Dear Dr. Peterson:
Jon Glatfelter here from southern California—thank you so much for your talk last night at the Orpheum Theater in LA. You explored so much in only the few hours we 3,000 people gathered together on a Saturday night, exploring primarily the reasons for and dangers of harboring resentment in one's own soul and how it can lead to a crippling life-lie of victimization. You likened this imprecise perception of oneself and one's relationship to reality as Princess Aurora in Sleeping Beauty, who, sheltered by her parents of the existence of the evil queen, knew only a kingdom of benevolence, but had no knowledge of limitations, obstacles, hardships, sickness, death, and evil actions of others. Facing that truism of life—that it is filled with not just beauty, but also suffering, profound, breaking, ugly malevolence and misfortune by people and mother nature itself—Aurora falls into a state of unconsciousness, the world too complex to process and sort and deal with.
I adore this sophisticated analysis of mythological archetypes in narratives, and have for a long time particularly found Joseph Campbell, as well as my one readings, limited as they may be, of literature and films since my early teenage years. In fact, I developed a reputation amongst my friends as the therapist, who loved to analyze not just 'serious' movies like The Godfather, Children of Men, and The Pianist, but also help us to explore safely and without judgement many thoughts we as young men (or old boys were grappling with): the existence of God, suicidal thoughts, depression, self-harm, peer ostracization and bullying, devout parents who perhaps we either did not trust these issues with or who we weren't brave enough to talk to and display our weaknesses. I've found your analysis of religious experience, biblical stories, and the concept of God to be unexpectedly robust, re-invigorating, and personally practical for me to sort myself out and operate in the world better.
For years, I've considered myself a spiritual atheist, in that I renounce but of the literalism of religious dogma that was forced upon me in my upbringing: ideas like it's wrong to have sex—independent of context, choice, preparedness, and mature feelings—outside of marriage, ideas like blind subbordination to suspiciously quiet authorities, and a general attitude of intellectual forbiddenness in opening certain doors up: were the other planets first drafts for earth? Was evolution, or progression and destruction stages of life, contained in the descriptions of eden, can you really love someone who you are alos suppossed to fear? And yet, I've been inwardly quite relieved that I was raised in Christian household that impressed upon me from an early age to respect hard work, honestly, to introspect on questions like: what does it mean to be a good person? Am I acting in a good manner towards other people? Myself? Are things like lust, jealousy, anger, pride, ambition, justice, mercy always right or always wrong? And why? What's the purpose of life? What's my purpose? I ultimately didn't agree with a lot of the answers that I was receiving, I think it part because I tended to have a more pronounced, rebellious streak in me craving to undermine authority, or perhaps to put it in a more fair light: I was fiercely protective of my understanding of something and didn't like just going along with friends or anyone for the Hell of it: friends who might say, torture insects for fun, or family members who might get angry when I asked them simple questions like, "why do you think that way?" or "how do you figure that?"
Unfortunately, much of my religious upbringing was marred by what I understand you to describe as "corruption" or dogmatic, oppressive order, which strained by ability to communicate and connect with my mother and father, though not entirely. It was compartmentalizing; certain doors I couldn't and really still can't seem to open with them, and so we try to live and let live, although I think that some apologies couldn't hurt too. Your complex and nuanced analysis of the layers of religious truth, or perhaps better, truth communicated through religious symbols and structures, truth more fundamentally based in biology and mythic, pre-logical-of-the-Enlightenment-type, has greatly encouraged me to revisit these ideas and stories: cain and able, adam and eve, abraham and isaac, noah's flood—I'm working through your biblical lecture series now and loving it. To explore Nietzsche, Aleksandr Solzhenitsyn, Dostoyevsky, Piaget, as well as of course your two books. Thank you. These past two years of devouring your work has been a feast. I'm sure I'll be eating, and nourished for many more.
I wanted to also recommend to you, for your consideration, an author who I think, merits your attention for his sophisticated analysis of religion, meaning, and an individual's soulful journey to pick up his cross and bear it: Victor Hugo. A contemporary of Dostoyevsky, and esthetically a fellow traveler of the Romantic school of literature, the school focused primarily on what might be and ought to be (or in Dostoyevsky's case what ought not be oftentimes, Victor Hugo's works stagger the imagination with their moral weight, psychological nuance, and benevolent view of the universe and man's relationship to it. Values, truth, beauty are attainable to his characters, and antagonists are aplenty, but not necessarily outmatching of the forces of good—that is, the individual's determination to bear their suffering and at least not cause anymore, and better still, work to shed light on it, reduce it, and plant seeds for a healthier life and society. Les Miserables is one such story, the most translated and adapted work of literature in the history of literature.
Don't let the musicals and movie fool you, Les Miserables the novel is an epic, mythic twenty-year tale of one unfairly imprisoned individual's path to not wreck the world, but to forgive it, love it, and help those dispossessed, like him, find their footing. Even when a dogged, police detective pursues him for the most tiny of criminal offenses—breaking parole in order to help a man out. This individual's name is Jean Valjean, and his lifelong quest for redemption, a quest he takes up at the behest and forgiveness of a worldy, eyes-opened priest immediately after being let out of prison sentence of hard manual labor for ten years for stealing a crust of bread. Jean Valjean instead thought falls deeper into hell, the hell everyone else is already projecting on him and accusing him of being—a criminal then, and a criminal now, unredeemable—a man they won't give work to or pity to. Alone, broke, starving, he begins to hate the world, to curse God. And, tricking a gullible priest into a meal and some work and some shelter, steals one night the silverware from the parish and makes off. Before though, he stops by the open door of the sleeping priest and debates, agonizingly between the angelic and demonic voices in his head. "I don't know whether to kiss your hand or crack your skull," Valjean thinks standing over the priest. He instead leaves, and in the morning is caught by the authorities with the silver and dragged back to the parish. The priest, though, instead of incriminating Valjean, lies to the policemen and says that he gave the silverware to Valjean. But, my friend, you forgot the silver candlesticks. Take them too. Valjean, beside himself, shown a mercy of the gravest import in the direst hour, with every reason to hate the world and mankind, is shown love and forgiveness. And this Christ-like act on behalf of the priest to give the fortune of the parish to this down-and-out lying, thieving criminal, now for real, is a victim of the system. He says, I'm not giving you this silver. With it, I'm buying back your soul. This transaction, sets Valjean onto the right path — a path that he must now walk and with his fortune, heal himself and society to the best of his ability. It's this debt that his acts must redeem. He does.
Valjean starts a factory and hires women so they don't go hungry and fall into temptations of prostitution. He adopts the surviving daughter of a prostitute, and raises her as a lady. He even goes so far as to save his daughter's lover, Marius from the revolutionary, bloody Parisian streets, carrying Marius on his back with a Herculean and Christ-like imagery, through the tunnels of hell—the shitty sewers, even though he knows that saving him means losing his daughter to this man, a good man, but still, losing her company and being replaced.
And all the while, Valjean's righteousness breaks Javert, the dogged policeman whose worldview, honestly believed, but philosophically untenable of only justice and no mercy, is broken and proved wrong by Valjean when Valjean saves Javert too and doesn't kill him in the sewers. Javert, realizing his life work has been to hurt not help society, kills himself in one of the most profound scenes I've ever come across in literature.
Sincerely,
Jon Glatfelter
Jon Glatfelter here from southern California—thank you so much for your talk last night at the Orpheum Theater in LA. You explored so much in only the few hours we 3,000 people gathered together on a Saturday night, exploring primarily the reasons for and dangers of harboring resentment in one's own soul and how it can lead to a crippling life-lie of victimization. You likened this imprecise perception of oneself and one's relationship to reality as Princess Aurora in Sleeping Beauty, who, sheltered by her parents of the existence of the evil queen, knew only a kingdom of benevolence, but had no knowledge of limitations, obstacles, hardships, sickness, death, and evil actions of others. Facing that truism of life—that it is filled with not just beauty, but also suffering, profound, breaking, ugly malevolence and misfortune by people and mother nature itself—Aurora falls into a state of unconsciousness, the world too complex to process and sort and deal with.
I adore this sophisticated analysis of mythological archetypes in narratives, and have for a long time particularly found Joseph Campbell, as well as my one readings, limited as they may be, of literature and films since my early teenage years. In fact, I developed a reputation amongst my friends as the therapist, who loved to analyze not just 'serious' movies like The Godfather, Children of Men, and The Pianist, but also help us to explore safely and without judgement many thoughts we as young men (or old boys were grappling with): the existence of God, suicidal thoughts, depression, self-harm, peer ostracization and bullying, devout parents who perhaps we either did not trust these issues with or who we weren't brave enough to talk to and display our weaknesses. I've found your analysis of religious experience, biblical stories, and the concept of God to be unexpectedly robust, re-invigorating, and personally practical for me to sort myself out and operate in the world better.
For years, I've considered myself a spiritual atheist, in that I renounce but of the literalism of religious dogma that was forced upon me in my upbringing: ideas like it's wrong to have sex—independent of context, choice, preparedness, and mature feelings—outside of marriage, ideas like blind subbordination to suspiciously quiet authorities, and a general attitude of intellectual forbiddenness in opening certain doors up: were the other planets first drafts for earth? Was evolution, or progression and destruction stages of life, contained in the descriptions of eden, can you really love someone who you are alos suppossed to fear? And yet, I've been inwardly quite relieved that I was raised in Christian household that impressed upon me from an early age to respect hard work, honestly, to introspect on questions like: what does it mean to be a good person? Am I acting in a good manner towards other people? Myself? Are things like lust, jealousy, anger, pride, ambition, justice, mercy always right or always wrong? And why? What's the purpose of life? What's my purpose? I ultimately didn't agree with a lot of the answers that I was receiving, I think it part because I tended to have a more pronounced, rebellious streak in me craving to undermine authority, or perhaps to put it in a more fair light: I was fiercely protective of my understanding of something and didn't like just going along with friends or anyone for the Hell of it: friends who might say, torture insects for fun, or family members who might get angry when I asked them simple questions like, "why do you think that way?" or "how do you figure that?"
Unfortunately, much of my religious upbringing was marred by what I understand you to describe as "corruption" or dogmatic, oppressive order, which strained by ability to communicate and connect with my mother and father, though not entirely. It was compartmentalizing; certain doors I couldn't and really still can't seem to open with them, and so we try to live and let live, although I think that some apologies couldn't hurt too. Your complex and nuanced analysis of the layers of religious truth, or perhaps better, truth communicated through religious symbols and structures, truth more fundamentally based in biology and mythic, pre-logical-of-the-Enlightenment-type, has greatly encouraged me to revisit these ideas and stories: cain and able, adam and eve, abraham and isaac, noah's flood—I'm working through your biblical lecture series now and loving it. To explore Nietzsche, Aleksandr Solzhenitsyn, Dostoyevsky, Piaget, as well as of course your two books. Thank you. These past two years of devouring your work has been a feast. I'm sure I'll be eating, and nourished for many more.
I wanted to also recommend to you, for your consideration, an author who I think, merits your attention for his sophisticated analysis of religion, meaning, and an individual's soulful journey to pick up his cross and bear it: Victor Hugo. A contemporary of Dostoyevsky, and esthetically a fellow traveler of the Romantic school of literature, the school focused primarily on what might be and ought to be (or in Dostoyevsky's case what ought not be oftentimes, Victor Hugo's works stagger the imagination with their moral weight, psychological nuance, and benevolent view of the universe and man's relationship to it. Values, truth, beauty are attainable to his characters, and antagonists are aplenty, but not necessarily outmatching of the forces of good—that is, the individual's determination to bear their suffering and at least not cause anymore, and better still, work to shed light on it, reduce it, and plant seeds for a healthier life and society. Les Miserables is one such story, the most translated and adapted work of literature in the history of literature.
Don't let the musicals and movie fool you, Les Miserables the novel is an epic, mythic twenty-year tale of one unfairly imprisoned individual's path to not wreck the world, but to forgive it, love it, and help those dispossessed, like him, find their footing. Even when a dogged, police detective pursues him for the most tiny of criminal offenses—breaking parole in order to help a man out. This individual's name is Jean Valjean, and his lifelong quest for redemption, a quest he takes up at the behest and forgiveness of a worldy, eyes-opened priest immediately after being let out of prison sentence of hard manual labor for ten years for stealing a crust of bread. Jean Valjean instead thought falls deeper into hell, the hell everyone else is already projecting on him and accusing him of being—a criminal then, and a criminal now, unredeemable—a man they won't give work to or pity to. Alone, broke, starving, he begins to hate the world, to curse God. And, tricking a gullible priest into a meal and some work and some shelter, steals one night the silverware from the parish and makes off. Before though, he stops by the open door of the sleeping priest and debates, agonizingly between the angelic and demonic voices in his head. "I don't know whether to kiss your hand or crack your skull," Valjean thinks standing over the priest. He instead leaves, and in the morning is caught by the authorities with the silver and dragged back to the parish. The priest, though, instead of incriminating Valjean, lies to the policemen and says that he gave the silverware to Valjean. But, my friend, you forgot the silver candlesticks. Take them too. Valjean, beside himself, shown a mercy of the gravest import in the direst hour, with every reason to hate the world and mankind, is shown love and forgiveness. And this Christ-like act on behalf of the priest to give the fortune of the parish to this down-and-out lying, thieving criminal, now for real, is a victim of the system. He says, I'm not giving you this silver. With it, I'm buying back your soul. This transaction, sets Valjean onto the right path — a path that he must now walk and with his fortune, heal himself and society to the best of his ability. It's this debt that his acts must redeem. He does.
Valjean starts a factory and hires women so they don't go hungry and fall into temptations of prostitution. He adopts the surviving daughter of a prostitute, and raises her as a lady. He even goes so far as to save his daughter's lover, Marius from the revolutionary, bloody Parisian streets, carrying Marius on his back with a Herculean and Christ-like imagery, through the tunnels of hell—the shitty sewers, even though he knows that saving him means losing his daughter to this man, a good man, but still, losing her company and being replaced.
And all the while, Valjean's righteousness breaks Javert, the dogged policeman whose worldview, honestly believed, but philosophically untenable of only justice and no mercy, is broken and proved wrong by Valjean when Valjean saves Javert too and doesn't kill him in the sewers. Javert, realizing his life work has been to hurt not help society, kills himself in one of the most profound scenes I've ever come across in literature.
Sincerely,
Jon Glatfelter
