The Sixth Segment

 

 

“Don’t Give up....

You Mustn’t Give Up....”

MULDER:

Scully? Why would he say that - 

"Don't give up"? 

Why would he say such a thing to you?

SCULLY:

I think that was clearly meant for you, Mulder.

MULDER:

He didn't say it to me. 

He said it to you. 

If Father Joe were The Devil, why would he say 

the opposite of what The Devil might say? 

Maybe that's The Answer. 

The Larger Answer.

SCULLY: 

What do you mean?

MULDER: 

Don't give up.

Personality as Hierarchy — 

and Capacity for Transformation

 

  How, then, is the personality that balances respect for social institutions and, equally, creative transformation to be understood? It is not so easy to determine, given the complexity of the problem. 

 

For that reason, we turn to stories. 

 

Stories provide us with a broad template. They outline a pattern specific enough to be of tremendous value, if we can imitate it, but general enough (unlike a particular rule or set of rules) to apply even to new situations. 

 

In stories, we capture observations of the ideal personality. 

 

We tell tales about success and failure in adventure and romance. 

 

Across our narrative universes, success moves us forward to what is better, to the promised land; failure dooms us, and those who become entangled with us, to the abyss. 

 

The Good moves us upward and ahead, and Evil drags us backward and down. 

 

Great stories are about characters in action, and so they mirror the unconscious structures and processes that help us translate the intransigent world of facts into the sustainable, functional, reciprocal social world of values.*

 

  The properly embodied hierarchy of values — including the value of conservatism and its twin, creative transformation — finds its expression as a personality, in narrative — an ideal personality. Every hierarchy has something at its pinnacle. 

 

It is for this reason that a story, which is a description of the action of a personality, has A Hero (and even if that someone is The Antihero, it does not matter : The Antihero serves the function of identifying The Hero through contrast, as The Hero is what The Antihero is most decidedly not). 

 

The Hero is The Individual at The Peak, The Victor, The Champion, The Wit, The Eventually Successful and DeservingUnderdog, The Speaker of Truth Under Perilous Circumstances, and more. 

 

[Cyberlab] 

(The Chess Board is in place.) 

Mr. CLEVER : 

There. That was easy. 

The Game has just started.

Doctor, why is there NO record of You 

ANYWHERE in the databanks of 

The Cyberiad? 

Oh, you're good.

Oh, you've been eliminating 

Yourself from History. 

You know you could 

be reconstructed by 

The HOLE YOU’VE LEFT.

[Ten Forward]

(Data is about to speak, then changes his mind) 

 

WORF:

Wait. What is it, Commander? 

 

DATA:

I am sorry to bother you,

but I have a question of a personal nature.

 

Do you have a moment? 

 

WORF:

...A Moment.

 
DATA:

I have heard you mention that you once experienced A Vision.

 

 

WORF:

Yes. When I was young my adoptive parents

arranged for me to partake in 

The Rite of MajQa. 

 

DATA:

I understand it involves deep meditation

in the lava caves of No'Mat.

 

That prolonged exposure to the heat

induces a hallucinatory effect. 

 

WORF:

Why are you asking me about this? 

 

 

DATA:

I have recently had an unusual experience,

which might be described as A Vision. 

 

WORF:

What happened? 

 

 

DATA:

An accident in Engineering shut down my cognitive functions

for a short period of time, 

yet I seemed to remain conscious.

 

I saw My Father. 

 

WORF:

You are very fortunate.

That is a powerful vision. 

 

 

DATA:

If it was A Vision,

I do not know how to proceed. 

 

WORF:

You must find its Meaning.

If it has anything to do with Your Father, 

you must learn all you can about it.

 

In the Klingon MajQa ritual,

there is nothing more important

than receiving a revelation 

about Your Father.

 

Your Father is a Part of You, always.

Learning about him 

teaches you about yourself.

 

That is why no matter

Where He Is or What He Has Done,

you must find him. 

 

DATA:

....but I am not looking for My Father(?) 

 

WORF:

.....Yes, of course.

 

Do not stop until you have

The Answer. 

 

DATA :

Thank you, Worf.

 

 

We know what it looks like -- 

We can make one.

 

 

[Zeos computer room]

 

(M.E.N.T.A.L.I.S. is a wreck of molten plastic.)

 

DOCTOR:

That was close.

 

ROMANA:

How did they manage to miss?

 

DOCTOR:

They weren't aiming at me,

they were aiming at that, the control centre,

like a scorpion stinging itself to death.

As soon as it sensed I was trying to interfere with the sequence,

it destroyed its own control centre.

 

It's mindless now,

clicking toward oblivion.

 

How long, K9?

 

K9:

Damage renders data unavailable.

 

DOCTOR:

(Thinks….)

The TARDIS!

 

ROMANA:

Come on, K9!

 

(They run for their lives.)

 

[Marshal's module]

 

PILOT: 

Within range, sir.

MARSHAL: 

Go in closer. As close as you dare.

(The Doctor, Romana and K9 enter the Shadow's lair and enter The TARDIS.)

 

[TARDIS]

 

The Doctor enters with 

Five of The Six Pieces of The Key to Time.

DOCTOR: 

Here, take a look at this.

ROMANA: 

Ah, you put the five pieces together. Good.

DOCTOR: 

Have you got the tracer?

ROMANA: 

Yes.

DOCTOR: 

Lock it in. Lock it.

 

ROMANA: 

Now what?

 

DOCTOR: 

Well, it was just an idea -- 

I thought if we had Five-Sixths 

of the pieces it might give us 

some power —

Obviously Guardian Technology 

doesn't work that way.

ROMANA: 

If only we had The Sixth Piece.

DOCTOR: 

Yeah — !!

Or a Sixth Piece...!!

ROMANA: 

What do you mean?

Pointing --

DOCTOR: 

What do you see there?

ROMANA: 

A Gap.

DOCTOR: 

Exactly. A GAP —  

The exact shape of The Sixth Piece.

 

ROMANA: 

Oh!

 

DOCTOR: 

We know what it looks like —

We can make one.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

The Necessity of Balance

 

  Because doing what others do and have always done so often works, and because, sometimes, radical action can produce success beyond measure, the conservative and the creative attitudes and actions constantly propagate themselves. 

 

A functional social institution — a hierarchy devoted to producing something of value, beyond the mere insurance of its own survival — can utilize the conservative types to carefully implement processes of tried-and-true value, and the creative, liberal types to determine how what is old and out of date might be replaced by something new and more valuable. 

 

The balance between conservatism and originality might therefore be properly struck, socially, by bringing the two types of persons together. But someone must determine how best to do that, and that requires a wisdom that transcends mere temperamental proclivity. 

Because the traits associated with creativity, on the one hand, and comfort with the status quo, on the other, tend to be mutually exclusive, it is difficult to find a single person who has balanced both properly, who is therefore comfortable working with each type, and who can attend, in an unbiased manner, to the necessity for capitalizing on the respective forms of talent and proclivity. But the development of that ability can at least begin with an expansion of conscious wisdom: the articulated realization that conservatism is good (with a set of associated dangers), and that creative transformation—even of the radical sort—is also good (with a set of associated dangers). 

Learning this deeply—truly appreciating the need for both viewpoints—means at least the possibility of valuing what truly diverse people have to offer, and of being able to recognize when the balance has swung too far in one direction. 

The same is true of the knowledge of the shadow side of both. To manage complex affairs properly, it is necessary to be cold enough in vision to separate the power hungry and self-serving pseudoadvocate of the status quo from the genuine conservative; and the self-deceptive, irresponsible rebel without a cause from the truly creative. And to manage this means to separate those factors within the confines of one’s own soul, as well as among other people.

 

  And how might this be accomplished? First, we might come to understand consciously that these two modes of being are integrally interdependent. One cannot truly exist without the other, although they exist in genuine tension. This means, first, for example, that discipline—subordination to the status quo, in one form or another—needs to be understood as a necessary precursor to creative transformation, rather than its enemy. Thus, just as the hierarchy of assumptions that make up the structure that organizes society and individual perceptions is shaped by, and integrally dependent on, restrictions, so too is creative transformation. It must strain against limits. It has no use and cannot be called forth unless it is struggling against something. 

 

It is for this reason that The Great Genie, The Granter of Wishes — God, in a microcosm — is archetypally trapped in the tiny confines of a lamp and subject, as well, to the will of The Lamp’s current holder. Genie — genius — is the combination of possibility and potential, and extreme constraint.

 

  Limitations, constraints, arbitrary boundaries — rules, dread rules, themselves — therefore not only ensure social harmony and psychological stability, they make the creativity that renews order possible. What lurks, therefore, under the explicitly stated desire for complete freedom — as expressed, say, by the anarchist, or the nihilist — is not a positive desire, striving for enhanced creative expression, as in the romanticized caricature of the artist. It is instead a negative desire — a desire for the complete absence of responsibility, which is simply not commensurate with genuine freedom. 

 

This is the lie of objections to the rules. 

 

But “Down with Responsibility” does not make for a compelling slogan — being sufficiently narcissistic to negate itself self-evidently — while the corresponding “Down with the Rules” can be dressed up like a heroic corpse.

 

  Alongside the wisdom of true conservatism is the danger that the status quo might become corrupt and its corruption self-servingly exploited. Alongside the brilliance of creative endeavor is the false heroism of the resentful ideologue, who wears the clothes of the original rebel while undeservedly claiming the upper moral hand and rejecting all genuine responsibility. Intelligent and cautious conservatism and careful and incisive change keep the world in order. 

 

But each has its dark aspect, and it is crucial, once this has been realized, to pose the question to yourself: 

Are you the real thing, or its opposite? 

 

And the answer is, inevitably, that you are some of both — and perhaps far more of what is shadowy than you might like to realize. 

 

That is all part of understanding the complexity we each carry within us.

The Golden Lamp varies in its ethical desirability with the intent of its users.

 

 Personality as Hierarchy — 

and Capacity for Transformation

 

  How, then, is the personality that balances respect for social institutions and, equally, creative transformation to be understood? It is not so easy to determine, given the complexity of the problem. 

 

For that reason, we turn to stories. 

 

Stories provide us with a broad template. They outline a pattern specific enough to be of tremendous value, if we can imitate it, but general enough (unlike a particular rule or set of rules) to apply even to new situations. 

 

In stories, we capture observations of the ideal personality. 

 

We tell tales about success and failure in adventure and romance. 

 

Across our narrative universes, success moves us forward to what is better, to the promised land; failure dooms us, and those who become entangled with us, to the abyss. 

 

The Good moves us upward and ahead, and Evil drags us backward and down. 

 

Great stories are about characters in action, and so they mirror the unconscious structures and processes that help us translate the intransigent world of facts into the sustainable, functional, reciprocal social world of values.*

 

  The properly embodied hierarchy of values — including the value of conservatism and its twin, creative transformation — finds its expression as a personality, in narrative — an ideal personality. Every hierarchy has something at its pinnacle. 

 

It is for this reason that a story, which is a description of the action of a personality, has A Hero (and even if that someone is The Antihero, it does not matter : The Antihero serves the function of identifying The Hero through contrast, as The Hero is what The Antihero is most decidedly not). 

 

The Hero is The Individual at The Peak, The Victor, The Champion, The Wit, The Eventually Successful and Deserving Underdog, The Speaker of Truth Under Perilous Circumstances, and more. 

 

The Stories We Create, Watch, Listen to, and Remember centre themselves on actions and attitudes we find interesting, compelling, and worthy of communication as a consequence of our personal experience with both admirable and detestable people (or fragments of their specific attitudes and actions), or because of our proclivity to share what has gripped our attention with those who surround us. 

 

Sometimes we can draw compelling narratives directly from our personal experience with individual people; sometimes we create amalgams of multiple personalities, often in concert with those who compose our social groups.

 

 

  I had seen this sort of development clearly in the case of two other clients, both characterized by intrinsically creative temperaments (very well hidden in one of the cases; more developed, nurtured, and obvious in the other). In addition, I had read accounts of clinical cases and personal development by Carl Jung, who noted that the production of increasingly ordered and complex geometrical figures—often circles within squares, or the reverse—regularly accompanied an increase in organization of the personality. 

 

 

This certainly seemed True not only of my client, as evidenced by his burgeoning expertise at photography and the development of his skill as a graphic artist, but also of the two others I had the pleasure of serving as a clinical therapist. 

 

What I observed repeatedly was, therefore, not only the reconstruction of the psyche as a consequence of further socialization (and the valuation of social institutions) but the parallel transformation of primarily interior processes, indicated by a marked increase in the capacity to perceive and to create what was elegant, beautiful, and socially valued. My clients had learned not only to submit properly to the sometimes arbitrary but still necessary demands of the social world, but to offer to that world something it would not have had access to had it not been for their private creative work.

 

  My granddaughter, Scarlett, also came to exhibit behaviors that were indicative of, if not her creative ability, then at least her appreciation for creative ability, in addition to her socialization as an agent of socially valued pointing. 

 

When people discuss A Story — presented as a movie, or a play, or a book — they commonly attempt to come to a sophisticated consensus about its point (sophisticated because a group of people can generally offer more viewpoints than a single individual; consensus because the discussion usually continues until some broad agreement is reached as to the topic at hand). 

 

Now, the idea that A Story is a form of communication — and entertainment — is one of those facts that appears self-evident upon first consideration, but that becomes more mysterious the longer it is pondered. 

 

If it is True that A Story has A Point, then it is clear that it is pointing to something. 

 

But what, and how? 

 

What constitutes pointing is obvious when it is an action specifying a particular thing, or a person by a particular person, but much less obvious when it is something typifying the cumulative behavior, shall we say, of a character in A Story.

 

  The actions and attitudes of J. K. Rowling’s heroes and heroines once again provide popular examples of precisely this process. 

 

Harry Potter, Ron Weasley, and Hermione Granger are typified in large part by the willingness and ability to follow rules (indicating their expertise as apprentices) and, simultaneously, to break them. 

 

While those who supervise them are inclined, equally, to reward both apparently paradoxical forms of behavior. 

 

Even the technologies used by the young wizards during their apprenticeship are characterized by this duality. 

 

The Marauder’s Map, for example (which provides its bearer with an accurate representation of explored territory in the form of the physical layout or geography of Hogwarts, the wizarding school, as well as the locale of all its living denizens), can be activated as a functional tool only by uttering a set of words that seem to indicate the very opposite of moral behavior: “I solemnly swear that I am up to no good,” and deactivated, so that its function remains secret, with the phrase “Mischief managed.”

 

  It is no easy matter to understand how an artifact that requires such statements to make it usable could possibly be anything but “no good” — a tool of evil purpose, apparently. 

 

But, like the fact that Harry and his friends regularly but carefully break rules, and are equally regularly and carefully rewarded for doing so, the Marauder’s Map varies in its ethical desirability with the intent of its users. 

 

There is a strong implication throughout the series that what is good cannot be simply encapsulated by mindless or rigid rule following, no matter how disciplined that following, or how vital the rules so followed. What this all means is that the Harry Potter series does not point to drone-like subservience to social order as the highest of moral virtues. 

 

What supersedes that obedience is not so obvious that it can be easily articulated, but it is something like “Follow rules except when doing so undermines the purpose of those selfsame rules—in which case take the risk of acting in a manner contrary to what has been agreed upon as moral.” 

 

This is a lesson that seems more easily taught by representations of the behaviors that embody it than transmitted by, say, rote learning or a variant rule. Meta-rules (which might be regarded as rules about rules, rather than rules themselves) are not necessarily communicated in the same manner as simple rules themselves.

 

  Scarlett, with her emphasis on pointing, learned soon after mastering the comparatively straightforward physical act, to grasp the more complex point of narratives. She could signify something with her index finger at the age of a year and a half. By two and a half years, however, she could understand and imitate the far more intricate point of A Story.

 

For a period of approximately six months, at the latter age, she would insist, when asked, that she was Pocahontas, rather than Ellie (the name preferred by her father) or Scarlett (preferred by her mother). This was a staggering act of sophisticated thought, as far as I was concerned. She had been given a Pocahontas doll, which became one of her favorite toys, along with a baby doll (also very well loved), who she named after her grandmother, my wife, Tammy.

 

When she played with the infant doll, Ellie was the mother.

 

With Pocahontas, however, the situation differed. That doll was not a baby, and Ellie was not its mother. My granddaughter regarded herself, instead, as the grown Pocahontas — mimicking the doll, which was fashioned like a young woman, as well as the character who served as the lead in the Disney movie of the same name, which she had raptly observed on two separate occasions.

 

  The Disney Pocahontas bore marked similarities to the main protagonists of the Harry Potter series. She finds herself promised by her father to Kocoum, a brave warrior who embodies, in all seriousness, the virtues of his tribe, but whose behavior and attitudes are too rule bound for the more expansive personality of his bride-to-be. 

 

Pocahontas falls in love, instead, with John Smith, captain of a ship from Europe and representative of that which falls outside of known territory but is (potentially) of great value. 

 

Paradoxically, Pocahontas is pursuing a higher moral order in rejecting Kocoum for Smith — breaking a profoundly important rule (value what is most valued in the current culture’s hierarchy of rules) — very much in the same manner as the primary Potter characters. 

 

That is the moral of both narratives : Follow The Rules until you are capable of being a shining exemplar of what they represent, but break them when those very rules now constitute the most dire impediment to the embodiment of their central virtues. 

 

And Elizabeth Scarlett, not yet three years of age, had the intrinsic wisdom to see this as the point of what she was watching (the Disney movie) and using as a role-playing aid (the doll Pocahontas). Her perspicacity in this regard bordered on the unfathomable.

 

  The same set of ideas — respect for the rules, except when following those rules means disregarding or ignoring or remaining blind to an even higher moral principle — is represented with stunning power in two different Gospel narratives (which serve, regardless of your opinion about them, as central traditional or classical stories portraying A Personality for the purposes of evoking imitation).

 

In the first, Christ is presented, even as a child, as a master of the Jewish tradition. This makes him fully informed as to the value of the past, and portrays him as characterized by the respect typical, say, of the genuine conservative.

 

According to the account in Luke 2:42–52,* Jesus’s family journeyed to Jerusalem every year at the Jewish holiday of Passover:

 

  And when he was twelve years old, they went up to Jerusalem after the custom of the feast.

 

  And when they had fulfilled the days, as they returned, the child Jesus tarried behind in Jerusalem; and Joseph and his mother knew not of it.

 

  But they, supposing him to have been in the company, went a day’s journey; and they sought him among their kinsfolk and acquaintance.

 

  And when they found him not, they turned back again to Jerusalem, seeking him.

 

  And it came to pass, that after three days they found him in the temple, sitting in the midst of the doctors, both hearing them, and asking them questions.

 

  And all that heard him were astonished at his understanding and answers.

 

  And when they saw him, they were amazed: and his mother said unto him, Son, why hast thou thus dealt with us? behold, thy father and I have sought thee sorrowing.

 

  And he said unto them, How is it that ye sought me? wist ye not that I must be about my Father’s business?

 

  And they understood not the saying which he spake unto them.

 

  And he went down with them, and came to Nazareth, and was subject unto them: but his mother kept all these sayings in her heart.

 

  And Jesus increased in wisdom and stature, and in favour with God and man.

 

  A paradox emerges, however, as the entirety of the Gospel accounts are considered—one closely associated with the tension between respect for tradition and the necessity for creative transformation. 

 

Despite the evidence of His thorough and even precocious understanding and appreciation of the rules, the adult Christ repeatedly and scandalously violates the Sabbath traditions — at least from the standpoint of the traditionalists in His community, and much to His own peril. 

 

He leads His disciples through a cornfield, for example, plucking and eating the grains (Luke 6:1). 

 

He justifies this to the Pharisees who object by referring to an account of King David acting in a similar manner, feeding his people when necessity demanded it on bread that was reserved for the priests (Luke 6:4). 

 

Christ tells his interlocutors quite remarkably “that the Son of man is Lord also of the sabbath” (Luke 6:5).

 

  An ancient document known as the Codex Bezae,* a noncanonical variant of part of the New Testament, offers an interpolation just after the section of the Gospel of Luke presented above, shedding profound light on the same issue. 

 

It offers deeper insight into the complex and paradoxical relationship between respect for the rules and creative moral action that is necessary and desirable, despite manifesting itself in apparent opposition to those rules. 

 

It contains an account of Christ addressing someone who, like Him, has broken a sacred rule: 

 

“On that same day, observing one working on the Sabbath, [Jesus] said to him O Man, if indeed thou knowest what thou doest, thou art blest; but if thou knowest not, thou art accursed, and a transgressor of the Law.”¹²

 

  What does this statement mean? It sums up the meaning of Rule I perfectly. If you understand the rules — their necessity, their sacredness, the chaos they keep at bay, how they unite the communities that follow them, the price paid for their establishment, and the danger of breaking them—but you are willing to fully shoulder the responsibility of making an exception, because you see that as serving a higher good (and if you are a person with sufficient character to manage that distinction), then you have served the spirit, rather than the mere law, and that is an elevated moral act. 

 

But if you refuse to realize the importance of the rules you are violating and act out of self-centered convenience, then you are appropriately and inevitably damned. The carelessness you exhibit with regard to your own tradition will undo you and perhaps those around you fully and painfully across time.

 

  This is in keeping with other sentiments and acts of Christ described in the Gospels. 

 

Matthew 12:11 states: 

 

“And he said unto them, What man shall there be among you, that shall have one sheep, and if it fall into a pit on the Sabbath day, will he not lay hold on it, and lift it out?” 

 

Luke chapter 6 describes Him healing a man with a withered hand on another Sabbath, stating 

 

“It is lawful on the Sabbath days to do good, or to do evil? to save life, or destroy it?” (Luke 6:9). 

 

This psychologically and conceptually painful juxtaposition of two moral stances (the keeping of the Sabbath versus the injunction to do good) is something else that constantly enrages the Pharisees, and is part of the series of events that eventually leads to Christ’s arrest and Crucifixion. These stories portray the existential dilemma that eternally characterizes human life: it is necessary to conform, to be disciplined, and to follow the rules—to do humbly what others do; but it is also necessary to use judgment, vision, and the truth that guides conscience to tell what is right, when the rules suggest otherwise. It is the ability to manage this combination that truly characterizes the fully developed personality: The True Hero.

 

  A certain amount of arbitrary rule-ness must be tolerated—or welcomed, depending on your point of view—to keep the world and its inhabitants together. A certain amount of creativity and rebellion must be tolerated—or welcomed, depending on your point of view—to maintain the process of regeneration. Every rule was once a creative act, breaking other rules. Every creative act, genuine in its creativity, is likely to transform itself, with time, into a useful rule. It is the living interaction between social institutions and creative achievement that keeps the world balanced on the narrow line between too much order and too much chaos. This is a terrible conundrum, a true existential burden. We must support and value the past, and we need to do that with an attitude of gratitude and respect. At the same time, however, we must keep our eyes open—we, the visionary living—and repair the ancient mechanisms that stabilize and support us when they falter. Thus, we need to bear the paradox that is involved in simultaneously respecting the walls that keep us safe and allowing in enough of what is new and changing so that our institutions remain alive and healthy. The very world depends for its stability and its dynamism on the subsuming of all our endeavors under the perfection — the sacredness—of that dual ability.

 

  Do not carelessly denigrate social institutions or creative achievement.