In Praise of Walls

The $2 billion trembler at J.P. Morgan Chase yesterday, on the economic Richter scale no more than 4 in magnitude (“Noticeable shaking of indoor items, rattling noises. Significant damage unlikely.”) again brought back the notion that some organs of society are too big to fail, that everything’s connected, and so on. Those two idea are linked, of course. If things were properly organized, walls of all kinds would protect us. Connections enable us to build huge social structures, but connections that bring the good also, when things go awry, link us to the evil consequences.

Back a ways I read Thucydides’ The Peloponnesian War. It struck me then how vital a role walls played in the foundations of Graeco-Roman—and hence by extension our own—civilization. Here is a link to my summary. Indeed, connection is exposure. But at the very core of biological life is a wall. It is the skin that forms the original cell—an old topic of discussion for Brigitte and me going back to her days of studying biology. Life’s clever resolution of this conflict—between the need both to be connected and to be protected—is the formation of walls that let through what we need and to keep out what can harm.

Would life have succeeded in conquering the globe, as it were, if we all had the same liver, kidneys, lungs, and heart? Nature believes in walls.

As in all things that relate to this dimension, we must find the middle way between conflicts. Unity is good—but when it isn’t structured right, it can become oppressive. Hence the somewhat poorly named subsidiarity principle. It’s poorly named because it says that the higher the power the more it should be in the background —whereas we tend to think of government as the be-all, end-all manager on high. The principle applied says that the federal should not do what the states can, states must avoid what counties do, counties what towns and cities do, and the last level should not attempt to do what the household can do best. Government as last resort. The meaning of the word comes from “sitting behind”—waiting, in other words, to help, but only when necessary. This principle arises within Catholic doctrine—paradoxically, but only if that tradition is misunderstood: it is assumed that Catholicism is a top-down sort of thing—and urging this principle, it seems to be promoting libertarianism. A relatively modern formulation of this principle is found in the papal encyclical, Quadrogesimo Anno (1931). I’ve written a post on it a while back on the old LaMarotte (link).

As in all things, the knowledge is there, the rules are known. We can read the laws by studying nature; the cell is a good starting point. The application of these laws, however, requires rather a high level of cultural awareness, insight, and unity of purpose—which, in the current Information Age, are difficult to find.

Widening Gyre

Speaking of inexpressiblely difficult impressions, experiences, and realities, humanity manages to express them in the poetic vein by using simple words in the right context to suggest a meaning—and hearing that suggestion, the heart nods and understands. Thus for instance:

Turning and turning in the widening gyre

The falcon cannot hear the falconer;

Things fall apart; the center cannot hold.

     [William Butler Yeats, “The Second Coming”]

What is it that that “center” cannot hold? We know exactly what Yeats meant, but analysis does not yield much more than paradoxical results. Does the center really hold—anything? Not in a geometrical sense. That “widening gyre” suggests, perhaps someone turning rapidly in place and, on a rope, extended by that figure’s whirling, a heavy object flies through the air. The turning figure is the center, then, and the force is so great that the fist unballs, the knuckles white, the rope slips over skin. And what is it the center holds? Well, all right. It is the falcon. The falconer holds it by some mysterious force—a relationship of unity. When that invisible something is present, the flacon knows to return to the fist. But whose fault is it that the falcon flies away; is it something in the falconer, or is it in the falcon’s mind? At the center—an idea. Has it lost its power of attraction—or have the flying pieces lost their grasp of it? Or is the problem really in some third element in this poetic equation, the force itself, which gets no mention? Has it changed polarity? And what is it that those “things” are seeking? Is separation something superior?

Yes. It’s true. We know what Yeats meant when he wrote the words. Something in us responds. Is that because we still, as it were, see the falconer as we glide high on rising currents in the mysterious air that has no name?