Jon Fosse – A Shining

If a story is going to create a mystery without a single answer, it should at least aim at the creation of the potential for the reader to find an answer. The alternative is simply frustration. For instance, Kafka’s brilliance lies in the way that we can find a solution to his works’ problems, just never a conclusive one. We all know why Gregor Samsa becomes a bug – only our views inevitably conflict with one another. The text, nevertheless, provides clues for all of us. It prompts endless exploration. Whereas I am not sure Jon Fosse’s A Shining does.

I had high hopes for A Shining. After all, Jon Fosse has just won the Nobel Prize in Literature. I spent weeks going around bookshops, trying to find Septology. Perhaps this effort meant that I demanded more (when I finally found a book of Fosse’s in stock) than the writing could give me. A Shining is about fifty pages long. It’s so thin that it bends the wrong way if I carry it in a breast pocket. But plenty of stories have managed much in fewer pages.

The plot is very simple. A man drives into a forest. He has been driving aimlessly, out of boredom. In the forest his car gets stuck. He gets out of the car and tries to find help. It starts snowing and he gets cold. He sees a mysterious “shining” that approaches and talks to him. Then the shining goes inside him. He then sees an old couple that he recognises, not immediately, as his parents. Then he sees a man in a suit. Then they all float away, the narrator included.

The narrator asks :

“What’s happening here in the middle of the forest, in the black darkness of the trees, where there’s white snow on the branches and on the ground between the trees[?]”

What, indeed.

I propose to start with the narrator, whose consciousness we inhabit. Often narrators are the way into a story like this.

He shows signs of depression: “Boredom had taken hold of me—usually I was never bored but now I had fallen prey to it. I couldn’t think of anything I wanted to do.” He hasn’t eaten a proper meal in days, and he experiences a kind of emptiness and anxiety that worsens as the story progresses. He is lonely. What else? As so often in these kinds of stream-of-consciousness books, he has a lack of self-knowledge that can easily grate: “And what was I doing on this forest road?”

Does he want to end his life? Perhaps – “And maybe that is exactly why I walked into the forest, because I wanted to freeze to death.” Perhaps not – he then immediately decides this is not the case. We don’t know his job, his life before the story, except for hints that are insufficient to form a view – “You might almost consider me a thinker.” In other words, our man is a blank slate, albeit likely a prideful one. Even when his “parents” arrive upon the scene, the dialogue between the three is very limited and focused on his trying to find a way out of the forest. There is insufficient evidence there for even the most ardent Freudian to make an essay from. 

Let’s go back to Kafka. Gregor Samsa was a travelling salesman. This made him a bug in the eyes of others. He had a family whose interactions with him give plenty to think over. Like the narrator of A Shining, he seems oblivious to certain things – in Gregor’s case, for example, that being a bug might make it hard for him to do his job. But unlike the narrator of Fosse’s story, his outward existence as an individual is sufficient to give us something to keep in our minds as we try to make sense of things. Both have personalities, but only Gregor seems to have had a life.

We might say that A Shining is about meaning, as if this is an excuse. Certainly, one real part of the work is the way that we try to find order and meaning in the world. The narrator’s hope for rescue leads him to ascribe meaning to the ground itself: “and that was probably a path leading into the forest, and it has to lead somewhere, doesn’t it, and there must be people there.” He finds a stone that just seems to have been shaped for sitting on. There is a human desperation for everything to make sense that he clings to.

Philosophically, this comes across in questions of determinism. On the very first page, the narrator notes: “All right then, this sudden urge to drive off somewhere had brought me to a forest. And there was another way of talking, according to which something, something or another, led, whatever that might mean, to something else, yes, something else.” (We might note here that our narrator, who thinks he is a “thinker”, refuses to state outright the simple name for this idea). If everything is determined by something else, then that suggests an ordering of the universe. That is a comforting thought.

Against that thought, there is reality and the random. The snow of the forest that obliterates any path that might be there,  that the car gets stuck to begin with. The narrator walking in circles as he tries to get out. The way that his parents, rather than helping him escape, argue with one another sadly and admit that they do not know the way out either.

We might look to parts of the story as symbols to guide us, to things as echoes of others. Dante’s Divine Comedy begins:

Midway upon the journey of our life

I found myself within a forest dark,

For the straightforward pathway had been lost.

This is our narrator’s problem, through and through. After the uncertainty of the forest, Dante meets his guide. Our narrator in A Shining also meets guides – the shining, the parents, and so on. He also remembers seeing a cabin beyond the forest – a symbol, clearly, of the order and meaning he can achieve if he can work through the muddle of snow and trees. Back on the road, there was an abandoned farmhouse, showing that the world he left behind cannot be returned to. This all sounds good to me, reasonable interpretations of things. But it does make things look quite simple.

The Shining

Now it’s really as dark as it can get and there in front of me I see the outline of something that looks like a person. A shining outline, getting clearer and clearer. Yes, a white outline there in the dark, right in front of me. Is it far away or is it nearby. I can’t say for sure. It’s impossible, yes, impossible to say whether it’s close or far away. But it’s there. A white outline. Shining. And I think it’s walking toward me. Or coming toward me.

With the shining itself, it’s perhaps not necessary to demonstrate the parallels, except that I am increasingly aware that the extent to which I was exposed to Christianity as a child through my schooling is completely unrepresentative of the general distance many now have from the common stories of the Bible, regardless of belief. It could be an “angel”. Certainly, it brings comfort to the narrator, warming him up. At one point he thinks of it as a voice of “love.” The shining form enters the narrator and occasionally talks to him –

I say: who are you. The presence says: I am who I am—and I think that I’ve heard that answer before, but I can’t remember where I heard it, or maybe I read it somewhere or another.

So at least the book is aware that people’s connection to God is not what it used to be, and makes it obvious. Although the narrator suggests it might be some dark angel, it is fairly conclusive from the context that it is a positive spirit, trying to help him. “I’ll leave that for other people to decide,” he thinks, about whether it is the voice of God. But the book does not leave much room for an alternative.

Next, we have the parents, once the shining has gone quiet and entered the narrator. Their portrayal is touching, because of its vulnerability. We expect his parents to help, but they seem just as lost in the forest as the narrator:

She says: you don’t know the way—and he says no and she says she was sure he knew where the way was, he always knew the way, she couldn’t remember a single time when he hadn’t known the way, she was sure he knew the way, she would never have imagined anything else, she says and she’s stopped, and she’s let go of my father’s arm and now she’s looking up at him, and she says, and her voice sounds scared: you don’t know the way, you can’t find the way back home—and my father shakes his head. She says: so why did we walk so far into the forest—and my father doesn’t answer, he just stands there stiffly. She says: answer me. He says: but we came here together. She says: no, it was you who dragged me into the forest. He says: but you wanted to find him.

But at this point, we can say that the parents are sent by some higher power, clearly not to help the narrator escape, but to help him understand something about the world. “Wasn’t he always his own person,” his mother says to his father. Perhaps the lesson has something to do with selfishness and pride.

The final person is a man in a black suit. He has no face and perhaps is God, or the man the narrator could become. It’s impossible to say.

No, I don’t understand this. It’s not something that can be understood either, it’s something else, maybe it’s something that’s only experienced, that’s not actually happening. But is it possible to only experience something and not have it be happening? Everything you experience, yes, is real in a way, yes, and you probably understand it too, in a way. But it doesn’t matter either way.

He does not talk, but he and the narrator and all the others float off into the distance and the story ends, essentially bathed in light.

Conclusion

Now, either the narrator dies, or he is saved. It’s fairly immaterial. We can go for an atheistic interpretation that the whole thing was the delusion brought on by freezing to death, his parents, and the rest of it all just one of those near-death-experience oddities. Or we can say that in the forest he found some higher truth that is incommunicable, except as a strange second-hand experience for us readers. But it’s hard to see any other interpretation. It’s essentially a mystery that is not mysterious because there isn’t an answer here. We just need to accept the truth of it, which works with religion but seems fairly annoying with fiction.

A Shining isn’t actually bad as a religious tale. Its air of mystery is effectively created and it feels like a modern-day allegory. But it then suffers from not knowing what it is by trying half-heartedly to add ambiguity. Either it’s a story about a sad man who finds God/Meaning/Truth, in which case it should take itself still more seriously, or it’s an ironic tale that might just be a man freezing to death after taking a drive – at which point it could give us more to work with as we try to reach our own satisfactory interpretation of things. Either more ambiguity or more Truth, in other words.

Still, the funny thing is that I can see myself reading A Shining again. It’s not often that you have something that’s really trying to convey a mystical feeling – and partly succeeding. But on the other hand, I can’t see myself turning to the seven hundred or so pages of Septology too soon.

Ideas of Goodness in Small Things Like These and Foster

We can say, not unreasonably I think, that the concern at the heart of Irish writer Claire Keegan’s two brilliant novellas, Small Things Like These and Foster, is a religious one. It is a concern for goodness. We are all able to consider goodness, but here the opposition seems not so much between good and bad (a secular concern), nor even between good and evil, but between what is merely good enough and what is supernaturally, miraculously good.

That higher goodness is inevitably the thing most needful. Authentic goodness as opposed to the sham goodness of the fraud is not the main problem here either, though it crops up. Rather, it is true goodness against the merely good enough. From this, we can see that we also have a problem with language here. The philosophers have the word supererogatory – going beyond what is necessary – which we can use to describe the goodness these novellas contain. Maybe that is the better word, but still a wrong one, because such goodness should be everywhere; it just is not.

Both of these novellas centre around a single good deed, the saving of a soul. In Small Things Like These, the merchant Bill Furlong decides to rescue a woman trapped within a kind of domestic slavery under the Catholic Church at what were called the Magdalene Laundries. In Foster, meanwhile, the Kinsellas, husband and wife, decide to take on the daughter of a relative and treat her as they would their own child. What these novellas do is contrast these actions with a host of other actions and persons who are not given the same kind of goodness. In this way, Keegan shows how special the truly good are. She lets their goodness illuminate them against the murk of the everyday.

Foster

In Foster, our narrator is a young girl who is being passed on to relatives for the summer. Her voice lets us hear what another narrator might be unwilling to admit, so the initial pages are full of distances noticed between what is done or said, and the real situation the girl has left behind. On the first page, we have a reference to a cow, lost by her father while gambling. Then, when she and her father arrive at the Kinsellas’ home, we learn of the months of poor weather for farming that have passed. Then we also see how her father, prideful, pretends things are otherwise, saying the barn at home is full.

“I wonder why my father lies about the hay,” our narrator thinks. The Kinsellas themselves see through this, of course, providing him with extra food from their garden to take home. And he, for his part, “forgets” to give the girl her clothes when he leaves – she has many brothers and sisters at home. The scene is an elaborate performance that we see, as the narrator too sees, with sad confusion. These are the outward problems – the poverty of her family home. This is contrasted with the girl’s excitement and apprehension at the first hot bath of her life, for example. And the confused joy at so much food.

But there is another side to this, and here her own knowledge is lacking this time, or else not fully revealed. There is the way she wets her bed, a common sign of abuse, and the way she crouches in fear when expecting Kinsella to hit her. “I keep waiting for something to happen, for the ease I feel to end: to wake in a wet bed, to make some blunder, some big gaffe, to break something, but each day follows on much like the one before.” The girl has overheard her mother and father discussing her before she left home in words they should not have dared use, the kind that makes her seem worthless to them.

Simply put, it is a bad home that our narrator escapes. And it is a good one that she enters. The Kinsellas feed her, buy her clothes, and give her money for snacks and books. I do not want to call this a novella of healing, because that seems to me trite and cliché, but certainly, it could be an appropriate term here. Our narrator learns to live without fear that summer. Eating Weetabix and having warm baths and helping outside and so many other moments of little joys are wondrously powerful through cumulative effect.

But it is a little later where this question of goodness truly comes into the fore – when we meet the ordinary Irishmen and women of the area. On a trip to town, our narrator is asked “whose child I am, who I am belonging to?”, and Mrs Kinsella quickly ends the conversation. “God forgive me but if I ever run into that woman again it will be too soon,” she says later in a rare moment of negativity.

Then, following a man’s death, a woman from the village offers to take the narrator home while the Kinsellas stay to help. What appears a good deed is soon revealed to be motivated by cynicism and a desire for gossip – the narrator is pelted with questions, and eventually discovers the truth about the Kinsellas – that they lost their own child in an accident.

Yet what the novella goes on to show is that this fact is of no importance to the Kinsellas’ treatment of our narrator. She is their daughter because they love her, not because she fills a space left empty by death. They care for her not as a replacement – at first she wears their son’s old clothes, before getting her own – but as a person in herself. In a moment of real beauty, Mr Kinsella and the girl go for a walk at night on the beach, and we experience the kind of tenderness that we might have foolishly believed is possible only between parents and children. But it is not limited in this way. This is a thing we see in Small Things Like These too – that there are no real limits to human goodness except those set by the hardness of a human heart.

The Kinsellas are not special. The man gambles too, albeit moderately, and his wife is too trusting. But unlike the other characters we briefly encounter in the novella, they allow their inner kindness to place a barrier before curiosity and all thoughts of difference. They simply love the girl. That for them is enough.

Small Things Like These

Small Things Like These is longer than Foster, and seems in many ways the deserving kin to Joyce’s novella The Dead, sharing a Christmas setting and state-of-the-nation sweep. Bill Furlong is another fostered child, in his way. His mother is rejected by her family after she falls pregnant while in the service of a Protestant widow and landowner, Mrs Wilson, but the child and mother are taken care of by the old woman, rather than cast out. A single kindness helps shape his life.

Furlong grows to become a coal and timber merchant with many workers in his employ. He marries and has five daughters. Life is, as it is for Ivan Ilyich, “pleasant and respectable.” Yet Furlong is aware that something might be missing in it. He has his moments of introspection while driving or sitting by the stove at home, when he wonders at his life and its course. When he comes to speak of this, he discovers he is more alone than he had thought:

“But aren’t we all right?”

“Money-wise, do you mean? Didn’t we have a good year?”

…

“I’m not sure what I mean, Eileen.” Furlong sighed. “I’m just a bit weary tonight, is all. Pay no heed.”

But the next thing he thinks, the very next line, pays heed indeed. “What was it all for? Furlong wondered.”

Furlong’s introspection is not a total rejection of his life, but it comes and goes like the tide. It worsens when he has his first encounter with the nuns of the laundry where he has his family’s things washed. Arriving too early, he discovers the girls imprisoned there in shabby dresses and suffering. They ask him to help, but his instinctive response is to excuse himself: “Haven’t I five girls and a wife at home?” But how pathetic is this compared to the response: “Well, I‘ve nobody – and all I want to do is drown meself.” The respectability of family against the void. Fortunately, Furlong is rescued when a nun arrives and swiftly deals with him.

At home, he asks his wife about what he saw but receives a run-on sentence of excuses in turn, the gist of which is that he should not meddle. “What do such things have to do with us? Aren’t all our girls well, and minded?” So, for Furlong the choice is clearly stated – a care that limits itself to family, and should be satisfied. Or a more expansive care, whose limits he cannot apprehend, but which seems more true to his inner spirit.

Not long later he comes across one of the poor laundry girls hiding in the laundry’s coal shed, but rather than helping her, he returns her to the nuns. This time the pain of his decision is obvious, and it sets Furlong up for the novella’s finale. Here he runs into the same girl in the shed again, but this time he takes her home with him. Going down the street with the limping child, he willingly submits to the gaze of respectable members of Irish society, letting himself be an example of an alternative way of being, which in the context of Christmas seems overwhelmingly the one that society supposedly supports, but in reality, turns its back on.

This is Furlong’s supernatural good deed. He saves a soul. Like the Kinsellas he is not perfect. Many of the women in the laundry were those who had become pregnant out of wedlock and been cast out. There is an interesting scene in the middle of the story where Furlong himself encounters an attractive young woman and notices her breast. He too, is a human being, not immune to the same desires that have filled the convent, desires which in fact led to his own birth. But unlike the others in the story, he does a good deed that breaks the evil of the laundry and challenges the world’s hypocrisy. He does not solve the problems, but he makes them visible. That, for now, must be enough.

He also solves his problems. For although in the paragraph above I said he saved a soul, this is surely a mistake. He has saved two souls – the girl’s, and his own. For life is not about those dull repetitions, year after year, that he rightly comes to mistrust. It is about the kind of goodness that redeems and answers such a life by putting it in touch with the infinite. And that goodness is what he discovers and makes his own.

In essence, those are the shapes of the two novellas.

Doubling and Standing for All

In any story where there is a contrast, we can expect to see doublings. In any story where there is change, there is always the shadow image of the world left behind, which could still have been born. In both novellas, too, I have come to see doubling and its counterpoint – the refusal to differentiate – as a key part of their moral argument.

Both Foster and Small Things Like These make use of mirror images to emphasise their dynamics, with it being most obviousin Small Things Like These. Furlong is divided in two, with his outward person obliged to family and respectability, and his inner one striving towards a “something more” which only becomes clear when he encounters the girl in the coal shed. We know that because suddenly we see two Furlongs after this, when the mother superior has him in for a cup of tea to smooth matters over. “In some of the hanging pots Furlong glimpsed a version of himself, passing.” This builds upon a distinction made a few pages earlier, between “the ordinary part of him” and the part of him that wants to do the right thing. The laundry is located next to a girl’s school, providing an actual mirroring of circumstances as well.

If doubling is a reflection, providing a contrast, then its opposite is when everyone stands in for every other. And this is part of Furlong’s development, that he comes to see things like this. “But what if it was one of ours?” Furlong asks Eileen, his wife. Just as he realises that he could be any of the men responsible for a girl ending up in the laundries, he realises that any young woman could be his daughter. By taking the girl home, he is effectively adopting her. As he walks with her down the main street, people stop to talk to him, assuming he is out with one of his daughters, but when they come closer and see the girl’s rags they realise this is not the case and retreat in disgust. But Furlong himself no longer sees this distinction – for him, the girl is his daughter. He has broken through the view that he must care mostly or only for his family, and instead now has a willingness to aid all.

In Foster, we also see a doubling dynamic. For one, there are two sets of parents, the one cold and uncaring, and the other warm and open, and two sets of houses. What is remarkable is the loosening of expectations, where what is “home” is the uncomfortable, secretive place, so that we see with the narrator that home is a moveable concept that might go against what society would claim to be the case. The narrator fetches water from a well, and sees her own reflection in it – and thereby the difference between what she was, and what in the loving Kinsella home she is becoming. It is the central image of the story.

Doubling and unrecognising differences also play into the treatment of goodness here, as it does in Small Things Like These. Just as goodness in the other novella was ultimately about refusing to see a distinction in humanity, so too here is Kinsella’s goodness in refusing to see a distinction between the child they lose and the child they gain. Both receive love; both deserve nothing less.

The Language of Goodness

Keegan is an Irish writer, and so she has a second language to draw upon in her writing about her homeland in the way that we poor Brits generally do not. In fact, the film of Foster, The Quiet Girl / An Cailín Ciúin, is shot mostly in Irish. Thankfully for us, Foster and Small Things Like These use only a single word, but it is perfect. The word is “leanbh”, which I took to be “dear”, but is more correctly “child” and is used in a way that either would be a good translation. Furlong uses it with one of his own daughters when she is scared of Santa, but he also uses it with the girl in the coal shed. It is an almost secret word for when true tenderness is needed, rather than just ordinary care.

Meanwhile, in Foster, the word is used just once, by Mrs Kinsella when she invites the narrator into her home. It marks the beginning of the kindness that she will receive –the first tender word she will hear in the place that will become her home. It contrasts with the coldness of the language of her family as she remembers overhearing it, as they talk about what to do with her: “can’t they keep her as long as they like?” Mrs Kinsella also calls her “girleen”, another sweetly Irish way of showing her affection for the girl. The conclusion we can draw is that these moments of Irish come out for the truest of good human feelings, where English for the characters simply won’t do.

The Conspiracy of Silence in Small Things Like These

In Small Things Like These we have a constant sense of society in a way that Foster does not. At the beginning of chapter 2, when we learn about Furlong’s past, it is presented thus: “Furlong had come from nothing. Less than nothing, some might say.” This word “some” is key for establishing society’s presence as a regulator. Where Foster’s badness is an unkind family and thoughtless strangers, in Small Things Like These we have an entire society engaged in a conspiracy of silence, concealing the evil in their midst. This is most obvious when we are introduced to the convent and laundry when the narrative voice itself reflects these assumptions and their unquestionability:

the laundry had a good reputation: restaurants and guesthouses, the nursing home and the hospital and all the priests and well-off households sent their washing there. Reports were that everything that was sent in, whether it be a raft of bedlinen or just a dozen handkerchiefs, came back same as new.

There was other talk, too, about the place. Some said that the training school girls, as they were known, weren’t students of anything, but girls of low character who spent their days being reformed, doing penance by washing stains out of the dirty linen, that they worked from dawn til night. The local nurse had told that she’d been called out to treat a fifteen-year-old with varicose veins from standing so long at the wash tubs. Others claimed that it was the nuns themselves who worked their fingers to the bone, knitting Aran jumpers and threading rosary beads for export, that they had hearts of gold and problems with their eyes, and weren’t allowed to speak, only to pray, that some were fed no more than bread and butter for half the day but were allowed a hot dinner in the evenings, once their work was done. Others swore the place was no better than a mother-and-baby home where common, unmarried girls went in to be hidden away after they had given birth, saying it was their own people who had put them in there after their illegitimates had been adopted out to rich Americans, or sent off to Australia, that the nuns got good money by placing these babies out foreign, that it was an industry they had going.

But people said lots of things – and a good half of what was said could not be believed; never was there any shortage of idle minds or gossips about town.

What is interesting about this extract is that the truth is there, sandwiched between reports. The local nurse has a real experience of the conditions the girls are subjected to, but she is drowned out by so many idle speculations that we would overlook her on our first reading of the story. Then comes the next paragraph, where all is dismissed. We see, in short, society self-regulating to remove any sense that there is something wrong – because then there is something that would need to be done.

Our sense of the wrongness of society in Small Things Like These grows after Furlong starts asking questions, and we get a sense of just how deep the rot is. Mentions of the Gardai (Irish police) by the mother superior made me think of a story like The Wicker Man, where we initially misread the world we enter, expecting traditional sources of goodness, or at least justice, to be the same as they are elsewhere. It is unlikely the police would be of much use to Furlong, and the book’s note at the back indicates just how challenging it was to get any kind of justice for the victims of the laundries.

Whoever he talks to, whether wife or friend, they all give him no ear. And they suggest that in asking questions he is already harming his business and his daughters’ futures – schools in Ireland then were controlled by the clergy.

Limits to Goodness

Furlong saves the girl from the laundry, as do the Kinsellas the narrator of Foster. Yet it’s hard not to notice that in both good deeds, there is something not entirely satisfactory. One daughter is saved among many people living in the narrator’s old home, just as only one of the girls from the laundry gets to leave. The novellas are illuminated by their moral spirit, but they are also the records of the limitations of such goodness. We cannot individually save everyone. But if nobody saves anyone, we cannot get close to this. That seems to be the message these books put forward.

In life, we want a simple and fast solution. We wish for Furlong to save everyone at the convent, just as we wish the Kinsellas could adopt the narrator’s entire family in Foster, but it doesn’t work like that. Even to save one person is really hard. Furlong will take the girl home, and it is hard to assess whether even this will be the right action, taken alone. His children will struggle in life, his family will be cast out. He will certainly lose business. But it’s the only way to begin the process of bringing justice into the world.

We can only wish that we ourselves might be so brave.

Wittgenstein’s Vienna and the Approach to his Tractatus

Ludwig Wittgenstein, Austrian-born British philosopher, “perhaps the most perfect example I have ever known of genius as traditionally conceived, passionate, profound, intense, and dominating” (Bertrand Russell), was a master logician who studied under Frege and Russell before, like any great apprentice, overcoming them in one fell linguistic swoop with his Tractatus Logico-Philosophicus.

In that work he put to bed all the codswallop about metaphysics and morals, ethics and eschatology, which had bedevilled philosophy for centuries, nay, millennia, with his canonical “whereof one cannot speak, thereof one must be silent” and his dismissal of all the above as nonsense. Wittgenstein was a knife that cut away all the gristle. All that mattered was logic, cold and hard.

But is that what he was really about? Is that what the Tractatus was really about?

This slender book, first published in 1921 and now out of copyright, has started recently reappearing in a flurry of new translations in English, one of which has prompted me to write to you today. But much more than the book, the main subject is the approach to the book. Is it really, with its crystalline numbered tree structure, a structured work of logic alone, or is there reason to think there is more to it?

The introduction to my edition, and what it passes over

I first wrote about Wittgenstein the man after reading Ray Monk’s biography, but could not make my way through any of his actual works. It was all too alien to me. Now I have finally gone through the Tractatus in the new OUP translation made by Michael Beaney, who to judge from his various distinguished positions is extremely successful in his field of study. In fact, the book is more introduction than Wittgenstein, with a long traditional introduction and then a long note on the text, explaining the publication history of the work, and finally the seventy pages of the Tractatus itself, followed by an annex with simplified “tree-structure” of the propositions, notes and glossary.

Beaney talks a lot about logic and the influence on Wittgenstein of Russell and Frege, two titans of funny letters and mathematical squiggles. He mentions contemporary scientists Boltzmann and Hertz and the philosopher Schopenhauer as other influences, whilst giving an indication of in what this influence consisted, at least in his opinion. But there is something funny in this, even to one little versed in philosophy. Schopenhauer, for example, this arch pessimist, is reduced to a reaction to Kant and his understanding of sensory and rational experience. Pessimism, in Beaney’s reading of influence, or the ethics which followed on from Schopenhauer’s vision of the world, does not get a look in.

This is the first hint of dissatisfaction, but there is more to come. The account of the sixth section of the Tractatus, which Wittgenstein wrote after the experience front line action in the First World War, is merely the part that “gave Wittgenstein the most trouble.” The trouble, however, is logical for Beaney. The statements on ethics and the meaning of life and human happiness, are given a single paragraph in his account. They do not appear to be important, more aberrations to be passed over in relative silence.

Yet is this man just a genius of logic?

Bertrand Russell, finally meeting Wittgenstein after the war where he had fought bravely before ending up in Italian prisoner-of-war camp, wrote home to complain of him: “He has become a complete mystic. He reads people like Kierkegaard and [German mystic religious writer] Angelus Silesius, he seriously contemplates becoming a monk.” The remark is quoted by Beaney, but only in the context of Wittgenstein’s attempts to get the Tractatus published. Another famous letter, to Ludwig von Ficker, a publisher, is also introduced in a way that suggests we must assume it is of no importance at all to understanding the book:

“it will probably be a help to you if I write a few words about my book. You see, I am quite sure that you won’t get all that much out of reading it. Because you won’t understand it; it’s subject matter will seem quite alien to you. But it isn’t really alien to you, because the book’s point is an ethical one. I once meant to include in the preface a sentence which is not in fact there now but which I will write out for you here, because it will perhaps be a key to the work for you. What I meant to write, then, was this: My work consists of two parts: the one presented here plus all that I have not written. And it is precisely this second part that is the important one. My book draws limits to the sphere of the ethical from the inside as it were, and I am convinced that this is the ONLY rigorous way of drawing those limits”

During the war, Wittgenstein carried around a copy of Tolstoy’s The Gospel in Brief, which he said “saved” his life. His fellow soldiers even took to calling him “the man with the Gospels.” He disliked Russell’s introduction to the Tractatus, which was necessary for the work to be published in English, saying that Russell had misunderstood him. This misunderstanding seemed only to increase with time. Russell thought the later Wittgenstein had squandered his talents completely.

Other things about Wittgenstein’s behaviour seem odd. I remember from Monk’s biography how Wittgenstein would go into Russell’s chambers at Cambridge late at night and pace around, saying that he would kill himself once he left, thinking and pacing for hours at a time until he resolved whatever was bothering him. And when he met the men who became the Vienna Circle of logical positivists, he shocked them by reading them poetry and recommending someone as “illogical” as Heidegger. In short, Wittgenstein himself, in his living, seemed anything but a merely logical genius. He seemed animated by another force. And if the man was animated by another force, is it not likely that his first work was animated by another force too? 

Wittgenstein’s Vienna

I bought this book, by Allan Janik and Stephen Toulmin, back when I first thought I would read Wittgenstein. It has proven the work which has most helped me to engage with the Tractatus, far more than Beaney’s introduction or any other which I have read, which is funny given that the Tractatus is scarcely quoted here, and Wittgenstein is part of the shadows, certainly not the main act like the title might imply. But the arguments in the work are convincing. Wittgenstein, as part of his journey to the Tractatus, contacted the eminent philosophers Frege and Russell. But why did he do this? Janik and Toulmin argue that Wittgenstein was already engaged with some problems – for why else would he reach out? And that after meeting the logicians, he was given a set of tools that let him resolve them. But logic was never the main thing. It was just the means to another end.

Wittgenstein’s Vienna is an attempt, circumstantially we might say, to consider what these problems were. Vienna was an extraordinary place in the early 1900s, with Freud and Schoenberg and Schnitzler and Hofmannsthal, to name just a few of the leading literary and cultural lights. To their number Janik and Toulmin add others of whom I was less aware, like the architect Adolf Loos, and most importantly to their argument, the firebrand writer Karl Kraus. Through depicting the state of intellectual upheaval in Vienna at this time, and all its components, they lead us to see that the Tractatus was not a link in a logical chain, but rather a response to a problem that was at the time particularly Viennese.

They have, perhaps, some good reason for this. Professor von Wright, Wittgenstein’s literary executor, said to them that the two most important facts about Wittgenstein were that he was Viennese, and that he was an engineer with a thorough knowledge of physics. Both of these flow into Janik and Toulmin’s analysis, and both lead to a very different picture of the Tractatus to the one we might be used to.

Context: The Proving Ground for World Destruction

It was the Viennese writer, Karl Kraus, who called the city the “Proving Ground for World Destruction”. And it is he who looms large as one of the central influences on the milieu that a young Ludwig Wittgenstein grew up in. Vienna, towards the end of the Habsburg Empire, was a place that produced some of the most brilliant art and philosophy that we have – and for its time, some of the most experimental, most modernist. Hugo von Hofmannsthal, Sigmund Freud, Arthur Schnitzler, Georg Trakl, Rainer Maria Rilke, are just some of these names which have in one way or another made their mark on culture, and often been featured here on the blog. But as so often happens with great art, much of that was produced in response to its environment, rather than thanks to it, as the hostile forces artists experienced in their daily lives were rejected and transformed in works of art.

Vienna at this time was a place where the gulf between appearance and reality was as great as it has perhaps ever been anywhere. The “City of Dreams” shone with palaces and parks, it seethed with its rapidly growing population – it quadrupled in size over about fifty years, without growing its city limits nearly so much – and its multinational, multiethnic population, led by a benevolent sovereign, lived according to the great values of that land: reason, order, disciplined conformity to good taste. Some families had done well, like the Wittgensteins, who through canny business decisions had risen to become some of the richest people in Europe. But many more people found themselves trapped in accommodation far too small for them, unable to feed themselves on puny wages.

Ethnic harmony was a lie that was increasingly hard to paper over, and antisemitism was shifting from an unfortunately common personal conviction to a political programme. The lights that the city shone with were not often electric, because the Emperor Franz Joseph plugged any hole that modernity might seep through, keeping the toilets in the palaces without modern plumbing, and the lights running on gas. Like the Russian Empire at that time, society was rigid to the extreme and taboos were rigorously enforced. It seems no surprise that Freud should have his first successes here, working with women who felt things they were not allowed to feel, and had no way of managing those feelings. For a literary response to female sexuality, we need look no further than Schnitzler’s Fräulein Else, one of my favourite works of the period.

What was said and what wasn’t, what was unimportant and what was, were completely out of order. If in people’s personal lives this led to the rise of psychoanalysis and associated topics – Alfred Adler discovered the “inferiority complex” while in Vienna – in the arts this led to what we might call a crisis of representation. Perhaps this was most obvious in the case of Hugo von Hofmannsthal, some of whose poetry I’ve previously translated here. The enfant terrible of Austrian letters suddenly discovered, after a few years of effortless brilliant poems, that he had “lost completely the ability to think or speak of anything coherently”. This much he wrote in his fictional Letter of Lord Chandos, where he talks about words failing him. It is not that he cannot write, it is that words cannot express what he wishes they could. In short, he can only write – now in prose – of his inability to write and other things. But not of what is higher.

This inability or unwillingness to express things was not just the case with Hofmannsthal. In architecture, Adolf Loos created buildings that were extremely stripped down, with a huge shift away from ornamentation. Schoenberg in music was doing something similar, as were the first non-representational, abstract painters. All of them took inspiration from Kraus, who had a strong sense of mission and morality. In his works he was constantly taking to task politicians and intellectuals for using language badly, often by simply repeating their words back to them. One of the pranks he used to play was sending in fictitious letters to newspapers, claiming to be an expert in a given field (e.g. metallurgy) and watching as they included his deliberate fantasy, without daring to challenge it.

Kraus saw a person’s language as reflecting her morality. In other words, he adopted a holistic view of a human being, where everything can and must be judged together. We can see this in an aphorism of his: “Worthy opinions are valueless; it depends on whose opinions they are.” Kraus was well aware of the emptiness – or in some sense, performativeness – of many of the words and speeches his contemporaries made out of social decorum. His ideal, meanwhile, was a kind of authenticity, where action and speech and person were united. In this he reflected a growing interest in the works of Kierkegaard, and the intellectual dominance of Schopenhauer during this time.

Just as Tolstoy discovered Schopenhauer when writing Anna Karenina, leading him to see the world as full of frustrated desires we had little control over, so too did the Viennese around the turn of the century, where the philosopher was massively in vogue. In his rejection of the external world as controlled by will, and his emphasis on internality, he appealed to intellectuals who found Vienna more fake than real. He was joined by Kierkegaard, who also re-emerged out of obscurity in an environment where authenticity appeared to people like Kraus as the overriding ethical impulse, society be damned.

This crisis of representation and being in the world was not just limited to the arts. In the sciences and philosophy, people like Hertz, Boltzmann, and Mach were also considering questions about what could or should be said and shown. Take this statement of Hertz’s: “When these painful contradictions are removed, the question as to the nature of force will not have been answered; but our minds, no longer vexed, will cease to ask illegitimate questions.” He had been discussing the idea of “force”, which seems harder to pin down the more you think about it. But the conclusion he came to was remarkably similar to the one Wittgenstein himself had to the problems of life – the solution is not the answer to the question, but the end of the questioning:

6.521 The solution to the problem of life is found in the vanishing of the problem.

               (Is this not the reason why those to whom the meaning of life became clear after prolonged doubt, could not then say in what this meaning consisted?)

The young Ludwig Wittgenstein grew up in the heart of this culture. As one of the richest families in Austria, his home was filled with artists and cultural figures – as was only proper. Many of his siblings had great artistic talents, especially musically. There were also several suicides among his brothers, and as noted above Ludwig regularly spoke of such an end for himself. He hoped to become an aeronautical engineer, first studying in Manchester before being overtaken by philosophy. This led him to Frege, and thence to Bertrand Russell. Janik and Toulmin argue that Wittgenstein turned to them because he was already vexed by questions of representation that he naturally encountered, growing up in Vienna, about what could and couldn’t be said and how to think about ethics, and thought logic might help him sort all of this out. Logic was merely a means to solve that all-important (for some) question – how should I live?

The Evidence Does Not Quite Add Up

The evidence for Janik and Toulmin’s view is, they readily acknowledge, circumstantial. Their book, far better than I could, explores the way this crisis penetrated every aspect of Viennese society, so that Wittgenstein simply could not have avoided it. At the same time, we know how the Tractatus was actually written, and the chronology seems wrong. Wittgenstein’s interest in ethics and mysticism seems, or at least the point where it becomes part of the Tractatus, to have come from his experience fighting in the first World War.

Wittgenstein was already odd – for example, he had a superstitious idea that he was soon to die. But it seems that the focus on ethics and God came a little later, when death and he became closely acquainted. “What do I know of God and the purpose of my life?” He wrote in his diary, after the beginning of a particularly brutal offensive on the Eastern Front. It was then that he wrote much of the sixth section of the Tractatus, where he discusses ethics and meaning and what cannot ultimately be spoken. With that said, Russell, meeting Wittgenstein after the war for the first time and finding him a complete “mystic”, also blames William James and Wittgenstein’s experience living and working alone in Norway just before the war.

Conclusion

Yet all this is not particularly important, either way. Wittgenstein’s Vienna cannot conclusively prove that Wittgenstein was concerned with questions about the sayable and authenticity before he met Russell and Frege, but it can certainly show that these were the questions he would not have been able to avoid as a young man surrounded by the culture of his native city. It seems obvious to me, based on my knowledge of Wittgenstein’s life and the genesis of the Tractatus, that these questions of ethics and representability certainly became important to him, probably more important than the rest of the book. And they are what is most important to me, reading the book now.

One slightly mean aside in the book which I nevertheless find myself nodding to, is the suggestion that we in the UK and US undoubtedly understood Wittgenstein very poorly. The cultural shock of this man who was concerned with ethics and life with a passion that in Britain we have rarely allowed ourselves to experience, meant that we almost certainly corralled him into appearing as a figure he was not in reality. Just as in Russia, in Vienna people were taking seriously problems that we have struggled even to see as problems. And rather than see them as problems, we prefer to dismiss them as ravings and madness. Much to our discredit as human beings and inhabitants of this world.

Having read through the book in English now, I am returning to it in the German original. I expect it will take me a long time to understand the Tractatus properly. But I am not trying to understand the logic; at least that is not my primary goal. Instead, I am trying to understand the soul the work contains, and the fire that inspired it. Still, that seems a more worthy aim than merely running around in circles calling things nonsense and tautologies, thinking I am the cleverest fellow in the room.