Cillian Murphy  (actor who played Oppenheimer in 2023 movie) 

                                                   (credit: Wikimedia Commons) 

                                                     Robert Oppenheimer (1947) 

                                                (credit: Wikimedia Commons) 

Oppenheimer

A young guy near me smelled of marijuana. But he watched. Focused. Along with two hundred or so other young people. He just kept going for snacks.

Christopher Nolan put care into this film. David Lean-kind of care. Care with visual detail, shot after shot. Resonant themes – both private and political. An ensemble cast, given room to deliver fine performances (Robert Downey’s slimy villain, especially). Scene after scene edited with skill. The movie cooked.

On the other hand, as I was buying tickets, I saw on a computer screen near me that Barbie – in the next theater – was sold out. Ah, well. Not my cup of complacency.

And me? I came out at 9:15, intensely ambivalent. Impressed and angry, both at once. Burning. God damn the postmodernist cynicism of this era!

Our human situation is not anything like as hopelessly, inexorably doomed as Oppenheimer, the movie, is saying. Yes, saying. Saying as bluntly as it possibly could be saying. Witness the main character’s final lines.     

(Flashback to early social meeting between Oppenheimer and Einstein.)

Oppy: … with our calculations, we believed we might start a chain reaction that might destroy the entire world.

Einstein: What of it?

Oppy (grimly fatalistic): I believe we did.

(Cut to high earth orbit shot, nulear-tipped ICBMs streaking toward targets, mushroom clouds blooming all over the earth. Fade to credits.)

Damnation, Nolan, don’t do that! These kids trust you! Don’t do that!

Why? He’s filling the world’s future with a cynicism worse than despair. I say again, our situation is nowhere near that hopeless. Yes, we are facing some dire threats, but we are not blind and helpless.

Moral realism is telling us there are things that we can do. To prevent nuclear Armageddon? Yes. Hard. Not impossible. Might we, in our efforts, even make matters worse? We might be risking that. But Moral Realism is telling us that the odds – which are all we really have in any matter, and all we have ever really had – the odds can be altered. Toward what? Obviously, toward our coming through this dangerous time. Toward out-guessing and out-maneuvering Armageddon.

We can do real, substantive things to alter those odds in favor of our surviving.

The biggest of these is to build school systems that exhort the kids coming up to keep learning to get along. Live and let live. Put that goal at the very top of your list of priorities. Every day, every way, work to make pluralism grow. Every bit helps.

Be firm and explicit about your belief in not human perfectibility, but human improvability. Actively spread belief in a picture of a pluralistic global society.

Learn and practice mediation skills. In your community and in the world.

Work to build a more and more complex, balanced social ecosystem. Why? Because we know now how a vigorous society is composed. It gets stronger the more it fosters many kinds of people, in many widely varied roles, interacting, cooperating, and competing, in ways that fit inside the bounds of the rule of law.

And tell the cynics to stfu. They’re hypocrites. If they truly believed the doom-sayer nonsense, they wouldn’t be here. They’d have offed themselves long ago.  

Oppenheimer did not know that increasing social diversity makes us strong. We do. He was a physicist, not a social scientist. He did not live to see how much data we would gather, from recent, ancient, and pre-historic times. This data no longer looks random or opaque. Patterns are beginning to emerge. Pluralism really works.

What he did not know is that as quantum theory means there are no hard, fast rules for predicting what is going to come next, it also means that there are probabilities for every one of those possible futures. And culture-driven, knowledge-accumulating animals like us learn, sometimes over generations, to recognize patterns as they are emerging. Then, we often can intervene, make provisions for or against them as fits our survival needs. By observing, thinking, planning, and acting, we can improve the odds for the scenarios in which we survive and thrive, and reduce the odds for the ones in which we do not.

We are, to a high degree, free. Not caught in the grip of inexorable forces.

In short, quantum theory’s upside is that we can now see that having more different kinds of people in our tribe makes us stronger: pluralism enhances our odds. It makes us nimbler. Resourceful. The evidence supports democratic pluralism. Being respectful toward others, in everyday ways, is not “nice”; it’s smart business.  

In the face of the terrifying evidence of how warlike we have been in the past and of what nuclear weapons could potentially do, many cynics put the two together and say our plans and efforts are doomed to be feeble, and ineffectual.

I say again: “Stop this pretentious, pseudo-cerebral, pseudo-sophisticated manure. You’re flat out wrong.”

To sum up, then: I believe in, and reiterate, this thesis for three grounded reasons.

In the first place, we’ve changed before. In fact, every worthwhile social change moving us away from barbarism – for example, away from rape as normal practice (in pre-history), gladiator games (ancient times), trial by combat (more recent times), and slavery (even more recent times) – began in the same way. Chosen, volitional programming for change. Mead’s words guide us here: “Never doubt that a small group of thoughtful, committed people can change the world …it’s the only thing that ever has.”

In the second place, we know more about ourselves now. About our ideas of moral truth and even of physical reality. About what we think right and wrong are, and even about the physical details that we notice or miss. These are profoundly shaped by our upbringings, i.e., cultures. We know this and can show it. But with the roots of human thinking better identified, we have gained power to prune and graft the plant that grows from those roots. Yes, sometimes over generations. But the fact is that we have more understanding of us than any persons in Oppenheimer’s era did.

And finally, I argue, what is our alternative? Levels of consumerism, hedonism, isolation, depression, and substance abuse increasing relentlessly? Every one of those ways of life is as retrograde as it could possibly be.

No. Emphatically, no. We aren’t helpless, blind, and doomed.  

Love the kids. Support them. Do not abandon them. Teach, teach, teach them better. Exhort them not to despair, not to give in to negativity or vacuousness.

Children of the world, let’s build a better future. We can do this.

I can’t say I hate Christopher Nolan and his ilk, the disciples of gloom, ennui, and weltschmerz. But I do believe it is accurate to say that they know not what they do. And do without reasoning, evidence, or justification.

Would that Nolan had put his skills to making a life story of Mandela or King. Staunton. Nightingale. But discussing these is a post for another day.

Go and see Oppenheimer. Just don’t let it get you down. It’s not evil, just wrong. 

                                                  Nuclear bomb detonating 

              (credit: United States Department of Energy, via Wikimedia Commons)   

                                                                         Majestic Oporto cafe      

                                              (credit: DavidJGB, via Wikimedia Commons)

A Clean, Well-Lighted Place                             (1933)      Ernest Hemingway

It was very late and everyone had left the café except an old man who sat in the shadow the leaves of the tree made against the electric light. In the daytime the street was dusty, but at night the dew settled the dust and the old man liked to sit late because he was deaf and now at night it was quiet and he felt the difference. The two waiters inside the café knew that the old man was a little drunk, and while he was a good client they knew that if he became too drunk he would leave without paying, so they kept watch on him.

"Last week he tried to commit suicide," one waiter said.

"Why?"

"He was in despair."

"What about?"

"Nothing."

"How do you know it was nothing?"

"He has plenty of money."

They sat together at a table that was close against the wall near the door of the café and looked at the terrace where the tables were all empty except where the old man sat in the shadow of the leaves of the tree that moved slightly in the wind. A girl and a soldier went by in the street. The streetlight shone on the brass number on his collar. The girl wore no head covering and hurried beside him.

"The guard will pick him up," one waiter said.

"What does it matter if he gets what he's after?"

"He had better get off the street now. The guard will get him. They went by five minutes ago."

The old man sitting in the shadow rapped on his saucer with his glass. The younger waiter went over to him.

"What do you want?"

The old man looked at him. "Another brandy," he said.

"You'll be drunk," the waiter said. The old man looked at him. The waiter went away. "He'll stay all night," he said to his colleague. "I'm sleepy now. I never get into bed before three o'clock. He should have killed himself last week."

The waiter took the brandy bottle and another saucer from the counter inside the café and marched out to the old man's table. He put down the saucer and poured the glass full of brandy. "You should have killed yourself last week," he said to the deaf man.

The old man motioned with his finger. "A little more," he said.

The waiter poured on into the glass so that the brandy slopped over and ran down the stem into the top saucer of the pile.

"Thank you," the old man said.

The waiter took the bottle back inside the café. He sat down at the table with his colleague again. "He's drunk now," he said.

"He's drunk every night."

"What did he want to kill himself for?"

"How should I know."

"How did he do it?"

"He hung himself with a rope."

"Who cut him down?"

"His niece."

"Why did they do it?"

"Fear for his soul."  

"How much money has he got?"

"He's got plenty."

"He must be eighty years old."

"Anyway. I should say he was eighty."

"I wish he would go home. I never get to bed before three o'clock. What kind of hour is that to go to bed?"

"He stays up because he likes it."

"He's lonely. I'm not lonely. I have a wife waiting in bed for me."

"He had a wife once too."

"A wife would be no good to him now."

"You can't tell. He might be better with a wife."

"His niece looks after him. You said she cut him down."

"I know."

"I wouldn't want to be that old. An old man is a nasty thing."

"Not always. This old man is clean. He drinks without spilling. Even now, drunk. Look at him."

"I don't want to look at him. I wish he would go home. He has no regard for those who must work."

The old man looked from his glass across the square, then over at the waiters.

"Another brandy," he said, pointing to his glass. The waiter who was in a hurry came over.

"Finished," he said, speaking with that omission of syntax stupid people employ when talking to drunken people or foreigners. "No more tonight. Close now."

"Another," said the old man.

"No. Finished."

The waiter wiped the edge of the table with a towel and shook his head. The old man stood up, slowly counted the saucers, took a leather coin purse from his pocket and paid for the drinks, leaving half a peseta tip. The waiter watched him go down the street, a very old man walking unsteadily but with dignity.

"Why didn't you let him stay and drink?" the unhurried waiter asked. They were putting up the shutters. "It is not half-past two."

"I want to go home to bed."

"What is an hour?"

"More to me than to him."

"An hour is the same."

"You talk like an old man yourself. He can buy a bottle and drink at home."

"It's not the same."

"No, it is not," agreed the waiter with a wife. He did not wish to be unjust. He was only in a hurry.

"And you? You have no fear of going home before your usual hour?"

"Are you trying to insult me?"

"No, hombre, only to make a joke."

"No," the waiter who was in a hurry said, rising from pulling down the metal shutters. "I have confidence. I am all confidence."

"You have youth, confidence, and a job," the older waiter said. "You have everything."

"And what do you lack?"

"Everything but work."

"You have everything I have."

"No. I have never had confidence and I am not young."

"Come on. Stop talking nonsense and lock up."

"I am of those who like to stay late at the café," the older waiter said. "With all those who do not want to go to bed. With all those who need a light for the night."

"I want to go home and into bed."

"We are of two different kinds," the older waiter said. He was now dressed to go home. "It is not only a question of youth and confidence although those things are very beautiful. Each night I am reluctant to close up because there may be someone who needs the café."

"Hombre, there are bodegas open all night long."

"You do not understand. This is a clean and pleasant café. It is well lighted. The light is very good and also, now, there are shadows of the leaves."

"Good night," said the younger waiter.

"Good night," the other said. Turning off the electric light, he continued the conversation with himself. It was the light, of course, but it is necessary that the place be clean and pleasant. You do not want music. Certainly, you do not want music. Nor can you stand before a bar with dignity although that is all that is provided for these hours. What did he fear? It was not a fear or dread. It was a nothing that he knew too well. It was all a nothing and a man was a nothing too. It was only that, and light was all it needed and a certain cleanness and order. Some lived in it and never felt it, but he knew it all was nada y pues nada y nada y pues nada. Our nada who art in nada, nada be thy name thy kingdom nada thy will be nada in nada as it is in nada. Give us this nada our daily nada and nada us our nada as we nada our nadas and nada us not into nada but deliver us from nada; pues nada. Hail nothing full of nothing, nothing is with thee. He smiled and stood before a bar with a shining steam pressure coffee machine.

"What's yours?" asked the barman.

"Nada."

"Otro loco mas," said the barman and turned away.

"A little cup," said the waiter. The barman poured it for him. "The light is very bright and pleasant but the bar is unpolished," the waiter said. The barman looked at him but did not answer. It was too late at night for conversation.

"You want another copita?" the barman asked.

"No, thank you," said the waiter and went out. He disliked bars and bodegas. A clean, well-lighted café was a very different thing. Now, without thinking further, he would go home to his room. He would lie in the bed and finally, with daylight, he would go to sleep. After all, he said to himself, it's probably only insomnia. Many must have it.

Questions

1. In your own words, describe the setting of this story? (place, time of day) How does this setting affect the mood of readers as they read the story? (compared to, for example, a day by the sea or a morning in the mountains)

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2. In what point of view is this story told? What clues in the story tell you so?

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3. How many customers are left in the café at this hour? Why? (most likely)

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4. What happened to the old man a week earlier? Who saved him? Why?  

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5. How does the young waiter feel toward the old man? Why? (Explain.)

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6. At one point in the story, a soldier in uniform walks by the cafe. Why is he (probably) out so late? Why does the older waiter think the soldier should get off the street as soon as possible? (Explain.)

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7. At one point in the story, the young waiter says: “Are you trying to insult me?” Why does he say that? (Explain.) What does the older waiter say to smooth over the young waiter’s ruffled feelings? 

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8. Of the two waiters, which one feels more sympathetic toward the old man? Probably, why is this so? (Explain fully.)

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9. Which countries in the world likely contain stories similar to this old man’s story? (Explain.) 

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                                                    Food and beverage server 

                                                 (credit: Wikimedia Commons)

persimmons        (credit: Joe Ravi, via Wikimedia Commons) 

Nice, wild persimmons             (Kobayashi Issa)                 Questions

澁いとこ
母が喰ひけり
山の柿

 

Nice, wild persimmons

And notice how the mother

Eats the bitter parts

 

1. What two persons are in the picture portrayed by this poem? What evidence in the poem tells you so? How old are they, probably? (Explain.)

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2. Which of these two persons gets to eat the sweet parts of the persimmons? Why? (Explain fully.)

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 3. Which of the persons in this poem eats the bitter parts of the persimmons? Why? (Explain fully.)

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4. What nations in the world probably have a scene like the scene in this poem occur regularly? Why do you think so? (Explain your reasons fully.)

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5. What traditional poetic form is this poem an example of? How closely does it fit the traditional form?

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                                              Mother and Child 3                  

                  (credit: Marie-Sophie Mejan, via Wikimedia Commons)