Rinzai Did Nothing Wrong.

  “Protagonist” is not a syndrome, but it does exist as a condition. Life is narrative; the finest ethicists, psychologists, and playwrights (MacIntyre, Jung, and Shakespeare) have agreed upon this fact. Each one of us is the protagonist of one’s own story; “All the world’s a stage”.   The functions Others serve within this story are quite secondary, as supporting roles. That’s not to say that we ought only to regard them as the means to our private ends. Each one of them must be acknowledged as the lead role in that person’s narrative, although that person’s narrative is not one’s own. Yet all these narratives comprise a larger narrative which lends an objectivity to every anecdotal subjectivity. Without this narrative, no objectivity is possible, since it is narrative which lends a meaning to existence.   Nor is this position to deny irrationality as something of a universal constant. No protagonist exists without antagonists; the Universe Itself provides an end...

“I am not the only one responsible for my well-being here. I trusted you, and you accepted the responsibility. If you had not accepted, then you wouldn’t have been capable of taking opportunities away from me. It was not my fault that I trusted you, since trust is not an evil thing, but rather yours that you betrayed that trust, since treachery is evil. So: don’t try to preach responsibility to me because I suffer. You’ve confessed that, had you acted otherwise, I would have benefited, and you can’t deny that, had I never trusted you, you never could have acted as you did. I suffered through the combination of my own goodwill and your betrayal of it. YOU are to atone, not I. You cannot separate responsibility from Justice.” [My own writing. Image unrelated.] Sadly, this is lost on narcissists who claim that we are not responsible for how we have affected Others. Yet the Truth is this: that all of us depend on Others for our own well-being, and responsibility requires the admission of t...

There will be those who would accuse me of becoming that which I've opposed, perhaps of having been that very monster from the outset of the lurid drama that's my life. They'll point to actions I have taken by comparison to those committed by these villains I have referenced as such. Yet why would I have called them "villains" if I could relate with them, when those I did relate with, even those reviled by the masses, I have listed as among my Heroes? Such a shallow point of view examines my behaviour with no context for its motives, so it must remain a point of view and nothing more, for *motive* and *intent* define the action of a character, for they define the character of any action.   They don't know my motives, not far lack of honesty upon my part, but rather lack of interest in human motivation. Yet the motives of these heroes and these villains in the realm of fiction are far less opaque, as fiction is designed to act as revelation for such motives. My...

What at first appeared to be a genial and well-intentioned dialogue between two equals proved to have concealed a darker undercurrent of manipulation, flattery, deceit, and snide dismissal. It was hard to shake the creeping feeling that my interlocutor's polite acknowledgement of every point, his thin veneer of interest and pleasant invitation to continue down a path he'd chosen for us, coupled with his passive patience when I would not go there, barely holding back the impulse to direct us down another path, was nothing but a mask of gratitude behind which lay a calculating intellect that cherry-picked those arguments of mine which it could turn in its own favour, subtly ignoring all the rest, as if a single "thanks" sufficed to clear them from the table. All of these techniques, familiar to me from years of studying debate and rhetoric, are innocent enough when they are used in the pursuit of common goods, the symptom of this venture being the attainment of, if not ...

[There are Major Spoilers for *Sword Art Online* herein. Enjoy.] No sooner had my parents taken leave for Israel than I rushed home, exhilarated to be free two weeks of their intrusion in my entertainment, yet excited also for the joy of genuine responsibility, determined to be balanced in consumption and production. These past years had set me back in my attempts to make a decent living for myself, though they'd afforded me the opportunity to meditate upon the most important matters: those of moral clarity and certainty. The life of thought may lack the passion of a Kierkegaard, yet if his writing serves to prove one thing it is that passion *is* a possibility for thought, if handled fearlessly and with abandon.   All too often, this abandon is a problem when one has to deal with snide and condescending intellectuals; I've learned from life experience to put on the veneer of cold detachment in their midst. It followed that, therefore, though I was brimming with a passion to ...