Max Weber and the Protestant Ethic

For fear of posting an entire paper  my blog (which seems so counterintuitive), I have condensed a longer summary and some critical thoughts on Max Weber.

His thesis in The Protestant Ethic and the Spirit of Capitalism—essentially that the anxiety caused by the uncertainty of one’s salvation within Calvinism prompted believers to prove their election through restless, systematic, unemotional, continuous works in the world, which works provided the perfect climate for capitalism to flourish—is a foundational one for many of the texts we read this week.

Essentially, for Weber, the spirit of capitalism is that spirit which selflessly, unemotionally, systematically, and continually labors for labor’s sake, which is naturally followed by an accumulation of wealth.  That wealth, however, is not the aim; and greed, for Weber is opposite of the true spirit of capitalism.

This idea, of course, seems to run counter to the traditional Catholic ideas of wealth and worldly pursuits as necessary evils—having money is only acceptable in as far as it helps one survive, and no more.  Out of this idea grew monasticism.

Martin Luther, however, disliked this reclusive lifestyle, and saw it as selfish and forsaking of one’s duty.  He thus proposed another alternative: the virtuous labor in one’s earthly calling.  The position one inhabits in life—the industry that one may produce there—was, for Luther, one’s calling; laboring within it allowed an individual to glorify God, while proving useful to society.

Though Luther’s ideas were certainly vital, Lutheranism lacked the ability to prompt its followers to do good works within a calling in the same way as Calvinism did.  Calvinism’s doctrine of predestination held that some of its followers were destined for heaven and some to hell—unequivocally, and irrevocably.  This, naturally, made followers anxious, and constantly in a state of uncertainty regarding their salvation.  To remedy this uncertainty, then, working—doing good works in the world—became a vital way to prove one’s chosen status before God.  For, God allows his chosen people to prosper; and, how could one prosper if one did not do work?

Calvinists, then, were sent into the world systematically, restlessly, unemotionally, and urgently, to produce, to work, and to prosper.  And prosper they did. 

Hence, capitalism is born.

Problems I have with Weber: First, he is unashamedly Western-centric, acknowledging that other nations/civilizations certainly invented, discovered, and produced, while simultaneously suggesting that the West perfected these inventions of the Other. 

This Western-centrism becomes a problem for Weber’s study when one considers the narrowness of his definition of capitalism.  Certainly, when one explores a capitalism with decidedly Protestant characteristics, as Weber has, one will find the origins of that capitalism within Protestantism.

However, despite Weber’ s shortcomings, his contribution to religious, economic, and literary studies (among others) are many, and the thread of his ideas runs through many groundbreaking texts.

“a View to the Sea”

Robinson Crusoe was published in London in the heyday of international trade and discovery. It grants its reader a glimpse of a world that changed English nationality and economy profoundly, which world was, paradoxically, very unreal and faraway. As Crusoe’s world of trade was both central and unimaginable to the modern Englishperson, the popularity of a novel that spelled out the particulars in great detail was destined to be popular. Robinson Crusoe’s popularity was not simply limited to would-be sailors or commerce men, but was gobbled up by free-spirited and curious boys, girls, mothers, and fathers alike.

One of the appeals to the novel must have been the sheer number of things connecting Defoe’s audience with the strange shipwrecked sailor. As Crusoe is rescuing goods from the wrecked ship in the story’s beginning, he provides itemized lists of what he’s bringing back. He lists construction items: “nails and spikes,” “hatchets,” “and…that most useful Thing call’d a Grindstone” (41). He lists homemaking items: “a Hammock, and some Bedding” (41), “Bread, Rice, three Dutch Cheeses, five Pieces of dry’d Goat’s Flesh…and European Corn” (38). He lists hunting items: “Fowling-pieces,” “two Pistols,” “two old rusty Swords” (38). He lists hygiene items: “two or three Razors,” “one Pair of Sizzers,” and “ten or a Dozen of good Knives and Forks” (43). He lists literary devices: “Pens, Ink, and Paper” (48); navigational tools: “three or four Compasses, some Mathematical Instruments, Dials, Perspectives, Charts, and Books of Navigation” (48); and, religious material: “three very good Bibles…and some Portuguese books” (48). And, finally, he lists money: “Thirty six Pounds value in Money, some European Coin, some Brasil, some Pieces of Eight, some Gold, some Silver” (43). In a word, Defoe draws his audience into his story through the material things that surround both them and Crusoe. The items which sit quietly on a shelf in a reader’s London home, which are also existant in Crusoe’s world, become portals to access and identify with the faraway foreign island and the everyday life of the unruly, ‘unrepentant’ sailor.

As such, the things in Robinson Crusoe take on a certain doubleness: always both foreign, outside their normal contexts, and keys to retaining that context. This is most clearly seen with Crusoe’s mention of the money he finds in his wrecked ship. “O Drug!” he laments upon discovering the ship’s store of gold. “What art thou good for? Thou art not worth to me, no not the taking off of the Ground; one of those Knives is worth all this Heap” (43). And yet, though money is utterly worthless to him, he, “on Second Thought…[takes] it away” with him to the island (43). Though money has no value to him on the island, he cannot leave it behind. It has value in his old world—the world Crusoe wants to return to; and, further, in the sphere of the novel, money has value to the novel’s reader, and thus serves as a connector to the utterly foreign world of the island. The hope is, of course, that one day, if it is kept, the money will be of value once again, as Crusoe reunites with his homeland—a connection that, though hard to fathom, bridges the gap between his alien world, and a comfortable London reading chair.

By way of ending, the same sort of double consciousness occurs in this section as Crusoe mulls over the things he needs for survival. He lists: “1^st. Health, and fresh Water…2dly. Shelter from the Heat of the Sun, 3dly. Security from ravenous Creatures, whether Men or Beasts, 4thly. A View to the Sea, that if God sent any Ship in Sight, I might not lose any Advantage for my Deliverance” (44). The first three things in the list—health, shelter, and security—are natural survival concerns. The fourth—“a view to the sea”—is the outlier. Though it may seem fruitless for a sailor, so obviously cut off from humanity (at this point), to be able to spot another ship, let alone attract her attention, Crusoe’s determination to always keep looking is vital—indeed, as important as basic physical needs. It is the hope that this “view to the sea” grants him that separates him from a human being simply surviving on a deserted island, to a civilized being stranded for a time. And, in terms of the novel, this looking out—this consciousness of humanity ‘out there’—allows the reader to connect with Crusoe and his world; to know that somewhere, as they gaze upon his world, he is gazing back, longing for theirs.

"knight-errand like"

Although centuries removed, I was surprised by the moments in which Haywood’s Love in Excess reads like a medieval, chivalric adventure tale. Of course, having just finished a course on Arthurian legends last semester, I’m predisposed to the genre; but there are nevertheless, at several points in the novel, striking holdovers from medieval literature that Haywood employs to underscore her narrative.

For instance, although the tale between Count D’Elmont and Amena certainly serves to set up his relationship with Alovisa, and does, in some way, give depth to his character, it really isn’t necessary to the remainder of the novel. It is, as in medieval tales, the launching point—the tale that ropes the knight into action that follows.

Further, throughout the story, we find Count D’Elmont increasingly unable to negotiate between an obligatory politeness towards and sympathy for women, and the usually inevitable misconceptions that such behavior gives to the female recipient. D’Elmont is, once he is forever committed to Melliora in the last book, the perfect echo of the Lancelots, the Tristrams—the desireable, but untouchable knights of medieval literature—men who must balance between the respect for women that chivalry commands, and the duty to love that courtly love requires.

And of course, there are duels.

Chevalier Brillian, after thinking his courtship of Ansellina triumphant, receives a challenge from his opponent, Bellpine, “to meet him the next morning” (73). And, though it is already obvious to everyone except Bellpine, Brillian decides he must fight to defend his honor—for “there was no possibility of evading [the fight], without rendring myself unworthy of her” (74). Though three hundred years removed, Brillian’s allegiance is to the chivalric code—he does not need to fight for Ansellina, nor to kill Bellpine. He fights because he can’t refuse.

Where these duels deviate from their predecessors, though, is in their reception by the State. While in medieval literature, they existed largely to reinforce the political structure in recompense for a weak court system, in Love in Excess, the duels are always portrayed in opposition to the government (the Count needs to hop into Ciamara’s garden to avoid the police after he defends Frankville, Brillian needs to leave Ansellina to avoid being charged with Bellpine’s murder, etc.). Thus, while these medieval holdovers exist in the novel (and are still deeply entrenched in society), they can only exist in secret—in concealed places away from the law.

Finally, a word about women in the novel. Of course we have our desireable women here, as we do in medieval literature—those who strike men with their beauty, and whose mannerisms entrap them to love. However, we also have female assistants, propelling the narrative forward. The narrative relies on helper figures such as Camilla’s Violetta, Amena’s Anaret, as well as troublesome figures like Melantha and Brione, to facilitate or complicate its plot. They are, in effect, the fair maidens that the “knight-errand” (237) meets along the road, who either point the way innocently to the castle, or, while he’s sleeping underneath the apple tree, cause him to forget he ever sought it.

There is, to be sure, much more to Love in Excess than this simple reading gives it credit for. Love, death, violence, virtue, moderation, jealousy, gender roles, education, are all fascinating conundrums whirling around our protagonists. However, it’s important not to forget (in part just so we can emancipate Count D’Elmont from his rakish reduction) the echoes of chivalry throughout the novel, and how the way in which the characters approach the above issues is heavily influenced by their medieval forbearers.

Introductory Notes

Hi everyone! Welcome to my margins. Here, I think, rethink, notate, conclude, wax poetic, sound silly--really whatever helps me sift through the complex ideas of the moment.

This really won't be solely confined to literature, though it will be a large part. I figure since my life is a constant mixture of balancing academia and baby, why not this blog, too?

For instance, this moment, my complex idea is bedtime. Specifically: how does one get a one-year-old, a four-year-old, and a seven-year-old to bed by eight when there's Oreos to be eaten, jammies to be donned, teeth to be brushed, stories to be read, lullabies to be sung, diapers to be changed (ok, not really in that order), and after-kids-are-in-bed victory dances to be danced. Really, how to do all that in one hour? It truly is complex.

And then after that, I can focus on Love in Excess and Margaret Beaufort.

The juxtaposition really is quite comical.

So hopefully you'll be as amused as I am, and enjoy reading my little marginal notes on literature and life.

Again, welcome.