Lost Marginalia

I can’t help but see the character Goodwin as another Enlightenment reference. This time it’s the political philosopher and novelist, William Godwin, father of intellectual anarchism and influence upon Romantic poets and writers. In his “An Enquiry Concerning Political Justice” (1793), Godwin makes the case for government as a corrupting influence and proposes a utopian model based on the perfectability of man. As the Stanford Encyclopedia of Philosophy summarizes: “Epitomising the optimism of events in France at the time he began writing, Godwin looked forward to a period in which the dominance of mind over matter would be so complete that mental perfectibility would take a physical form, allowing us to control illness and ageing and become immortal.” I chose to quote this online source, because it also seems curiously like a major thread of (or proposed theory to explain) “Lost.”

Godwin’s Enquiry is a response to Edmund Burke’s (yes, the same name of Juliette’s husband) “Reflections on the Revolution in France” (1790). Viewed as an argument for strong government and stability, Burke’s political philosophy is countered: “ Is it well that so large a part of the community should be kept in abject penury, rendered stupid with ignorance, and disgustful with vice, perpetuated in nakedness and hunger, goaded to the commission of crimes, and made victims to the merciless laws which the rich have instituted to oppress them? Is it sedition to enquire, whether this state of things may not be exchanged for a better?” In “The Other Woman,” the theme of governance and sedition is raised when Ben asks Locke if he has a revolution on his hands – in light of Locke’s inability to completely manifest an all-knowing supremacy.

Godwin is just as famous for fathering Mary Shelley, author of “Frankenstein” (seen by some as Gothic portrayal of her father in his zealous educational methods to create the ideal human being). Godwin and the feminist Mary Wollstonecraft both spoke out against the institution of marriage but tied the knot when she became pregnant. Like the birthing mothers on the island, Wollstonecraft died after childbirth.

With all the formulae and diagrams in last night’s “Lost,” the mind might associate “The Constant” with the mathematical/scientific principle. What hit me over the head  was the Scottish philosopher David Hume’s problematizing of self and identity. Following on the heels of John Locke, who situated understanding in perceptions, Hume asks how we can ever assert that there is a constant that we can equate with self. We can only catch ourselves in the act of perceiving. In the section “Of Personal Identity” in his “A Treatise of Human Nature” (1738), Hume writes, “But there is no impression constant and invariable. Pain and pleasure, grief and joy, passions and sensations succeed each other, and never all exist at the same time. It cannot therefore be from any of these impressions, or from any other, that the idea of self is derived; and consequently there is no such idea.”

Continuing on, Hume draws upon the metaphor of a ship that over the years has been repaired so that no part of the ship is the original. [Here he draws upon the ship of Theseus, or Theseus’ paradox, cited by Plutarch.] When the change of part to whole happens gradually, we perceive resemblance and continuity – a constant:

“But whatever precaution we may use in introducing the changes gradually, and making them proportionable to the whole, it is certain, that where the changes are at last observed to become considerable, we make a scruple of ascribing identity to such different objects. There is, however, another artifice, by which we may induce the imagination to advance a step farther; and that is, by producing a reference of the parts to each other, and a combination to some common end or purpose. A ship, of which a considerable part has been changed by frequent reparations, is still considered as the same; nor does the difference of the materials hinder us from ascribing an identity to it. The common end, in which the parts conspire, is the same under all their variations, and affords an easy transition of the imagination from one situation of the body to another.”

Desmond David Hume arrived on the island on an ill-fated boat, and last evening another boat (freighter) factored in his saga. In the reference to time travel, Minkowski makes sure to say that it is consciousness (as opposed to the actual transportation of the physical body). I can’t help but think that the allusion to “Hume’s boat” is deliberate and situates the latest developments within an even more complex narrative (as opposed to a simple sci-fi tale).

 At the end of the 17th century, John Locke put forth the idea that we are the product of experience, a radical idea at the time that quickly became a propelling thought of the Enlightenment. If we are the product of experience, then each of us has a unique self in which we become our narratives. So begins the literary category of the novel, in which the hero or heroine sets out in the world and with each adventure becomes a self. Locke’s idea is clearly seen in William Hogarth’s narrative series of prints, “The Rake’s Progress” (1737). Our hero is depicted in the first print as a callow young fellow with smooth, moon-faced features, or Locke’s tabula rasa. By the 8th and final print, he has descended into madness with the marks of his waywardness visible (or impressed) upon his features. The sequence of time is linear and forward-moving (“and then….”).

Given that Lost is populated with characters who share names with key figures of the Enlightenment, such as Locke, Hume, and Rousseau, reference to The Economist may point to Adam Smith, whose historical influence casts him in the role of founder of economics. This 18^th-century Scotsman was a close friend of fellow countryman, David Hume, and both men concerned themselves with the basis of human morality. In “The Theory of Moral Sentiments” (1759), Smith argues for our capacity through the imagination to feel sympathy: “The greatest ruffian, the most hardened violator of the laws of society, is not altogether without it.”

Significantly, Smith goes on to provide an example based in the observation of torture: “Though our brother is upon the rack, as long as we ourselves are at our ease, our senses will never inform us of what he suffers…By the imagination we place ourselves in his situation, we conceive ourselves enduring all the same torments, we enter as it were into his body, and become in some measure the same person with him, and thence form some idea of his sensations, and even feel something which, though weaker in degree, is not altogether unlike them.” In the episode, Sayid is specifically identified by Jack as “a torturer.” Yet we see many instances in which he is capable of identifying with someone other (small “o.”), and he (once a member of the Iraqi Republican Guard, or RG — coincidentally the initials on the mysterious bracelet) lets down his guard, when his own self-interest might dictate very different actions. Indeed, the episode concludes with Ben’s reprimand that Sayid has let his sympathy interfere with abstract reason.

Continuing along with the Scottish connection, the most convincing visual comparison of Jacob is to Brother Campbell. The longer “do” covers the ears, or else we would have clear evidence in the actor Andrew Connolly’s distinctive ears. I can’t help but see Desmond’s features in the face that emerged in the window of Jacob’s cabin when Hurley peered inside [This “through the window” parallels Desmond’s panicked face as he watched Charlie’s last moments – though I don’t think there is a time/space warp going on.]. Brother Campbell, along with Mrs. Hawking (of the ouroborus pin), seem to have a still unexplained part to play in the narrative loops.