Pretension Pt. 2

The Oxford English Dictionary (which also states that 'pretention' is an out-dated form, I learn this embarassingly after first publishing the previous rant, clearly exposing my own pretense of being able to spell) defines pretension in a number of ways. I'll just skip all but one of the definitions, because most are either obsolete or irrelevant.

"The unwarranted assumption of dignity, merit, etc.; the use of affectation to impress; pretentiousness, ostentation; an instance of this."

Our noble protagonist, Alfonso, previously acquired the great adulation of his peers by demonstrating profound musical talent in the face of overwhelming disbelief. He succeeded, by lending credence to his assertions of musical acumen, in winning from his friends a reprieve from any accusation of pretension, if not perhaps their hearts. What remains in Alfonso's character is something altogether ancillary to the main question of pretension, namely arrogance (and, let's add for good measure, a decent helping of tactlessness). His boasting, however justifiable, is undesired, unsolicited, and unappreciated. Even in the presence of genius, who wants the reputation and abilities of a favorite band sullied and demeaned?

So what, then? We've learned that pretension is not the only cause of social disapprobation. This hardly constitutes an epiphanic truth.

What I will assert, in fact, is that there remains something problematic about the nature of this accusation. For someone to be pretentious, as the above definition points out, the quality or attribute they claim to possess -- whether it be musical skill or spelling proficiency -- must be 'unwarranted'. They are, in effect, pretending to be something or other than they really are, presumably for an ulterior motive like the respect of one's peers or the notice of a prospective mate. Sometimes the motive is nothing more than an unspoken desire for self-aggrandizement (an entirely other can of worms).

Running with this definition, let's look at another example a little closer to home for me. For the sake of argumentation, imagine that Alfonso, having completed his miraculous performance, has succeeded in signing a record contract with Thom Yorke, who happened to be passing by and was somehow transformed into a music producer, when all of a sudden Alfonso finds himself awake in his bed, at home, in the entirely mundane and unmusical world of his ordinary life. He realizes, with some horror, that he doesn't even own a guitar, and the last twelve years of his life were a mere fiction performed on the illusory stage of his unconscious. Damn.

What he does realize, however, is that he has been studying philosophy for a period roughly equivalent, and recalls with a sense of excitement that all is not lost. He sets forth then upon the long and arduous path of a career in scholarship, purchases a wall of books, and begins churning out a mass of doughty and intricate compositions on the finer metaphysical properties of X. Weeks pass. He finds himself yet again (or for the first time?) in a bar at a table with a group of friends. By some stroke of coincidence, they begin discussing the properties of an obscure ontological argument, perhaps Anselm's proof of God's existence, though in this case all entirely based on hearsay (the friends having passed on the way to the bar a huddling group of wizened philosophers, muttering to themselves obscurely), they on their own having no innate or occupational interest in the so-called "love of wisdom".

What then transpires will sound strangely familiar. A lull occurs, as before, and Alfonso happily opines on the real nature of the question of God's existence, and so and on and so forth, and as anyone can clearly see the only tenable position is the following, and therefore such and such can be deduced by necessity, and since anyhow it was a foregone a priori conclusion that such would be the case, one can really only say X, etc. Alfonso's argument comes across so delightfully constructed and lyrically performed as to put the poor deceased Medieval theologian entirely to shame. Glowing from the expenditure of his own intellect, Alfonso sits back and sips his beer in a mild state of euphoria, until his glance happens upon the faces of his friends. Expecting beaming praise and admiration, he is dismayed to discover only scorn, boredom, and poorly disguised irritation. Bewildered, he turns reticent for the remainder of the night, while his friends rather hurriedly change the subject to something completely devoid of any philosophical import (like sex).

We can almost hear the mental refrain cascading through the skulls of Alfonso's friends, "What a pretensious dick!" But this situation has at least two notable differences from the previous, musical scenario, namely that Alfonso's career choice is entirely plausible, and furthermore probably no secret to his friends. Certainly in both instances Alfonso behaved at least in part out of a desire to impress, but never did he act on the basis of a so-called 'affectation' (going back to the OED definition). In the first scenario, Alfonso genuinely was a musical genius (albeit only in the land of dreams); in the second, he was genuinely a well-read and articulate student of philosophy. The latter case doesn't seem to change dramatically in light of the plausibility of being well-read and articulate in philosophy. Many unsuspecting people have been accused of as much in the lengthy course of history.

Why then the entirely predictable accusation of pretension in the second scenario? What, exactly, is Alfonso pretending to be? Everyone at the table knows and probably agrees that he is well-read and articulate; notwithstanding this knowledge, they still probably wish he'd just as soon shut up about metaphysics. It can't be that philosophy is inherently boring or unappealing, because in the latter scenario it was his friends, and not Alfonso, who began philosophizing.

It is, of course, fairly easy to see that Alfonso has, in some way, overstepped his bounds. Perhaps his discourse carried on a bit too long, or his tone had a hint of condescension, or his friends perceived in his speech a distasteful and inflated sense of self-worth. Any one or all of these could easily produce disapproval and even resentment in a group of listeners. Why then, in the peculiar case of philosophical speech, is the term "pretension" bandied around so readily, and not some of the other candidates? The problem, I think, lies in the way this strange word is used (or perhaps misused?)

To be continued...