to reach, highly visible items tend to be discussed, purchased or eaten more frequently then out-of-the-way, obscure ones, items that are more difficult to appraise are often more susceptible to floccinaucinihilipilification. There are, of course, several caveats and qualifications that apply – that different people (and even the same people at different points in time) make different value judgments is just one example.

Even so, not being able to assign a monetary value to engaging conversation versus smarmy salesmanship, or genuine camaraderie versus an opportunistic alliance might make at least some people think that the former pleasantries are merely sentimental and illusory, especially when compared to their latter, profit-yielding counterparts. Once again, not all people think this way, but I have a strong suspicion that attributing monetary value to an option will make it more salient than alternatives for which no such value has been set. When asked directly, people might very well claim to prefer an unpriced option, but I have little doubt that the priced option will be more successful in capturing people's unprovoked attention.

Let's turn back to wisdom. What, if anything, can be said of a person's worth, qua person? We regularly assign people normative labels like "good" and "bad" (or "evil", depending on the context), "successful" or "unsuccessful" and so on. However, as I mentioned above, subjective value judgments are fraught with problems, while a person's net worth is inescapably unambiguous. People have a much easier time agreeing upon whether someone is wealthy or poor than whether that he or she is "good at" being a person. Instead of wading into murky territory and debating whether a penniless saint is worth more than a misanthropic trillionaire, people are more likely to avoid the question entirely. Those of you familiar with the history of psychology might recognize this move as something akin to behaviorism; avoid the unquantifiable, and hope that it will one day be explained away as a naive "folk" concept. While most people avoid voicing such beliefs explicitly, some people might genuinely think that a person that hasn't succeeded financially has nothing of value to offer the world.

That's one of the big reasons that I'm interested in wisdom. If there were some indisputable set of criteria that could be used to determine a person's relative "worth", that would be astounding.

Before I say any more, though, I need to be absolutely clear that I do not wish to oppose the concept of inalienable human rights. It is important to find a way to avoid literally and unconditionally treating every person equally (for example, treating heroes or philanthropists the same way that we treat murderers or thieves), or advocating unequal treatment based on irrelevant criteria (race, gender, age, net worth, etc.).

Part of the solution to this particular issue might require a few shifts in thinking. To avoid "worthy" and "worthless" from becoming some horrible Orwellian method of "scientifically" segregating societies into haves and have-nots, like some kind of cognitive Gattaca, a person's worth must be inherently changeable, and not an inescapable, life-long constant. Furthermore, people's attitude towards this normative evaluation must be free of blame, both towards environmental factors as well as towards each other. Instead, it should be understood that becoming better at being a person is probably the one objective that a person has most complete control over. As discussed by Stoicism and other schools of thought, people might not always be able to change their surroundings or circumstances, they are always free to modify their own attitudes towards these external conditions.

In the relatively brief time that I've been alive, I have had the opportunity to interact with, I daresay, a fairly diverse sample of humanity, including people of varying social status, level of education, monetary worth, behavioral dispositions, ethnic backgrounds, physical and mental capacities, and so on. While this by no means makes me an expert on the human psyche, it has certainly led me to believe that far too many people are incorrectly appraised (either by others or by themselves) to be better or worse people than they actually are, and that these discrepancies almost always stem from the selection (by a society or an individual) of some irrelevant set of criteria for comparison.

While it is encouraging to note that inappropriate measures of personal worth, such as a person's heritage, gender, or wealth continue to lose credibility in many parts of the world, this trend will make it increasingly important to discover, synthesize, or otherwise agree upon more appropriate normative standards. It isn't immediately clear whether some infallible form of such standards could exist at all, but at least pursuing this line of inquiry appears to have merit.

That was the first reason for bringing up my internal debate about personal worth. The second reason, a more thorough discussion of which I'll have to leave for another day, relates to my more immediate problems and their attempted solutions.

See? I told you I'd be able to fit in some big-picture stuff.

A Punctuated Tribute

Awake!

Shake dreams from you hair, my Pretty Child, my Sweet One.

Choose the Day, and choose the sign of your day – the Day’s Divinity.

First thing you see: a vast, radiant beach, and cool, jeweled moon.

Couples, naked, race down by its quiet side, and we laugh like soft, mad children, smug in the wooly, cotton brains of infancy.

The Music and Voices are all around us.

“Choose –” they croon, the Ancient Ones, “the Time has come again.”

 “Choose now,” they croon, beneath the moon, beside an ancient lake.

“Enter again, the Sweet Forest.

Enter the Hot Dream.

Come with Us – everything is broken up, and dances.”

Indians, scattered on Dawn’s Highway, bleeding – ghosts crowd the young child’s fragile, eggshell mind.

We have assembled inside this ancient and insane theater to propagate our lust for life, and flee the swarming wisdom of the streets.

The barns are stormed, the windows kept, and only one of all the rest, to dance and save us from the Divine Mockery of words.

Music inflames temperament.

Oh, Great Creator of Being: grant us one more hour to perform our art, and perfect our lives.

We need great, golden copulations.

When the True King’s murderers are allowed to roam free, a thousand magicians arise in the land.

Where are the feasts we were promised?

Where is the wine… the new wine, dying on the vine?

- Jim Morrison

…But it’s a Long, Hard Road…

There are at least two important types of self-improvement that a person can engage in. The first involves addressing flaws, righting wrongs and curing maladies of one sort or another. These might be character flaws, undesirable environmental factors, or even actual physical or mental disorders. The second kind of self-improvement does not require a problem to be solved, but is instead characterized by developing positive traits or states of affairs that were previously absent. For example, learning a new language, learning to play a musical instrument, or learning how to speed-read are activities that a people engage in, and yet these personal projects are often undertaken without any sort of external compulsion or necessity. Sure, a person might be learning a language because it is required of him or her, perhaps to fulfill a job requirement, but people often improve themselves in these and many other ways simply because they want to.

The difference between these two modes of self-improvement is analogous to the difference between what has been called the “disease model” of psychology, which strives to treat mental illness, and positive psychology, which aims to further improve the abilities of healthy people.

I suppose it is possible to unify these two modes of self-improvement by claiming that the second, positive type of self-improvement does indeed rectify an undesirable state of affairs, namely, a growing sense of dissatisfaction arising from not possessing the attributes that the self-improvement activity cultivates. It’s as if a person spontaneously decides that not possessing attribute x is a problem, and then takes measures necessary to solve this problem. While recasting positive self-improvement as problem solving in this way doesn’t change much, it does allow all kinds of self-improvement to be treated as instances of problem solving, which simplifies understanding their relationship to wisdom.

As I mentioned in my last post, I’ll be writing about my own attempts at self-improvement, the challenges that I face, and the progress that I’ve made. In addition to the journal-keeping therapeutic value that I hope to yield from this exercise, it will probably provide some opportunities for talking about wisdom itself. So, without further delay…

For the past two years, I’ve been living in Lahore, Pakistan. I moved here from Toronto to live with my family, mostly because I felt trapped. I had a part-time retail job, which I found after an unprecedented, recession-induced, fourteen-month dry spell. I was suffering from depression, and felt extremely tired and under-motivated most of the time. I didn’t have enough to pay my university tuition arrears, and so I wasn’t able finish my final year. In a bout of despair that people in the northern hemisphere probably only ever experience in February, I agreed to move to Lahore and help my sister improve her company’s IT infrastructure.

My sister was more concerned for my well-being than for her company’s computer systems, of course, and wanted to pull me out of the rut I was stuck in. The love and care of my family, the change of scenery, and an improved diet all helped me lift myself out of my miserable state of mind and after a very long time, let me shift back to a more positive perspective on life.

A year later, an old friend, whom I attended high school with before I moved back to Toronto in 1999, offered me a job at the multi-national tech consulting firm where he worked as a senior manager. For the past year, I’ve been writing articles, white papers, marketing collateral and technical documents, and I now earn enough to live comfortably (though certainly not lavishly).

While it might appear that I’m content with my situation, this is only marginally true. Yes, I’m not in a continual state of panic and anxiety, the way I was in the months leading up to my departure from Toronto. However, there are many issues that I have yet to resolve, and just as many annoyances that make living in Pakistan rather troublesome and undesirable.

Foremost amongst my troubles is my unfinished degree. I have less than a year of study left to go, and it would be a travesty to leave such an important life goal unattained. I have about three years left to resume my academic efforts – any longer, and I’d have to start over from scratch. While the possibility of not earning the degree that I’ve worked so long and hard for is in itself a horrible prospect, I also have a gargantuan student loan to pay off. While I might be able to find a source of income that allows me to fulfill this financial obligation that I have to the Government of Canada, even without a degree, I highly doubt that I’ll find it here in Pakistan. My current salary might appear rather respectable when set against the low cost of living in this country, but it is no match for foreign debt.

The most salient of the annoyances that come with living in Pakistan is putting up with “load-shedding” – rolling blackouts that have steadily worsened over the past two years. At present, the building that I live in, situated in an upscale neighborhood of the city, receives no more than an hour of electricity at a time. The gaps between these bright patches are usually an hour long, but have recently lengthened to two hours between midnight and morning. In other words, I get less than twelve hours of electricity at home each day. The UPS that I have powers a handful of lights and ceiling fans, but that’s about it. Food spoils more quickly, washing and ironing clothes requires beatific patience, and the benefits of air conditioning (which is already scandalously expensive) are tragically short-lived. What’s worse is that these service outages are entirely unscheduled, so they can’t be planned around.

As you can imagine, this power situation has a major impact on my life. The summers are extremely hot, and there’s only so much that a ceiling fan can do. Using computers and accessing the Internet is next to useless, and there’s little point in attempting any activity that takes more than an hour, like downloading large files, watching a movie in one sitting, or playing video games of the more involved variety. If it weren’t for this laptop that I bought just three weeks ago, I’d be cursing myself right now for not having saved my work, instead of continuing to type away in my now uncomfortably dark and warm room.

In addition to the obvious types of frustration that these power outages cause, there are several rather subtle ones. It leaves me feeling deeply insecure, not knowing when I might be interrupted. I often put off activities that a power outage might cut short, and even when I proceed to update my computer or watch a movie or begin a print job, I’m haunted by a dreadful sense of urgency. I find myself glancing at the time over and over again, hoping that I accomplish the task before I’m switched off. As if being interrupted isn’t bad enough, many electricity-dependent activities are all-or-nothing affairs, cannot be resumed, and have to be started over if disturbed.

Other difficulties and undesirable states of affairs that I associate with living in Pakistan include the scorching heat that bakes most of the country for around eight months every year, the risk of contracting Dengue fever or other exotic illnesses, excessive and ubiquitous filth and pollution, and the relatively poor infrastructure for roads, health care, and Internet access.

The unacceptably dangerous traffic conditions here make life especially difficult for me. For many different reasons, I have chosen not to drive, and bicycles are my preferred mode of transportation, and are also a hobby that I have a deep love for. The traffic in Pakistan, especially urban areas, is unimaginably aggressive and disorganized, with vehicles making as many “lanes” as they can by attempting to overtake each other, swerving into oncoming traffic or onto unpaved turf whenever they please, tailgating each other with reckless abandon, unabashedly disobeying traffic signals (when they happen to be functioning), and otherwise asserting some form of vicious primal dominance upon any species of vehicle smaller than themselves.

While some people (usually poor folk that can’t even afford the sub-$300, China-made motorcycles that dominate the roads here) do ride bicycles, this is a risk that I’m not willing to take. Despite over ten years of urban cycling experience in Toronto, I wouldn’t last a week biking around even the nicest neighborhoods in Lahore, even if I bought the nicest bike I could find (which are, by the way, rather low-end by North American and European standards). I would literally not survive. Because of these awful conditions, I stick to a rather strict home-to-work-to-home routine, and commute by (noisy, cramped, smog-infested and shockingly dangerous) auto-rickshaw.

However, there are some less tangible issues with living here that are much more severe, and might be thought to rival the country’s energy crisis in magnitude, at least for me. These have to do with people’s behavior. While there are all sorts of folks, good and bad, pleasant and unsavory, in every corner of the world, many people that I meet, witness around me or otherwise share space with throughout the day behave in ways that I often find grating, and sometimes find difficult to tolerate. There is a higher incidence (compared to Toronto and similar places) of people being unnecessarily loud, not respecting public space or public property, exhibiting blatant opportunism at the expense of everyone else (as well as the coherence of the system itself), subscribing to rather petty forms of materialism, displaying an astonishing degree of short-sightedness, being reckless or outright lawless for little or no reason, and failing to tolerate even the most benign opinions or actions of others that they disagree with. Even this list of specific observations fails to capture the wrongness that I sense when I’m in a public place.

Finally, living in Pakistan has left me in a social void. The combination of unstable channels of communication, dangerous and inconvenient modes of transportation, and largely incompatible psyches do not lend themselves to making many new friends. While I have a few acquaintances at work and meet with family members somewhat regularly, there aren’t many people here that think or act like me, resonate with me in any profound way, or that share my interests.

I’ve thought about my situation deeply, and strongly believe that I ought to live elsewhere, at least for a while.

Now that I’ve made it clear, both to you readers as well as myself, that there are significant problems that I need to solve, it becomes somewhat easier to discuss their respective solutions. That, however, will be the subject of a separate post, since I’ve already chattered on for a good long spell.

My next entry will be about specific attempts that I’ve made to inch myself closer to homeostasis. I expect that this discussion will include some tidbits from the psychology of problem solving, like problem formulation, problem finding, and Newell and Simon’s means-ends analysis.

Until then!

A Return to Egocentrism

I haven’t been actively pursuing theoretical research on wisdom for some time now, due mostly to other conflicting responsibilities. Even so, understanding wisdom is and will continue to be an endeavor that I hold dear and believe to be of critical importance.

While my current circumstances have made it difficult to devote enough time to studying wisdom with the intensity that the topic deserves, I have continued to itch for a meaningful expressive outlet. So if I don’t have many profound thoughts to share about contemporary wisdom research, what can I write about?

I’ve decided to use this blog to record my ongoing efforts towards personal growth, the challenges that I have been facing, and where applicable, discuss how these admittedly anecdotal thoughts might inform a general understanding of wisdom and flourishing. I feel that I’ve wasted too much time waiting for the inspiration required to produce long, detailed articles on wisdom, and would be better off writing shorter, more frequent snippets about life, and how one might succeed or fail to live better.

Hopefully, this shift from allocentrism to a more egocentric view of wisdom will make for more frequent blog entries, firmly grounded in the real world.