Latest news with #Homeric
Boston Globe
3 days ago
- General
- Boston Globe
Alasdair MacIntyre, philosopher who saw a ‘new dark ages,' dies at 96
Advertisement MacIntyre belonged to a different moral universe. In his best-known book, 'After Virtue' (1981), he argued that thousands of years ago, the earliest Western philosophers and the Homeric myths generated 'the tradition of the virtues,' which was treated as objective truth. Value neutrality, to Mr. MacIntyre, was the goal of 'barbarians' and a sign of 'the new dark ages which are already upon us.' Get Starting Point A guide through the most important stories of the morning, delivered Monday through Friday. Enter Email Sign Up Such language might make Mr. MacIntyre seem like a wistful reactionary. In fact, his worldview was far less predictable. He never entirely disavowed his youthful Marxism, applauding Karl Marx's critique of the individualistic and acquisitive spirit of capitalism. He maintained a certain sort of modesty from his days as a self-appointed champion of the working class — he never earned a doctorate and disliked being called 'professor' — and he continued showing the dialectical passion of a Trotskyist, occasionally launching into what one colleague called 'MacIntyrades.' Advertisement His chief opponent was what he called 'modern liberal individualism,' a category in which he included not just supporters of the Democratic Party but also conventional conservatives, leftists, and even anarchists. All were guilty of 'emotivism': the belief that humanity was essentially a collection of autonomous individuals who selected their own principles based on inner thoughts or feelings. This starting point, Mr. MacIntyre argued, could lead only to eternal, unresolvable disagreement. He went so far as to suggest that every tradition of modern politics had come to 'exhaustion,' and he rejected many essential tools of modern moral philosophy: Thomas Hobbes' social contract, John Locke's natural rights, Jeremy Bentham's moral consequences, and Isaiah Berlin's pluralism. Instead, he valued storytelling, tradition, and rational debate, embedded within a shared moral community. He found these qualities in the thinking of Aristotle and Thomas Aquinas, who promoted 'a cosmic order which dictates the place of each virtue in a total harmonious scheme of human life,' he wrote in 'After Virtue.' Within such an order, moral truth was objective. 'After Virtue' gained extraordinary popularity for a work of late-20th-century moral theory, selling more than 100,000 copies, Compact magazine wrote in a piece published after Mr. MacIntyre's death, titled 'Postliberalism's Reluctant Godfather.' That was an apt label for someone who managed, in recent years, to earn multiple tributes from Jacobin, a journal on the socialist left, and First Things, which is on the religious right. Mr. MacIntyre seemed to grow increasingly uncomfortable with his influence as it came unavoidably into focus. Advertisement In 'After Virtue,' he wrote that morality arose out of a belief in human telos — the ancient Greek notion of purpose being intrinsic to existence. People of the modern world, he said, had two choices: Follow Friedrich Nietzsche in trying to honestly face a world without the traditional notion of a human telos, rendering moral thought baseless, or follow Aristotle and recover moral purpose by fostering a society dedicated to the cultivation of virtue. Mr. MacIntyre illustrated what that might look like with an analysis of what he called 'practices' — shared, skillful activities including chess, architecture, and musicianship — as examples of where virtue still had meaning. These pursuits, he said, intrinsically provide 'standards of excellence' and reward traits such as justice, courage, and honesty. In them, he saw a possible modern basis for virtue. 'After Virtue' was acclaimed by leading philosophers, including Bernard Williams, who in a 1981 review for The Sunday Times of London wrote that even Mr. MacIntyre's exaggerations were 'illuminating'; that his intellectual history of the moral self was a 'nostalgic fantasy' and yet also 'brilliant'; and that, whatever questions the book raised, 'the feeling is sustained that one's question would get an interesting answer.' In a subsequent book, 'Whose Justice? Which Rationality?' (1988), Mr. MacIntyre provoked sharper criticism. His argument now promoted Roman Catholicism with Aquinas, not Aristotle, as its paragon of moral thought. Philosopher Martha Nussbaum wrote a memorable takedown in The New York Review of Books accusing Mr. MacIntyre of dropping some of his own principles — such as his devotion to local traditions — when discussing Aristotle, Augustine, and the pope. What really interested Mr. MacIntyre, she argued, was not reason but authority: the ability of the Catholic Church to secure wide agreement, and, by extension, order. Advertisement She was one of several distinguished thinkers to challenge Mr. MacIntyre's idealized view of the past, arguing that historical societies were not as unified as he claimed and that unanimity itself was not so great. In a review of 'Whose Justice? Which Rationality?' published in The Times Literary Supplement, Thomas Nagel wrote, 'MacIntyre professes to be freeing us from blindness, but he is really asking for the return of a blindness to the difficulty of moral thought that it has been one of the great achievements of ethical theory to escape.' Alasdair Chalmers MacIntyre was born on Jan. 12, 1929, in Glasgow, Scotland. His parents, John and Emily (Chalmers) MacIntyre, were both doctors. In the 1930s the family moved to London, where his parents treated patients in the working-class East End neighborhood. In 1949, he earned a bachelor's degree in classics from Queen Mary College at the University of London. In the 1950s and '60s, he earned master's degrees in philosophy from Manchester University and Oxford while holding several lectureships. As a student, he joined the Communist Party, but he also steered debates of Britain's Student Christian Movement as its chair. In about 1970 he moved to the United States, where he taught at Brandeis University and gradually left Marx for Aristotle. In the 1980s, he converted to Catholicism and took to seeing Aquinas as the master thinker of the Aristotelian tradition. He had a series of academic appointments but mostly taught at Notre Dame, where his wife, Lynn Joy, is also a philosophy professor. Advertisement His two previous marriages ended in divorce. In addition to Joy, his survivors include several children. He and Joy lived in Mishawaka, Ind., a city near Notre Dame. For decades, no single tendency seemed to define readers who took inspiration from Mr. MacIntyre's work. There were heterodox Marxists, the skeptic of liberalism Christopher Lasch, and former Republican presidential candidate Rick Santorum. But more recently, one constituency claimed Mr. MacIntyre's work most completely and prominently: the Trump-supporting, religious, anti-consumerist, and illiberal right. Two leading commentators of this world, Patrick Deneen and Rod Dreher, have written books that pay tribute to Mr. MacIntyre. In 2017, the publication of one of these books, Dreher's 'The Benedict Option,' prompted an odd debate between Dreher and Mr. MacIntyre, with each man accusing the other of commenting on a book of his that he had not actually read. During a lecture at Notre Dame, Mr. MacIntyre deplored becoming part of an ideological battle of his own time. 'The moment you think of yourself as a liberal or a conservative,' he said, 'you're done for.' This article originally appeared in
New York Times
4 days ago
- General
- New York Times
Alasdair MacIntyre, Philosopher Who Saw a ‘New Dark Ages,' Dies at 96
Alasdair MacIntyre, a philosopher who metamorphosed from a London Marxist into a Midwestern American Catholic during a decades-long quest to prove there was an objective foundation to moral virtue — a lonely project that struck many of his academic peers as anachronistic yet drew a large, varied and growing crowd of admirers — died on May 21. He was 96. His death was announced by the University of Notre Dame, where Mr. MacIntyre was a professor emeritus of philosophy. The announcement did not say where he died. Moral beliefs are widely considered matters of private conscience — up for debate, of course, but not resolvable in any sort of final consensus. That is why, for example, people generally think teachers should guide students toward self-realization, rather than proselytize their own beliefs. The same neutrality is expected of lawyers, therapists, government officials and others. Mr. MacIntyre belonged to a different moral universe. In his best-known book, 'After Virtue' (1981), he argued that thousands of years ago, the earliest Western philosophers and the Homeric myths generated 'the tradition of the virtues,' which was treated as objective truth. Value neutrality, to Mr. MacIntyre, was the goal of 'barbarians' and a sign of 'the new dark ages which are already upon us.' Such language might make Mr. MacIntyre seem like a wistful reactionary. In fact, his worldview was far less predictable. He never entirely disavowed his youthful Marxism, applauding Marx's critique of the individualistic and acquisitive spirit of capitalism. He maintained a certain sort of modesty from his days as a self-appointed champion of the working class — he never earned a Ph.D. and disliked being called 'professor' — and he continued showing the dialectical passion of a Trotskyist, occasionally launching into what one colleague called 'MacIntyrades.' Want all of The Times? Subscribe.
The Age
5 days ago
- Politics
- The Age
Whip it good: ‘Devo' Bandt exits, but who will be the new Lord or Lady of the Crossbench?
As the final votes are recounted in Bradfield, and the Coalition parties promise to listen better and go to therapy after their brief separation, CBD's eyes are now turned to the latest position up for grabs in the upcoming 48th Parliament. We're talking about the semi-official role of crossbench whip, or the MP responsible for ensuring their crossbench colleagues all get their voices heard during the chaos of question time. In the past, this task fell to former Greens leader Adam Bandt, or rather, his office. And when the crossbench swelled to a record 16 MPs after the 2022 election, it took on an outsized role, particularly after Labor's leader of the house, Tony Burke, increased the amount of airtime crossbenchers got in question time. It made sense for Bandt to take on the role since, as leader of a designated political party, he had more staff. Unlike the teal independents, who were livid after Prime Minister Anthony Albanese slashed their staffing allocations after the 2022 election in a manner that made Scott Morrison seem like Santa. But then Bandt suffered a shock, losing his seat of Melbourne to Labor's Sarah Witty on what was a forgettable night for the Greens. So who will take on Bandt's old role as king (or queen) of the crossbench? Nationals leader David Littleproud's decision to come crawling back to the Coalition makes things a lot easier. And while Bob Katter, famed for his Homeric approach to question time, would be the most entertaining choice, we're not sure anyone else would ever get a word in edgeways. There's been some suggestion out of the teal universe that one of the posse who now occupy the Liberal Party's old leafy turf could step up, with Warringah MP Zali Steggall touted as a possibility. She's been around a bit longer, and has a sharp grasp of parliamentary procedure. But CBD understands that Steggall is yet to decide whether she wants to take on the role. Separately, there's been persistent chatter that some members of the teal movement would like to form a separate political party – perhaps headed up by Steggall – which would solve the staffing question, if anything. 'The notion of party has been thrown around but hasn't got beyond first base,' a teal source said.
Sydney Morning Herald
5 days ago
- Politics
- Sydney Morning Herald
Whips and wisecracks: Who will be the new Lord of the Crossbench?
As the final votes are recounted in Bradfield, and the Coalition parties promise to listen better and to go to therapy after their brief separation, CBD's eyes are now turned to the latest position up for grabs in the upcoming 48th parliament. We're talking about the semi-official role of crossbench whip, or the MP responsible for ensuring their crossbench colleagues all get their voices heard during the chaos of question time. In the past, this task had fallen to former Greens leader Adam Bandt, or rather, his office. And when the crossbench swelled to a record 16 MPs after the 2022 election, it took on an outsized role, particularly after Labor's leader of the house Tony Burke increased the amount of airtime crossbenchers got in question time. It made sense for Bandt to take on the role since, as leader of a designated political party, he had more staff. This put him in a different category than the teal independents, who were left livid when Prime Minister Anthony Albanese slashed their staffing allocations after the 2022 election in a manner that made Scott Morrison seem like Santa. But then Bandt suffered a shock, losing his seat of Melbourne to Labor's Sarah Witty on what was a forgettable night for the Greens. So who will take on Bandt's old role as king (or queen) of the crossbench? Nationals leader David Littleproud 's decision to come crawling back to the Coalition makes things a lot easier. And while Bob Katter, famed for his Homeric approach to question time, would be the banter choice, we're not sure anyone else would ever get a word in edgeways. There's been some suggestion out of the teal universe that one of the posse who now occupy the Liberal Party's old leafy turf could step up. Warringah MP Zali Steggall has been touted as a possibility. She's been around a bit longer, and she has a sharp grasp of parliamentary procedure. But CBD understands that Steggall is yet to decide whether she wants to take on the role. Separately, there's been persistent chatter that some members of the teal movement would like to form a separate political party – perhaps headed up by Steggall – which would solve the staffing question, if anything.
Yahoo
23-05-2025
- Yahoo
In search of ‘fjaka'—the Croatian art of doing nothing
This article was produced by National Geographic Traveller (UK). This story begins — as many good yarns do — in a bar. Specifically, Beach Bar Dodo beside Dubrovnik's seafront, where I'm sipping beer with a friend. David Farley had sub-let his perfectly nice flat in New York to decamp to Croatia. What's he doing with his days, I ask. Not much, he replies: 'Perfecting my fjaka.' Fjaka, pronounced 'fee-aka', could only have come from a land of sunbaked islands. It is, David explains, no place to go, no place to be. Allowing days to drift and blur. Back in the capital, Zagreb, they make rude jokes about Dalmatians as donkeys, but that misses the point entirely. With fjaka, the region has elevated easy living into an artform. With no better plans, I decide to embark on a quixotic search for something the Croatians can't exactly define themselves — but which I'll apparently know when I find it. Lastovo seems the place to look. Croatia's second-most remote island after Vis, Lastovo was once a naval base and off limits from the mid 1940s until 1988 — like a Bond villain's lair, tunnels that once concealed submarines burrow deep into its cliffs. But if Vis is bohemian chic, Lastovo represents something Homeric, almost epic. In 2003 the World Wildlife Fund for Nature called Lastovo a last paradise of the Mediterranean. In 2006 Lastovo was designated a nature park. Croatians speak about it with a kind of reverential awe. As I approach by ferry, it seems little altered since the Ancient Greeks dropped anchor: just one house among wild, pine-scrubbed hills. We dock in a glassy bay and I board the island's only bus — a tatty people-carrier — to reach the sole hotel, Hotel Solitudo: a modestly tarted up Yugoslav relic in the island's only resort, Pasadur. There's not much to that either: two restaurants, a kiosk renting kayaks and bikes, and some concrete platforms that islanders call 'beaches' with a straight face. Beaches are Lastovo's weak spot, but what a place to attempt fjaka. For a few days, I potter. I swim in water so turquoise it would make a peacock blush. I read. At night, I sit with my feet in the sea, breathing in the smell of pines as you might a fine wine, goggling at a sky boiling with stars. With zero light pollution, Lastovo hopes to become Europe's first Dark Sky Sanctuary. Is this fjaka though? Not really, says Diana Magdić of the Lastovo Tourist Board. Swimming and reading are too active, apparently. 'Fjaka is a state of mind,' she says. 'It's not thinking. It's just letting time pass, the sound of cicadas, the heat.' Diana perfected her fjaka after she moved to the island as a 'refugee' from Zagreb. 'I don't think Lastovo people realise how pure this island is. You can hear the quiet here. You can feel it.' I know what she means. Beyond the tourism office, Lastovo Town turns out to be a semi-ruin of pale stone and forgotten secrets, where cats doze in sunny corners, weeds sprout between marble steps and doorways reveal courtyards with plants in old tomato tins. If it wasn't for the occasional radio blaring behind lace curtains, I might have thought it entirely abandoned. I rent a scooter — not exactly fjaka either, but irresistible. At Lučica cove I swim beneath former fisherman's houses, their shutters painted shades of emerald and cobalt. In Zaklopatica bay I enjoy a lazy lunch in Triton restaurant — fresh grilled fish, served on a terrace that dangles above the water. I glimpse yachts, nodding at their moorings, and am reminded of a board I spotted earlier, advertising trips with a fisherman from Pasadur. 'This is my boat,' says Ivica Lešić, gesturing vaguely. In front of us is a smart gulet, its wood shiny, its sails neatly stowed — not what I had expected at all. He steps on board, then clambers over a railing into a plastic tub moored beneath, where his wife Helena waves from beneath an awning. During summer, the couple run trips in partnership with the World Wildlife Fund. Ivica is probably right when he says they are more play than work, but they also protect fish against overfishing — the fund compensates him for earnings lost by not fishing commercially. It's also a lovely trip. Ivica talks about island life as he hauls up nets in a series of dark-teal bays: a bonito like a silver bullet, scorpionfish, silvery yellow-striped barbona. Then we drop anchor in an empty bay, fire up a griddle and eat: our catch of the day soused in homemade olive oil, with homemade fennel bread, the couple's own wine and rakija brandy. The sea chuckles against the hull. Time unspools. In the haze afterwards, Ivica says a fjaka mood can settle like Valium post-lunch: 'Fresh fish. Wine. Heat. You can do nothing, just sit.' More holidaymakers arrive in Lastovo each year, says Ivica. There's even talk of another hotel. The question is not simply do islanders want more development – do we? Laughably ill-equipped for a conventional holiday, Lastovo poses a singular question about what we seek from a trip away. To relax, many of us might say — but do we even know how? It strikes me that if we embrace fjaka — the delicate art of Dalmatian holidaymaking — we can help preserve Lastovo's purity, even its dark skies. 'Lastovo island is nothing special,' Ivica says with a shrug. 'It's simplicity. It's liberation. To love Lastovo you just need to be.' The boat rocks gently. The cicadas throb. And for long, delicious minutes we lapse into silence. To subscribe to National Geographic Traveller (UK) magazine click here. (Available in select countries only).
