Wetenskaplikes - so slim en tog so dom / Scientists - so smart and yet so stupid

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Ek is besig om die boek What is your Dangerous Idea? te lees. Dis 'n heerlike, interessante, stimulerende boek - nes, vermoedelik, sy voorgangers wat ook deur John Brockman van Edge saamgestel is, What we Believe but cannot Prove en The Next Fifty Years.

Die vraag wat in Dangerous Idea sentraal staan, is deur die sielkundige Steven Pinker voorgestel en herinner aan die titel van 'n boek oor Charles Darwin, Darwin's Dangerous Idea. Dit bied boeiende insig in van die idees waarmee van die wêreld se voorste wetenskaplikes in hul kop rondloop. Die boek is egter nie sonder swakhede nie.

'n Probleem wat ek met die boek het, is dat "dangerous" op te veel verskillende maniere verstaan word. Party bydraers bedoel daarmee idees (gewoonlik iemand anders s'n) wat werklik gevaarlik is. Ander bedoel idees (gewoonlik hul eie) wat briljant , maar vir sommige ander mense bedreigend, is. Nog ander bedoel 'n idee wat so 'n bietjie way out is.

Nog 'n tekortkoming is dat dit darem 'n baie VSA-sentriese boekie is - en wanneer daar wel van die res van die planeet kennis geneem word, taamlik Anglo-sentries. In my ervaring as idee-junky kom van die interessantste idees nie uit dié kring nie, maar van elders. Maar dit daar gelaat.

Een ding wat my telkens weer by die lees van die verskillende bydraes opval, is die naïewe, ongesofistikeerde manier waarop filosofiese kwessies behandel word. Sodra 'n ontologiese, aksiologiese of epistemologiese vraag aan die orde is - en dit wil lyk asof wetenskaplikes 'n publikasie soos Dangerous Idea veral gebruik om sulke vrae aan te roer - dan is dit asof baie van die hoogs intelligente, geleerde mense wat tot die boek bygedra het, skielik lomp en stompsinnig word. Amper soos iemand wat met oondhandskoene aan klavier probeer speel (om beeldspraak te leen van 'n Nederlander wat dít gesê het oor sy taalgenote wat in Engels probeer skryf).

Dit kom na vore in die manier waarop "science" en "religion" teenoor mekaar gestel word; die wyse waarop oor daardie drie klassieke vraagstukke, God, vryheid en onsterflikheid, gepraat word; beskouings oor moraliteit, ideologie en politiek; menings oor identiteit en die self; en so meer. Die toon van die meeste uitlatings wat in hierdie verbande gemaak word, herinner my voortdurend aan die soort argumente wat ek my vriende op hoërskool gehad het - daar is inderdaad iets adolessent en geeky aan. En ook 'n macho-agtige soort bravade wat eintlik lagwekkend is. Erger: 'n perverse soort uitstalling van eie fanatisme en simplistiese denke.

Om 'n misverstand uit te skakel: Ek het geen beswaar daarteen dat bepaalde wetenskaplike bevindings gebruik word in 'n argument teen bepaalde godsdienstige (of morele, politieke of ander) oortuigings nie. Ek verwelkom dit ook as argumente teen wilsvryheid, die bestaan van God of lewe ná die dood aangevoer word. Ek is iemand wat daarvan hou om uitgedaag en en aan die dink gesit te word, en ek verkies boeke deur en gesprekke met mense wat anders as ek na die wêreld kyk. Die probleem is dus nie dát sciëntisme, ateïsme, determinisme en so meer verdedig word nie. Dis eerder dat die verdediging daarvan so pateties is; dit gee 'n mens niks om jou tande in te slaan nie.

As iemand wat graag oor onder meer lewensbeskoulike kwessies nadink en gesprek voer, en wat deur onder meer die Christelike tradisie aangespreek voel, het ek groot behoefte aan argumente wat my uitdaag, my vrae laat vra, my laat wonder. Ek hoop elke keer dat wetenskaplikes my hiermee kan help, maar hulle stel my elke keer teleur. Dit geld nie net dié boek en die kring waaruit dit ontstaan het nie, maar ook webwerwe soos Prometeus Ongebonde en Tart Remarks, om van boeke soos The God Delusion en Letters to a Christian Nation nie eens te praat nie. Byvoorbeeld: Hoe ek ook al op dié plekke soek, ek kan nie een goeie argument teen die bestaan van God vind nie. En ek sóék een, met 'n seer hart!

Dit geld ook nie net wetenskaplikes en hul star struck groupies se uitlatings oor godsdiens nie, maar ook die manier waarop hulle oor enigiets redeneer wat 'n bietjie laterale denke vereis: die moontlikheid dat 'n teorie wat hulle aanvaar dalk heeltemal verkeerd kan wees, byvoorbeeld.

Hoekom is dit? Is dit as gevolg van wat die Switserse teoloog Gerhard Ebeling, in 'n fassinerende debat met die kritiese rasionalis Hans Albert, 'n "eensydige geestelike dieet" noem: dat mense wat in die empiriese metode geskool is eenvoudig onderontwikkelde konseptuele en logiese vermoëns het?

Ja, ek weet ek veralgemeen. Om daardie ou cliché te gebruik: Van my beste vriende is wetenskaplikes ... Maar die vraag pla my tog. Hoe kan so baie wetenskaplikes so slim en tog so dom wees?

ENGLISH:

I am busy reading the book What is your Dangerous Idea?. It's a delicious, interesting, stimulating book - just like, presumably, its predecessors complied by John Brockman of Edge, What we Believe but cannot Prove and The Next Fifty Years.

The question at the centre of Dangerous Idea was proposed by the psychologist Steven Pinker, and recalls the title of a book on Charles Darwin, Darwin's Dangerous Idea. It offers a fascinating insight into some of the ideas that some of the world's best scientists carry around in their heads. But the book is not without weaknesses.

A problem that I have with the book is that "dangerous" is understood in too many different ways. What some contributors mean by it is ideas (usually someone else's) that are truly dangerous. Others mean ideas (usually their own) that are brilliant but threatening to some other people. Yet others mean an idea that is a little way out.

Another shortcoming of the book is that it is just too USA-centric, and when the rest of the planet is occasionaly taken notice of, largely Anglo-centric. In my experience as an idea junky some of the most interesting ideas come, not from these circles, but from elsewhere.

Be that as it may, one thing that strikes me again and again as I read the different contributions is the naïve, unsophisticated manner that philosophical issues are dealt with. As soon as an ontological, axiological or epistemological question arises - and it seems that scientists use a publication like Dangerous Idea especially to raise these kinds of questions - it is as if many of the highly intelligent, erudite people who have contributed to the book, suddenly become clumsy and obtuse. Nearly like some who tries to play piano while wearing oven gloves (to borrow a metaphor from a Dutchman who said this of his countrymen who try to write in English).

This emerges in the way "science" and "religion" as opposed to one another; the way those three classic philosophical issues, God, freedom and immortality, are talked about; views on morality, ideology and politics; opinions about identity and the self; and such like. The tone of most of the statements made in these contexts, keeps reminding me of the kind of arguments my friends and I used to have in high school - there is, indeed, something adolescent and geeky to it. As well as 'n macho type of bravado that is actually quite laughable. Worse: a perverse sort of exhibitionism about the writers' fanaticism and simplistic thinking.

To prevent misunderstanding: I have not objection to particular scientific findings being used in an argument against particular religious (or moral, political or other) convictions. I also welcome it when arguments are advanced against the existence of God, free will or life after death. I am someone who likes to be challenged and made to think, and I prefer books by and conversations with people who have a different take on the world than I. So, the problem is not that scientism, atheism, determinism etc. are defended. It's rather that the defences are so pathetic; it offers nothing that one can sink your teeth into.

As someone who likes to reflect on and converse about view of life questions among others, and who feels touched by, among others, the Christian tradition, I have a great need for arguments that challenge me, that let me ask questions, that make me wonder. I always hope that scientists would be able to help me here, but they always disappoint me. This applies not only to the book in question and the circle from which it emerged, but also websites like Prometheus Unbound and Tart Remarks, not to mention books like The God Delusion and Letters to a Christian Nation. For instance: No matter how hard I search in these places, I cannot find one good argument against the existence of God. And I'm desperately looking for one, with tears in my eyes!

This applies not only to the comments of scientists and their star struck groupies about religion, but also the way they argue about anything that requires a little lateral thinking: the possibility that a theory they accept may be completely wrong, for example.

Why is this? Is it because of what the Swiss theologian Gerhard Ebeling, in a fascinating debate with the critical rationalist Hans Albert, called "a one-sided mental diet": that people schooled in empirical methods just have underdeveloped conceptual and logical skills?

Yes, I know I'm generalising. To use that old cliché: Some of my best friends are scientists ... Nevertheless, the question bugs me: How can so many scientists be so smart yet so stupid?

Reply to Michael

Michael, thanks for your reply to my post on Benatar's book and the theodicy problem.
(see: https://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=1524200697985398755&postID=
8936657446179280985)

I do not think God is "bound" by the rules of logic. We, however, are insofar as we wish to think and speak intelligibly. Likewise, God is not "bound" by the rules of grammar, even though there are limits to what can be meaningfully said about God.

The rules of logic do not determine what can be, but rather what can be thought, just as the rules of grammar do not determine what can exist, but rather what can be said. C.S. Lewis once said that meaningless combinations of words do not suddenly acquire meaning just by having "God can ..." added to them.

To say that God "cannot" "create a creature that would both (a) love him freely and (b) would never use that freedom to choose evil", is not to say anything about what God can or cannot do, but rather to point out that attributing both a and b to God just makes no sense - just as it makes no sense to say that God can create a square circle, or that Zeus can rooba chaga rid-grf.

As far as "the old problem of whether God could create a rock so big that he could not move it" is concerned, I accept the very simple solution offered by Gijsbert van den Brink in his book Almighty God (in my view, an excellent analysis of divine omnipotence, both theologically and philosophically): God can create such a rock, and if God were to do so, that would be the end of God's omnipotence - God could omnipotently choose to not be omnipotent any longer. Yet, as long as God is capable of doing this but chooses not to, God remains omnipotent.

The "old problem" is only a problem if one is committed to the claim that God is NECESSARILY omnipotent, but why should one be committed to this claim?

Geen God of God-geen?

Geen God of God-geen?

(KKNK- Oop Gesprek, 1 April 2007)

Dr. Gerrit Brand

Boekeredakteur: Die Burger

gbrand@dieburger.com

In die vierde eeu n.C. het ’n hewige storm onder Christene losgebars oor die Griekse letter iota, oftewel ι . . .

So begin die lesing wat ek onlangs op die KKNK gegee het in 'n paneelbespreking waaraan George Claassen en Dirk Louw ook deelgeneem het. Die volledige teks van my lesing, asook Claassen en Louw s'n, kan by http://dieburgerblogs.mweb.co.za/ViewBlog.aspx?blogid=48 gelees word.

Gerrit

Afrikaans 'n Afrika-taal? / Afrikaans an African language?

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Tom MacLachlan skryf onlangs op LitNet (www.litnet.co.za) dat Afrikaans beslis nié 'n Afrika-taal is nie: "Essentially ... Afrikaans remains a West Germanic language. To change its linguistic-genealogical classification to an African language (whatever that may be), would be the same as saying that SA English is an African language, or Australian English is an Aboriginal language, or West Indian English is an Amerindian language."

Neville Alexander redeneer altyd dat, aangesien Afrikaans in Afrika gestandardiseer is, dit wel 'n Afrika-taal is. Daarmee ontken hy nie dat dit 'n Germaanse taal is nie.

Die probleem met taalklassifikasie in Suid-Afrika is dat die term "Bantoe-tale", wat oral anders in die wêreld gebruik word om die familie waartoe onder meer ons Nguni- en Sotho-tale behoort aan te dui, om die een of ander rede nie polities korrek geag word nie. Nou word die woord "Afrika-tale" in die plek daarvan gebruik. Laasgenoemde term sou egter nuttig kan wees om, na Alexander se voorbeeld, tale aan te dui wat in Afrika beslag gekry het - of meer spesifiek: wat in Afrika gestandardiseer is. Dit sou dan ook byvoorbeeld Zwahili en Nama kan insluit - tale wat nie as Bantoe-tale gereken word nie.

Hoekom is "Bantoe" taboe? Sommige mense sê omdat dié term deur die apartheidsregime gebruik is. Maar hoekom is "swart" dan in orde; dis ook onder apartheid gebruik? En die gunstelingterm, deesdae, om dieselfde groep mense mee aan te dui, "African", het sterk koloniale papiere. Om die waarheid te sê, die begrip "Afrika", wat deel van die verbinding "Afrika-tale" vorm, is self 'n Westerse skepping. Die eerste groep mense in die geskiedenis wat hulle met verwysing na dié begrip, eerder as byvoorbeeld stamverwantskap, geïdentifiseer het, was die Afrikaners, soos Hermann Giliomee onlangs weer uitgewys het. "Afrikaner" het destyds op vrygestelde slawe of mense van gemengde afkoms gedui, en nié op daardie groep wat later "swartes", "bantoes" of "Afrikane" genoem is nie.

Ek dink ons allergie vir die woord "bantoe" is 'n simptoom van parogialisme. Ons kyk nie verder as ons eie onlangse geskiedenis nie. Dit sou veel beter wees om gewoon in pas met die res van die wêreld weer dié woord te begin gebruik. Die woord kom immers uit die betrokke tale self: In Zoeloe en die ander Nguni-tale beteken "bantu" gewoon "mense" (die meervoud van "muntu", "mens"). In die Sotho en Tswana is dit amper dieselfde: "batho" (enkelvoud: "motho"). Insgelyks in Venda: "vathu" (enkelvoud: "muthu"). En dieselfde geld die meeste van die ander tale wat deel van dié familie is. Wat dié tale saambind is nie hul geografiese ligging nie, want dit deel hulle met Afrikaans, Engels, Arabies en nog vele meer. Dis eerder hul eie morfologiese en grammatikale kenmerke, waarvan die gebruik van woorde soos "muntu" en "motho" 'n voorbeeld is. "Bantoe" is 'n Bantoe-woord; teenoor "Afrika" wat 'n Europese woord is! Die benaming "Bantoe-tale" maak dus gewoon logies sin.

Mense wat wel Afrikaans 'n Afrika-taal noem, maar wat die term "Bantoe-tale" wil vermy, gebruik dan dikwels, in plaas van laasgenoemde, die term "inheemse Afrika-tale". Ek het my ook al hieraan skuldig gemaak. Die veronderstelling hier is dat Afrikaans 'n Afrika-taal is, maar nie inheems nie. Self meen ek dat die gebruik van die begrip "inheems" met verwysing na groepe mense of hul tale nie 'n gesonde praktyk is nie. Alle mense behoort tot dieselfde spesie en dié spesie is oral in die wêreld inheems. Die Boyarins het 'n keer in 'n insigryke artikel daarop gewys dat as die Jode inheems aan Palestina is, die Palestyne nie 'n land het nie, en omgekeerd; daarom verwerp hulle die term en pleit vir 'n "diasporiese bewussyn". Iets soortgelyks geld ook in Suid-Afrika: Die aanspraak op inheemsheid is altyd ook miskenning van ander se reg op dieselfde dinge as jyself. Geen taal in Suid-Afrika is meer inheems as 'n ander nie, net soos geen van dié tale soogdiere of reptiele is nie.

Ek moet dus met Tom verskil: Afrikaans is die enigste taal met die woord "Afrika" in sy naam. Dit ís 'n Germaanse taal, maar ook 'n Afrika-taal - saam met die Bantoe-tale en tale soos Zwahili en Nama.

Gerrit Brand

ENGLISH TRANSLATION:

Tom MacLachlan recently wrote on LitNet (www.litnet.co.za) that Afrikaans is most certainly not an African language: "Essentially ... Afrikaans remains a West Germanic language. To change its linguistic-genealogical classification to an African language (whatever that may be), would be the same as saying that SA English is an African language, or Australian English is an Aboriginal language, or West Indian English is an Amerindian language."

Neville Alexander always argues that, since Afrikaans was standardised in Africa, it is indeed an African language. In saying this, he does not deny that it is a Germanic language.

The problem with language classification in South Africa is that the term "Bantu languages", which is used everywhere else in the world to designate the family to which our Nguni and Sotho languages, among others, belong, is viewed, for some reason, as politically incorrect. Thus the word "African languages" is used in its place. The latter term could, however, be useful for referring, in accordance with Alexander's example, to languages that came into being in Africa - or more specifically: that were standardised in Africa. It could then include, say, Swahili or Nama - languages that are not regarded as Bantu languages.

Why is "Bantu" taboo? Some people say it is because this term was used by the apartheid regime. But why is "black" then OK; it was also used under apartheid? And the favourite term these days to designate the same group of people, "African", has solid colonial credentials. In fact, the concept of "Africa", which forms part of "African languages", is itself a Western creation. The first group of people in history to identify themselves with reference to this concept, rather tham, say, tribal allegiance, was the Afrikaner, as Hermann Giliomee has recently again pointed out. At the time, "Afrikaner" referred to freed slaves or people of mixed parentage, and not to the group that was later called "black", "Bantu" or "African".

I think our allergy to to word "Bantu" is a symptom of parochialism. We don't look beyond our own recent history. It would be much better to simply use the term again in step with the rest of the world. After all, the word comes from the languages in question: In Zulu and the other Nguni languages "bantu" means "people" (plural for "muntu", "person"). In Sotho and Tswana it is nearly the same: "batho" (singular: "motho"). As it is in Venda: "vathu" (singular: "muthu"). And the same goes for nearly every other language that is a member of this family. What binds these languages together is not their geographical location, for they share that with Afrikaans, English, Arabic and many other tongues. Rather, it is their morphological and grammatical features, of which the use of words like "muntu" and "motho" is an example. "Bantu" is a Bantu word; as opposed to "Africa", which is a Western word! The name "Bantu languages" thus simply makes logical sense.

People who do call Afrikaans an African language, but who want to avoid the term "Bantu languages", often then use, instead of the latter, the term "indigenous African languages". I have also been guilty of this. The presupposition here is that Afrikaans, though an African language, is not indigenous. personally I think that the use of the term "indigenous" with reference to groups of people and their languages is an odious practice. All people belong to the same species and this species is indigenous all over the world. The Boyarins once pointed out, in an insightful article, that if the Jews were indigenous, the Palestinians would be without a home, and vice versa; therefore they reject the term and plead for a "diasporic consciousness". Something similar applies also to South Africa: The claim to indigenousness is always also a denial of others' right to the same things as oneself. No language in South Africa is more indigenous than another, just as none of these languages is either a mammal or a reptile.

I must therefore disagree with Tom: Afrikaans is the only language with the word "Africa" in its name. It is a germanic language, but also an African language - together with the Bantu language and languages like Swahili and Nama.

Gerrit Brand

Better never to have been? / Beter om nooit te gewees het nie?

(Rol af vir Afrikaans)

DIE theodicy problem - How can the evil in the world be reconciled with the existence of a good and omnipotent God? - often boils down, in the final analysis, to whether such a God would have created the universe at all. This is because theodicies often boil down to what Leibniz (who coined the word "theodicy" in the first place) had to offer on this score: God, being perfectly good, necessarily always chooses the very best; and being almighty, is always able to realise what he chooses. Therefore, we can be sure that the actual world is also "the best of all possible worlds".

The Leibnizian position is logically quite closely related to the Augustinian free will defence: God chose to create free agents because only they can enter into a personal relationship with God and thus enjoy ultimate happiness. This decision necessarily entails the possibility of wrong choices being freely made, which possibility was in fact realised in human history. (As far as non-moral evil is concerned, it is often argued, for instance by C.S. Lewis, that freedom can only be effectively exercised in a relatively predictable world, and that this very predictability or regularity - the "laws of nature" - combined with free will, is what makes non-moral evil [accidents, disease etc.] possible or even unavoidable.)

Given that, according to traditional Christian doctrine, God is omniscient, one has to assume that God knew from the start that humans would exercise their freedom badly and that this would result in all the evil and suffering witnessed through the ages. (Alternatively, God must at least have known that this possibility was real, and what the chance of its realisation was.) This immediately raises the question as to whether a good God, knowing all this, would have proceeded with creating the universe.

One possible reply to this question is that offered by Lewis (which echoes Leibniz): God surely knows better; who are we to argue?

A more sophisticated reply comes from Vincent Brümmer, who shows that one's answer to the question as to whether a good God would have created the universe knowing how much evil and suffering would result, depends on one's own value system - more specifically, on just how important or valuable freedom and personhood is thought to be. Are these things so valuable that the price of possible evil and suffering is worth paying for it?

Being a theist entails putting a high value on freedom and personhood - so high that God can be seen to have been justified in creating the kind of world we live in, a world that makes freedom and personhood possible but is also, for that very reason, open to the risk of untold evil and suffering.

For Brümmer, this is where the argument ends, but I think it can be taken further. Recently, David Benatar published a book entitled Better Never to have Been. In it, he argues on utilitarian grounds that, on the whole, it would have been better if no sentient life had ever come into existence. I have heard many philosophers chuckle when discussing this book; very few really take it seriously. (For one thing, it seems to me that if the central thesis of the book were accepted, it would count as an act of utmost virtue and heroism to destroy the whole world in an instant, say with a nuclear weapon.) Yet very few of the chucklers seem to realise that Benatar's position is logically entailed by, or even identical with, the view that a good God would not have created the universe had he known how much pain and suffering it would lead to.

- Gerrit Brand

Afrikaans:

DIE teodisee-vraagstuk - Hoe kan die kwaad in die wêreld met die bestaan van 'n goeie, almagtige God versoen word? - kom dikwels in die laaste instanse neer op die vraag of so 'n God hoegenaamd die heelal sou skep. Dit is omdat teodiseë dikwels neerkom op wat Leibniz (wat in die eerste plek met die woord "teodisee" vorendag gekom het) op dié terrein te biede had: God, synde volmaak goed, kies noodwendig altyd die heel beste; en synde almagtig, kan altyd realiseer wat hy kies. Daarom kan ons seker wees dat die bestaande wêreld ook "die beste van alle moontlike wêrelde" is.

Leibniz se posisie is logies nou verwant aan Augustinus se vryewil-argument: God het gekies om vry agente te skep omdat net hulle 'n persoonlike verhouding met God kan aangaan en sodoende ultieme geluk ervaar. Dié besluit impliseer noodwendig die moontlikheid dat verkeerde keuses gemaak kan word, welke moontlikheid dan ook in die mens se geskiedenis verwerklik is. (Wat nie-morele kwaad betref, word dikwels geredeneer, byvoorbeeld deur C.S. Lewis, dat vryheid slegs doeltreffend uitgeleef kan word in 'n relatief voorspelbare wêreld, en dat dit hierdie einste voorspelbaarheid of reëlmaat - die "natuurwette" - saam met vrye wil is wat nie-morele kwaad [ongelukke, siektes ens.] moontlik of selfs onvermydelik maak.)

Siende, dat volgens die tradisionele Christelike leer, God alwetend is, moet 'n mens aanneem dat god van die begin af geweet het dat mense hul vryheid sou misbruik, en dat dit sou lei tot al die kwaad en lyding waarvan die eeue getuie is. (Alternatiewelik sou God in ieder geweet het dat dit 'n egte moontlikheid was, en hoe groot die kans was dat dit verwerklik sou word.) Dit roep onmiddellik die vraag op of 'n goeie God wat dit alles wis, steeds sou voortgaan met die skepping van die heelal.

Een moontlike antwoord op dié vraag, is die wat Lewis bied (en wat met Leibniz resoneer): God weet sekerlik die beste; wie is ons om te stry?

'n Meer gesofistikeerde antwoord kom van Vincent Brümmer, wat wys dat 'n mens se antwoord op die vraag of 'n goeie God die heelal sou skep indien hy wis hoeveel kwaad en lyding daaruit sou voortvloei, van 'n mens se eie waardestelsel afhang - meer spesifiek, van hóé belangrik en waardevol vryheid en persoonskap geag word. Is hierdie dinge so waardevol dat dit die prys van moontlike kwaad en lyding werd is?

Om 'n teïs te wees beteken om 'n hoë waarde aan vryheid en persoonskap te heg - so hoog dat dit geregverdig kan lyk vir God om die soort wêreld waarin ons leef te geskep het, 'n wêreld wat vryheid en persoonskap moontlik maak, maar wat ook, om juis daardie rede, uitgelewer is aan die risiko van enorme kwaad en lyding.

Vir Brümmer is dit waar die argument eindig, maar ek dink dit kan verder geneem word. Onlangs het david Benatar 'n boek uitgebring met die titel Better Never to have Been. Daarin betoog hy, op utilitaristiese gronde, dat dit in die geheel beter sou wees indien geen voelende lewensvorm ooit ontstaan het nie. Ek het al baie filosowe hoor giggel wanneer hulle hierdie boek bespreek; bloedweinig van hulle neem dit ernstig op. (Om mee te begin lyk dit my dat, indien die sentrale tese van die boek aanvaar sou word, 'n mens dit as 'n daad van die hoogste deug en heldhaftigheid sou moes beskou om die hele wêreld in 'n oogwink, byvoorbeeld met 'n kernwapen, in 'n oogwink uit te wis.) Tog besef min van die giggelaars oënskynlik dat Benatar se standpunt 'n logiese gevolg is van, of selfs identiek is met, die siening dat 'n goeie God nie die heelal sou skep indien hy wis tot hoeveel kwaad en lyding dit sou ly nie.

- Gerrit Brand

Niemand kan vir my sê wat 'n 'blog' is nie / No-one can tell me what a blog is

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KORT-KORT vra iemand van die ouer geslag, of iemand wat (soos ek) tegnologies gestremd is, my wat 'n "blog" eintlik is. Ek weet wragtig nie.

Danksy onder meer Christo Viljoen se nuwe Kuberwoordeboek / Cyber Dictionary - Afrikaans-Engels / English-Afrikaans (Protea Boekhuis, Pretoria, 2007) weet ek dat dit in Afrikaans 'n webjoernaal (voortaan WB) heet. Is dit dus maar net 'n joernaal, 'n dagboek, wat aanlyn gehou word? Dit sal dit opsigself iets nuuts beteken: persoonlike ontboesemings wat intyds deur enige Jan Rap en sy maat gelees kan word, eerder as dat dit ná die skrywer se dood, en moontlik eers ná 'n langdurige hoftwis met dié se oorblywende naasbestaandes, in boekvorm gepubliseer word.

Tog is daar soveel hype oor die verskynsel van WB's dat 'n mens voel dit moet méér as dit behels. Het dit dalk daarmee te doen dat die ontboesemings in dié joernale dikwels selfs meer persoonlik, en ander kere juis weer meer onpersoonlik, as in die tradisionele dagboek is?

'n Uiterste voorbeeld van die hiperpersoonlike is 'n webjoernaal getitel All about my Vagina (by http://myvag.net), waarin die skrywer jou werklik al vir jare oor niks anders praat nie.

Die skrywer en letterkundige Etienne van Heerden, redakteur van die literêre webtydskrif LitNet (by www.litnet.co.za), het al dikwels in sy insigryke besprekings van die internet as kommunikasieruimte gewys op hoe die anonimiteit wat deur dié medium moontlik word, mense se inhibisies en skroom wegneem sodat hulle veel meer vry-uit praat - iets wat ook gevare inhou.

Daarteenoor kry jy weer iets soos Noam Chomsky se webjoernaal by http://blog.zmag.org/ttt, waarin oor gewigtige politieke, ekonomiese en sosiale kwessies gesels word.

Maar die webjoernaal as genre ondermyn allerlei binêre opposisies. Neem bogenoemde twee WB's as voorbeeld. Die anonieme dame wat so vrypostig oor haar privaatdele is, verskaf ook perspektiewe op, en inligting oor, "publieke" kwessies soos geslagsrolle, seksuele moraliteit en geboortebeperking. Sy kondig selfs 'n keer aan dat sy eersdaags op 'n openbare kongres as spreker gaan optree. Haar WB het dus ook 'n onpersoonlike, maatskaplike dimensie. Of illustreer dit dalk daardie ou feministiese cliché "Die persoonlike ís die politieke"?

En is die andersheid van 'n WB soos Chomsky s'n, in vergelyking met meer tradisionele intellektuele literatuur, nie juis die hoogs persoonlike aard daarvan nie? Word die naam, die gesig, die persoonlike aanslag, hier nie belangriker as ooit tevore in dié soort diskoerse nie? Is dit dalk problematies omdat die selebriteit belangriker as die idees word? Of word intellektuele debat daardeur eerliker om die beliggaamdheid daarvan nou meer sigbaar word? Maar hoe eg is daardie geprojekteerde, openbare liggaam?

In dieselfde enkele WB kan jy dus tegelyk die persoonlike en onpersoonlike aantref, op allerlei verwikkelde en boeiende maniere met mekaar vermeng en steunend op mekaar.

Nog 'n aspek wat WB's anders as tradisionele dagboeke maak, is die interaktiewe aard daarvan: die feit dat wat ek nou hier kwytraak, reaksie van iemand anders kan uitlok - en dat ek my dan moontlik genoop kan voel om op my beurt dáárop te reageer. Dit vind ek nogal aantreklik, want soos die Duits-Nederlandse filosoof Heinz Kimmerle (sy fassinerende webwerf is by www.kimmerle.nl), voel ek dat die waarheid hom meestal in die gesprek openbaar, eerder as in enige van die afsonderlike stellings waaruit so 'n gesprek opgebou is.

Soms kry ek die indruk die WB's eintlik maar 'n byderwetse manier is om met penvriende te kommunikeer. Wie onthou nog penvriende? Ek behoort tot 'n geslag wat nog daarmee grootgeword het - ek kan goed onthou dat van my broers en susters via een of ander jeugorganisasie penvriendskappe opgebou het met kinders van dieselfde ouderdom uit allerlei eksotiese lande. Is dit maar eintlik wat hier aangaan, ten minste wat sommige WB's betref?

Of is dit dalk juis die ondefinieerbaarheid, die (voorlopige?) oopheid en tergende moontlikhede van die WB as literatuursoort, sy geheimsinnigheid, wat dit so interessant maak?

Die enigste manier om uit te vind wat 'n WB werklik is, en of die hype daaroor geregverdig is, is seker maar om in die praktyk in te duik en dit self van binne af te ervaar. Vandaar dan hierdie webjoernaal.

- Gerrit

English translation:

EVERY now and then someone of the older generation, or someone who (like me) is technologically handicapped, asks me just what a blog is. I sure as hell don't know.

Thanks to, inter alia, Christo Viljoen's Kuberwoordeboek / Cyber Dictionary - Afrikaans/Engels English/Afrikaans (Protea Boekhuis, Pretoria, 2007) I know that, in Afrikaans, it is called a webjoernaal. Is it, then, merely a journal, a diary, kept online? That would in itself represent a novelty: personal confessions that can be read, in real time, by every Tom, Dick and Harry, rather than getting published in book form only subsequent to the author's death, and possibly after a long court battle with her or his remaining relatives?

However, there is so much hype about the blog phenomenon that one feels there must be more to it. Does it perhaps have something to do with the fact that the confessions in these journals are often even more personal, yet at other times much more impersonal, than in the traditional diary?

An extreme example of the hyperpersonal is a blog entitled All about my Vagina (at http://myvag.net) in which the author has, I kid you not, been talking about nothing else for several years.

The author and literary scholar Etienne van Heerden, editor of the literary online magazine LitNet (at www.litnet.co.za), has often pointed out, in his insightful discussions of the internet as communication space, how the anonimity afforded by this medium can remove people's inhibitions and scruples so that they speak much more freely - something that also holds dangers.

By contrast, there is something like Noam Chomsky's blog at http://blog.zmag.org/ttt, in which weighty political, economic and social issues as discussed.

Yet the blog as genre undermines all kinds of binary oppositions. Take the two blogs mentioned above as an example. The anonymous lady who is so outspoken about her private parts, also offers perspectives on, and information about, "public" issues like gender roles, sexual morality and birth control. She even announces that she will soon be speaking at a public conference. Her blog thus also has an impersonal, social dimension. Or does it perhaps illustrate that old feminist cliché "The personal is the political"?

And is the novelty in a blog like Chomsky's, compared to more traditional intellectual literature, not constituted precisely by its highly personal nature? Has the name, the face, the personal touch not become more important here than ever before in discourses of this kind? is this perhaps problematic because the celebrity becomes more important than the ideas? Or does intellectual debate thereby become more honest thanks to its embodiment now being rendered more visible? But how real is that projected, public body?

In one and the same blog you can, thus, simultaneously encounter the personal and the impersonal, mixed up with, and dependent on, one another in all sorts of complex and fascinating ways.

Another aspect that makes blogs different from traditional diaries, is its interactive nature: the fact that waht I have to say here may evoke reaction from someone else - and that I may then possibly feel obliged, in turn, to react to that. I find this quite attractive, for I agree with the German-Dutch philosopher Heinz Kimmerle (his fascinating website is at www.kimmerle.nl) that the truth usually reveals itself in the conversation rather than in any of the separate statements constituting such a conversation.

Sometimes I have the impression that blogs are simply an up-to-date means of communicating with pen friends. Who can still remember pen friends? I belong to a generation who still grew up with them - I can still recall how some of my brothers and sisters became friends, via some youth organisation, with children of their own age from excotic countries all over the world. Is that essentially what we're dealing with here too, at least as far as some blogs are concerned?

Or is it perhaps the undefinability, the (provisional?) openness and seductive possibilities of the blog as genre, its mysteriousness, that makes it so interesting?

The only way to find out what a blog really is, and whether the hype about it is justified, is, I guess, to dive into the practice itself and experience it from the inside for oneself. Hence this blog.

- Gerrit