Tag Archives: philosophy

What is Truth? What is Real?

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Climate change?  Does it matter?   The storm surge from Hurricane Irma flooded my crawl space, water heater, and outside air conditioner, and I’m still cleaning up the debris.  kco091117 

Information.  Misinformation.  Disinformation.  News.  Fake News.  Opinion.  Generalization.  Prediction.   Propaganda.  Lies.  Advertising.  Gossip.  Second guesses. Stereotypes.  Assumptions.

I feel overwhelmed by the glut of demands on attention and allegiance.  What to believe?  What not to believe?   To believe everything and nothing at the same time?  To trust my own judgment or to doubt?  I long for escape, to screen it all out, to hear only the sounds of birds and wind through the trees, to see only the clouds floating by or the filigree of Spanish moss.  Nature speaks her own language, full of mystery, but without hypocrisy.

Consensual science says the climate is changing, and it’s man’s fault.  “Climate deniers,” some with the same education and backgrounds, say the whole idea is a hoax.

The public and the media seem obsessed with the president of the United States, as if he alone has the power to bring on the Apocalypse.

I look at my immediate, media-avoidant home and see the reality of today’s chores awaiting me. The frenzy that has gripped the world in fear of terrorism, Congressional bickering, North Korea, “climate change,” the latest hurricane, and what gaffe the “Orange Tweet” has committed now. . . all seem far away, surreal, and not my concern.

My “scientific inquiry” has a more practical bent.  How to repair the broken handle on my favorite plastic thermal mug, so that it will hold.  Scientific experiment number one only worked a few days.  Scientific experiment number two added rubber bands to hold the handle while epoxy dried.

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The word “science” comes from the Latin, “sciere,” “to know,”  but I contend knowledge is forever evolving and changing, based on new data, new perspectives. Lately, I’ve had to accept that much of what I thought I knew no longer applies.  Not only that, I’ve found those who speak with the most authority often believe they know more than they do.  Are they lying?  Not if they believe they know.  Who knows?

They say “knowledge is power.”  I’ve found knowledge also brings the responsibility for decisions about what to do with it.  Each action or non-action leads to unforeseen probabilities.  We can never know the paths not taken.

Lately, I’ve had to question everything I’ve been taught, especially within the field of medicine, but also regarding history and politics.  While they may seem to be different areas of concern, they have merged as two inextricably linked paradigms regarding the human body and mind, as they relate to the greater social family of humanity.

I feel a greater need to understand than to know.  To understand is eventually to love, according to one of my favorite philosophers.  To believe I “know” is an exercise in hubris, maybe, and this is where official “science” and I part ways.  How do you know you know?

Maybe I’m psychic.  Maybe I’m psychotic.  Maybe there’s no difference, from an internal perspective.  I’ve always relied on what I call a “vibrational perception” that tries to attune to “energy fields” of emotion:  the frenetic human angst in the city, the mood of a room, the quality of the sounds in the atmosphere, the body language of someone I’ve unwittingly offended.  I feel things I can’t verify.  I dream of things—usually minor things—before they happen.  I believe I live many lives, not in a sequential way, but in a group of parallel lives in a “spacious present” where “bleed throughs” regularly occur.  I believe time is an illusion, so we are all essentially immortal, thrust together in multiple contexts until we figure out how to get along.  I believe ghosts talk to me, although I’ve never seen one.  I feel them in my “vibe space.”  They like to mess with me.

I can’t “prove” any of this, nor do I care to try. Maybe it’s imagination, but imagination gives things their own validity. I still have a physical body in the physical world we breathing human beings agree exists, the “reality” that depends on physical senses for information.

I contend there is no objective reality, that we are all subjective, with unique perspectives, experiences, orientations.  I believe life is universal and provides the energy of the cosmos.  Some people call it god.  Some call it “qi.”  Some may not think of it at all.

I read today that many people feel a strong need to be “right.”  They screen out conflicting evidence and dig their heels into defending ossified conclusions.  That was my father’s way.  He was a proud “rational scientist,” scornful of the “emotional irrationality” of women, generally, and my mother, specifically.  To be wrong around him was a character flaw, never to be lived down, so it became an exercise in pride never to admit error.  Ghosts don’t exist, he claimed, until he became one, witnessed by a friend of science, after he died.

So who really knows?  Maybe we’re in the throes of a massive paradigm shift, in which the desire to understand begins to surpass the futile attempt to know.  I don’t believe the future is fixed or predictable.  There are many probable futures, I hope, but the present is a good place to start.

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It’s About Time: Bud, Beon, and the Bots

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Sunday, July 2, 2017—This is a scene from my novel, a decades-old perpetual work in progress.  Superficially sci-fi, it is based on a philosophy that life is immortal, everything has consciousness, and everything runs its course then evolves into something else.  Time and space are illusions within a “spacious present.”  Death is like a phase change–like water converting to steam–while retaining the essential qualities of water.  From this perspective, there is no end point, and the process is the goal.

The purpose of the novel is to make you smile.  Let me know if you want more.

CHAPTER 4

CAUSE AND EFFECT

The sun, shining through dingy, crocheted curtains, cast a mosaic of light and shadow across the worn rug. By the angle of the light and content of the shadows, Joe knew it was at least 11 AM.

His head throbbed with an intensity of 200 on a one-to-ten scale.  The light hurt his eyes, but he didn’t have the courage to move.  He remained curled stiff, eyes clenched shut, until his bladder forced him to attempt the impossible and get out of bed.

He moaned, then winced.  He eased to a slouching position at the edge of the bed, resting his aching forehead between tender hands.  Slowly, ever so slowly, he stood and staggered to the bathroom, carefully shielding his eyes from the light.  He downed two aspirin and then a third, to abort the stroke he must be having.  It was at least a stroke. Maybe an aneurysm had burst.  He stared into the mirror.  Images of his certain, agonizing, and imminent death spread like acrid black goo across his quivering brain.

“I’m dying,” he told his haggard face. It stared back at him—coldly critical, his appearance substandard today, even for him.  He and his reflection eyed each other.  He noted the dark eye sockets, red eyes, fuzzy vision, chin stubble, wrinkles, and greasy hair.  He didn’t smell too good, either.  Let the embalmer handle it, he decided.  That’s what he’s paid for.

He trod a wobbly path through the living room to the kitchen, where the percolator was full of yesterday’s grounds.  His stomach wasn’t feeling much like coffee, but his head told him he was in caffeine withdrawal.  He cursed Marian for getting him so drunk that he forgot to prepare the coffee pot.  He imagined her boiling in a vat of coffee, begging for mercy.

Suddenly, Beon’s face loomed across Joe’s inner screens.  The balding, round visage grinned like the Buddha, his eyes innocuous, his portent ominous.  Joe’s head pounded harder, and his knees felt weak.  An image of lab rats, pinned to boards and randomly shocked, blotted out Beon’s face.  Then, the lab rats became little Joes, with Beon delivering the shocks.

Joe listed the objective, measurable reasons for his agony.  Unendurable pain. Undetectable caffeine levels. Betrayal by his only friend.  Violation of sacred coffee ritual, and death without absolution.  Beon.  He threw fresh coffee in the pot, spilling half the grounds on the counter, creating yet another reason to feel miserable.

Percolator finally started, Joe turned to face new trouble.  He opened the freezer and scowled at empty ice trays.  The little Joes in his head jumped and slumped.

He dragged his failing carcass to the couch. He imagined the pain in his head could power a small city, if he could figure out how to harness the energy.  Not today, though.  And tomorrow wasn’t looking too good, either.

Beon’s face returned, and with it, thoughts of the healing machine.  Joe wondered if it could cure his headache.  “Yes,” said Beon’s image.

“Who asked you?”  Joe demanded, not realizing he spoke out loud.

“You did.”  Joe decided he was going crazy, too.  “DALE,” said the face.  “Diet-Associated Life Enhancer.”

Joe covered his ears, but it did no good.  Beon’s image swelled in his head, and dream pictures bombarded his brain, rocking his scientific foundations.  The throbbing and pounding got louder, clanging against his skull.  Joe closed his eyes and waited to die.  Through it all, Beon’s face smirked, as if he enjoyed Joe’s suffering.

But death defied him, and Beon continued to grin.  Joe glanced around the room.  A single picture, hung askew, showed a listing clipper ship, an artifact left by the previous tenant.  George White left a few pieces of tired furniture, too, good enough for Joe.  His mailbox in the foyer downstairs still bore White’s name.  When neighbors called him “George,” Joe didn’t bother to correct them.  It was as good a name as “Joe.”

Now Joe wondered for the first time what happened to George White.  His couch may not look great, but it had personality.  It was warm, comfortable, inviting.  It was friendly.  It was taking care of him, helping him feel better, as a friend would do.

“I have tangible evidence that you existed,” he told the former tenant, “even if we’ve never met.  I still get your mail.  Beon is only imaginary, but he’s torturing me, and I can’t get away from him.”

Joe’s eyes began to blur.  His stomach felt queasy.  Vague terrors swept over him, and sweat poured from his upper body.  He wiped his face with a dirty napkin and dropped it on the floor.  “This is only a hangover.  It clouds my perspective, makes me think crazy thoughts.  It was only a dream.  A machine like that is impossible, and Beon doesn’t exist.”

What is Intelligence?

From my journal, seven years ago this month.  Some things don’t change (much).

Tuesday, March 2, 2010—I ran into M and his wife, K, at B&N yesterday, and we got to talking.  M talked a lot about intelligence, and I realized he is insecure about his, because he doesn’t (or didn’t) have a college degree.  He married his first wife because she did and quickly found degrees don’t assure intelligence or curiosity.

We speculated together, and I continued later to wonder what constitutes intelligence.  Others place too much emphasis on standardized tests, I believe, yet these represent the conventional guidelines.  College or advanced degrees constitute another measure.  If you go to a brand name school, all the better.

These don’t guarantee intelligence, though, as M. learned.  By others’ standards, I am intelligent, well educated, and do well enough on standardized tests, but I was not smart enough to reach people like my father.

M said engineers are linear thinkers.  His brother is an engineer and a perfect example.  Another term is “narrow-minded.”  Some people have claimed vocabulary determines intelligence.

Seth, in The Individual and the Nature of Mass Events, claims fundamentalism has arisen in reaction to Darwinism, which presumes a random, chaotic, uncaring universe without rules.  But science, as we understand it, binds itself with the most rigid rules and produces people like my father, who deny the existence of anything outside the framework.

I believe intelligence is an attitude rather than a concrete quality.  Intelligence and curiosity may be synonymous, because curiosity gives flexibility, open-mindedness, inventiveness, and common sense.

We don’t measure common sense on IQ tests, but this may determine basic intelligence more than any other parameter.  Common sense finds food when hungry, shelter when cold or wet, safety when threatened.  This is survival of the fittest in action, and this is why the relatively hairless beast called man can survive in freezing weather.  It has little to do with beating other hairless beasts over the head with a club to steal their women and food.

In fact, the fittest and most likely to survive are those who can cooperate in groups, as the pack animals can join together to bring down their prey.

Intelligence is a relative term.   M claims marriage compatibility is based on intelligence, and that he and K are closely matched.

My parents were closely matched in intelligence, I believe, but no one appreciated my mother’s smarts because she didn’t have the degrees to prove it.  Yet she had an active mind, lots of common sense, and managed to keep my father’s interest all their married life.

My father, who made gods of science and intelligence, was one of the most narrow-minded people around.  He couldn’t converse on any topic other than those that interested him, or where he excelled, and these were few indeed.  He had little interest or curiosity about anything outside that box.

If you presume others are stupid, you will miss evidence that conflicts with your belief.  The “scientific method,” the presumption of cause and effect, must exclude more than it includes to have any validity at all, and then you are only proving the limitations of your experiment.  The germ theory of disease, for instance.

 

Following Formalin

 

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Introduction:  I wrote the following speculative fantasy in February, 2010, before I researched formalin on Wikipedia last week.  “Formalin,” I learned, is an aqueous form of formaldehyde, the simplest aldehyde in chemistry.  Formalin contains 40% formaldehyde, 10-12% stabilizer, usually methanol, and the rest water.  90% of formaldehyde occurs naturally, through decaying organic matter.  It does not build up in the environment because it is quickly broken down by sun and bacteria.

Formaldehyde is a known human carcinogen, but used extensively in industry.  Major products are composite wood products, like laminates, particle board, hard plywoods, and fiberboard.  Its use in embalming is well known.  It is also used as a pesticide in animal foods, and as a disinfectant.

The primary effects of formaldehyde toxicity are respiratory, with burning eyes and nose.  It can worsen asthma.  Long-term exposure is linked to leukemia.

The formaldehyde toxicity associated with FEMA-provided trailers in 2005, after Hurricane Katrina, was possibly caused by the high concentration of new particleboard in poorly ventilated trailers.

Industrialization has raised the amount and diversity of environmental toxins to immeasurable proportions.  From the particle board in kitchen cabinets to the PVC in water pipes, we are living in increasingly toxic conditions that we only worsen with our wasteful, consumerist culture.

While others worry about “climate change,” I’m more concerned with the growing generalized effects of environmental toxins, not only on humans but on all life.  Flint, Michigan is unlikely to be the only city in the US with poisonous water.  Industrialization has led to contamination of water everywhere, differing only in degree.  Even bottled water—and maybe especially bottled water—leaches hormone-altering plastic into the water.  Single-use packaging is particularly hard to justify.

“STRANDS OF CONSCIOUSNESS” FOLLOW FORMALIN

            February, 2010–Seth in Jane Roberts’ Seth series talks about “strands of consciousness” reaching out and entering others, but they are no more invasive than the leaves on a tree and depend on each other for survival—their very existence.   Every atom and molecule participates in a dynamic that can take it from rock to human to animal to insect to marsh grass, to every corner of the earth and dimensions unimaginable.  The atoms and molecules have a kind of memory of their histories, traces, and essences, that contribute to the greater understanding of the whole.

Man is not diminished but expanded by that, because he feels less alone and more connected to the larger dynamic.  We have created god in the human image, without recognizing god is as impersonal as a housefly, as placid as a mountain, as enduring as the galaxies, as strong and gentle as a spider’s web.

A dust particle in the air attests to god’s expansive creativity, and the dust will respond to the sun’s rays in its own way, as will the air molecules that hold it aloft.  All are expressions of the infinite creativity of god –All That Is, in Seth’s terms—the multi-sexual expression of pure energy.  The human division between life and death is arbitrary.  A “dead” human is teeming with other life forms, bacteria and the like, so it is only dead from a human perspective.  The other life that feed on it and helped it survive—as normal flora does—lives on and may not even notice the human identity’s passing.  Until the formaldehyde hits, that is.  Then all bets are off.

“But hey,” says the Cosmic Improv Group, that army of nags inside my imagination, which has lots of strands of consciousness invested in keeping me alive awhile, “Formaldehyde has feelings, too.”

“You betcha,” I reply.  “Not to demean formaldehyde, but I’d rather not party with it, if it’s all the same to you.  Let it play its role with other people.

“Formalin, actually,” say the medical experts.  Formaldehyde has carcinogens and toxins that are believed to be carcinogenic, as I recall, but don’t trust memory on this.  Formalin is supposed to be better on living bodies for preserving dead ones.

Go figure.  All this so the body won’t stink while people gawk over the plastic model of the deceased soul.  Be careful not to shed your tears on the make-up.

But the formalin goes into the ground, and into the sewer systems with the mortuary’s waste, and with the body’s interment.  People dry their tears and start fighting over the estate, and life moves on.

The formalin continues in new forms underground, freed from human bondage, and off to have new adventures.  Because it has the authorities’ seal of safety—was that the FDA, DEA, Cancer Society, Dow Chemicals, Pfizer?  Who decided formalin is less toxic than formaldehyde?  It is allowed free rein in the environment and can join its fellow non-toxins in joyful salute to the demise of mankind.

Now, that was not my strand of consciousness, certainly.  Why would I go off on a tangent about formalin?  Well, I was trying to understand formalin’s point of view, actually, to send a strand of consciousness to the probable life of a formalin molecule, and to enter its world.

Was that invasion?  No.  It was an appreciation for the greater unity that created my consciousness, the tools to make it conscious, and the formalin molecule, too.  I guarantee no formalin molecule is equipped to write about its own life, so who will do it if I don’t?

My experience is minimal, so my imagination limited.  The few anatomy cadaver dissections I participated in in medical school.  A month of a pathology elective, in my senior year, where I spent most of the time studying sliced placentas.

But hey, I’ve probably inhaled more formalin than most people, so its molecules have entered my body and communicated in the way only formalin can.  We just don’t know all the ways it can communicate with us.

 

 

 

The Art of Conversation

 

brainboocwern022017           In 2010, I was a member of a local Toastmasters’ club.  Toastmasters International is a group that emphasizes leadership through developing speech-making skills.  The format is highly structured but inclusive enough to allow for short speeches on a variety of topics.  When my work schedule changed, I left the club but remember it fondly and have considered returning.  This journal entry made seven years ago was inspired by a Toastmasters meeting:

 

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Tuesday, February 9, 2010–A Toastmasters member read a blurb last night about being a good listener.  It presumed interrupting means you aren’t listening.  I disagree.  I frequently interrupt to clarify a point, to carry thoughts further, or to convert a monologue into a conversation.  I listen with the intent to understand.  It takes “listening” a step further, into the range of “hearing” the context.

If someone is misinformed, under-informed, or if they are over my head, boring, or otherwise wasting my time and theirs, I believe as a good listener, I have an obligation to set the communication on track.

Few people appreciate the give and take of conversation.  If you finish sentences for someone, does that make you a bad listener?  Maybe you’ve listened to that sentence so many times, you know it by heart.

A reader, by definition, is a listener, even though the listening is through eyes rather than ears.  Anyone who watches TV is a listener, of sorts.  Anyone who watches a movie, ditto.  In the latter, the media provide the visual imagery that readers supply for themselves through imagination.

Since that time I’ve thought more about listening and its role in conversation. Our society seems built on passive listening.  By “passive listening,” I refer to structured learning environments, such as classrooms and lecture halls.  Churches follow a similar format, with attendees listening to sermons.  Expression, such as singing or hymns or recitation of creeds, is by rote.  Passive listening extends to radio, television, and movies.  Cultural events, such as plays or concerts, depend on audiences that listen quietly to the performances. The internet has advanced communication by allowing for interactive exchanges through e-mail, FaceBook, Twitter, or blogging.

Pondering this led me to reflect on how the human brain is wired with respect to language.  Most people, about 96 percent, have language ability concentrated in the left hemisphere. Here, the brain processes receptive language (listening) in a specific area called Wernicke’s area.  Patients with Wernicke’s area strokes can speak fluently but do not understand what is being said, by themselves or others.

Broca’s area controls expressive language, or speaking.  People with Broca’s area strokes  can generally understand what is being said, but they have trouble formulating and verbalizing their own thoughts.  This is not a problem of motor function.  The muscles of speech, like in lips and tongue, are not affected by the stroke.  Strangely, those with Broca’s aphasia (speech difficulty) can often sing, presumably because musical expression is located in the right hemisphere.

Writers and speakers make careers out of developing expressive language skills.  They know the challenge of finding the right words to verbalize thoughts.  They must arrange sentences and paragraphs coherently, and anticipate how others might perceive the words in that context.  But writers and lecturers are not necessarily good listeners or good conversationalists.

Toastmasters is one group that offers opportunities to develop expressive language skills.  At another level, improvisational comedy is potentially a way to develop the art of conversation.  Improv’s primary rule is to move the action forward.  A stated or implied “no” creates an impediment to this flow.  In contrast, arguing is an example of how “no” blocks communication.  A good conversationalist wants to hear the other’s point of view.

This led me to speculate about other opportunities in our society to develop conversational skills, a give-and-take in which all participating parties emerge invigorated and refreshed.  How many people listen only to refute, rather than build on thoughts and take them further?  How many agree in an argumentative tone of voice, such that they sound like they are disagreeing?

The art of conversation relies on equal participation from both receptive and expressive sides of the brain, the yin and yang of communication.  Because the two speech areas of the brain are physically separated, I wonder if making a conscious effort to develop conversational dexterity will help connect the two modes of communication—listening and speaking—to benefit all brains equally.

Any thoughts on this?

 

 

Ode to the Trees

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February 13, 2017

Writers must write, they say, and a journal can be a writer’s best friend.  I’ve kept a journal most of my life.   Lately, I’ve been re-reading old journal entries.  The following “Ode to the Trees” was written seven years ago this month.

Friday, February 5, 2010—After a long drought, it’s finally raining.  The winds of change are blowing.  The rain symbolizes the tears of sadness shed by humanity for our misbegotten past.  Oh, woe is us.

But look, we are still alive, breathing through it all, taking heart from the invigorating negative ions misting the air.  They spread an aura of dust settling, after a long dry spell.

This is Earth renewing herself, in gentle, friendly spirit, as the trees wave hello. “We believed in you, and we salute your awakening.

“You have not killed us all, as we exhale enough oxygen to keep you alive.  Who emits the most carbon dioxide anyway, you or us?

“We are the trees.  We thrive on your exhalations.  We breathe in what you breathe out, and vice versa.  We are yin to yang and yang to yin in karmic symphony.

“We are strong but gentle, and we stand our ground, waving in the air, celebrating this triumph we call life on Earth.

“We are the giants, the gentle giants who comfort and shelter without leaning on you.

“We stand tall and proud because we reach for the sky, while sinking our roots deep into the earth that supplies the minerals, water, and all the molecules necessary to nurture us where we stand.  We reach for the sun, trees that we are, thriving in the light and heat of the greatest nuclear power plant in the solar system.

“We require nothing from you, have survived many generations of man and will survive more.  We watch cultures come and go, structures rise and fall, wars and fires sweeping the land.   We have survived floods and hurricanes and thrive on them, to keep life interesting as it comes to us.

“We have seen plagues, pestilence, and famine, and we have compassion for you.

“We offer you shade under our branches, shelter from the wind, rest for your aching back.  We offer wood for your houses and stoves, paper for your mills, and decorations for your Christmas.

“Love us as we love you,” say the trees, “and we will all breathe easier.

“We think you are cute, the way you run around, thinking you are smart because you can cut us down, grind us up, burn us and convert us to junk mail.  We’re okay with it, because we are strong and durable.  We’ve left many seeds, and we can reproduce ourselves.  Our seeds can wait hundreds or thousands of years, hidden in nooks, crannies, dusty and out-of- the-way places that even squirrels can’t reach.

“So trees know small, in our genetic memory banks, as do we all.  A lowly seed has the potential of the tree built within it, needing only the proper time and environment to thrive.

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Travels with Steinbeck

bksstein010417I read John Steinbeck’s In Dubious Battle this week.  This 1936 novel about labor organizers among apple pickers is believed to be the prelude to Steinbeck’s 1940 Pulitzer Prize winning The Grapes of Wrath.

In Dubious Battle is one of several Steinbeck books that my mother collected before her marriage.  Mama was a would-be novelist who never wrote.  I never even saw her read a novel, but her collection of 1930s, 1940s, and 1950s books showed she read fiction in her younger days.

My mother, who was a self-described “lunatic fringe, radical right-wing extremist,” was a member at one point of the John Birch Society.  She was–like many of her Depression-spawned generation–terrified of Communism.  John Steinbeck, who was an admitted Communist sympathizer, was suspect because of it.

In Dubious Battle opens with a man, John Nolan, moving out of his paid-for, rented room a week early, telling his landlady he is taking a new job and doesn’t know where it will lead him.  He ends up joining with Mac, a Party (although Communism is never specifically claimed) organizer, to incite apple pickers to strike for promised wages.  Before they traveled, the migrant pickers had been promised double what the growers were now willing to pay.

The novel proceeds to describe the organization Mac directed to help the strikers win promised wages.  The growers are heavily organized and have the sheriff and vigilantes on their side. Mac believes the strikers will have to fight to achieve their ends, but the men are afraid of the bosses and reluctant to challenge the opposing side’s guns.

Steinbeck, as usual, tells a gripping story in short, easy-to-read sentences.  His characters are streamlined but pack a powerful punch.  The denouement is chilling but typical of Steinbeck’s style.

I read thinking how little we’ve changed since then.  Today’s resentment toward immigrants is much like yesterday’s prejudice against migrant workers.  Sympathy ran with the perpetrators of injustice, who could buy, con, bribe, threaten, or force their way. Sigmund Freud called it “identification with the aggressor,” those who become what they hate in order to win. It struck me as irrational that the owners would prefer to throw apples away to increase prices than to pay their pickers a living wage, so they could afford to buy the apples they picked.

In Dubious Battle reminds me of Studs Terkel’s nonfiction work about the Depression, Hard Times.  Terkel mentioned, too, that the corporations were pouring milk into sewers and slaughtering piglets to increase prices, while babies were starving and dying of rickets.

Steinbeck’s purpose, through the organizer Mac, was to teach the strikers to work together.  He did it through the Party, but the cooperative idea transcends politics.  To organize for a common cause makes sense, but in In Dubious Battle, we see the owners had a stronger common cause than the workers.  That they aligned along the lines of injustice and immorality pave the way for movements like Communism, which promises to right the wrong but fails through its methods of force and deceit.