Game of Thrones and Philosophy (20 page)

It should be apparent why this argument is problematic: clearly Daenerys will
not
be able to rule Westeros if she remains in Mereen. If we look again at the premises, we will see why this and any argument like it is unsound: it could be the case that Daenerys comes to rule Westeros only
because
she leaves Mereen.

Philosophers use the term “practical” to refer to the sorts of deliberations we perform when acting. To say that a certain argument or fact matters practically is to say that it should figure in one’s deliberations about what to do. The Idle Argument, we can now say, makes exactly that claim about metaphysical fatalism—it claims that metaphysical fatalism matters for deciding what to do. But that, we now see, is false. It hardly follows from the arguments we have seen in favor of metaphysical fatalism that what you do does not affect the future; in fact, the future in large part is the result of what you do! So fatalism does not pose a threat to agency in the way that Sartre may have maintained. Remember that for Sartre, fatalism is anathema to human freedom if one uses it as an
excuse
for remaining in bad faith. In that much he is correct: because there are no practical consequences that follow from metaphysical fatalism, it would be in bad faith to use a commitment to fatalism as an excuse for not acting. Suppose, as a further example, that Jon believes the Others are fated never to enter Westeros. It would be wrong for him to do nothing. Fate might have it that the others fail to invade Westeros
only because
he stands firm in his duties at the Wall.

Fulfilling Fate

There is something of a paradox emerging here. It is wrong, we have just seen, to think of fate as an external force coercing agents this way or that. One’s fate is largely one’s own doing. Dany is fated to marry Khal Drogo, just as Jon is fated to don the Black, yet these are clearly things that each of them does. At the same time, metaphysical fatalism tells us that only
one
future is possible. It seems, then, that one’s fate is largely the result of one’s own doing, and yet, it is something that one can do nothing about. What notion of freedom could make sense of this?

To answer, let’s return to Martin Heidegger (1889–1976), who first introduced the term “authenticity” to systematic philosophy. “Authenticity” normally connotes something real as opposed to something fake. No replica of Ice, Lord Eddard’s sword, no matter how exact, will ever be the “authentic” Ice. In this sense, being “real” is a way of being unique or singular. Heidegger appropriates this common understanding of authenticity to develop an alternative to the usual concept of human freedom as autonomy. While
autonomy
is defined in terms of control—I am autonomous if I can control what I do, free from any external or internal compulsion—
authenticity
is defined in terms of ownership and singularity: freedom as “owning” oneself and being one’s own.
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The challenge Heidegger wants to meet with the concept of authenticity is as follows: while acknowledging that we are wholly shaped by our past and that this will decide our future, how can one ever be free—how can one take possession of one’s own life? I think we can all appreciate this problem: while on the one hand we feel as if we are in control of ourselves and our lives, we understand that had we been born to a different time or in a different place, we would be very different from the person we are now and would make very different life decisions. How can we acknowledge this fact while still retaining any notion of freedom, any notion, that is, that we are responsible for who we are?

Return to the moment when Eddard must decide, do I confess to treason and spare my family, or do I stand on principle and forfeit the lives of my daughters? The discerning reader, when aided by a writer as gifted as Martin, already knows the answer. Eddard has proven time and again that his honor matters more to him than his life or his status. But this honor is anchored in an even deeper sense of responsibility. He knows that it was his mistakes that put Arya and Sansa in danger, his decisions that endangered Winterfell, and his acquiescence that could thwart war. If Eddard can make matters right by laying down his honor before King’s Landing, then we already know what Eddard will do. When you know a person’s character, you know the sorts of choices that person will make. One’s choices at any moment do not, contrary to Sartre, float free of one’s past. We are determined by our history, and most importantly, by our character. The Greek philosopher Heraclitus (c. 535–c. 475 BCE), whom Heidegger greatly admired, expressed this point by saying that “character is destiny.”

Freedom, as Heidegger interprets it, is, rather than a potentiality confined to the moment, something that characterizes one’s life as a whole. Contrary to Sartre, this freedom does not mean being cut off from one’s past, but rather fulfilling it. Heidegger says that normally we exist in a state of “average everydayness.” In this mode of existing, we go about our day doing what “one” does, being a father, brother, colleague, and friend. Our average or everyday existence is dispersed among many different projects and roles, only some of which cohere with one another. For example, Jon’s obligations as a brother to Robb conflict with his obligations as a brother of the Night’s Watch. He cannot live a life committed to both. He must choose. By his choice he does not escape those obligations. Rather, the obligations bind him even were he to choose to ignore them. What he must do instead is choose to fulfill one obligation or the other. Notice that in fulfilling an obligation, Jon is fulfilling a
purpose
he did not choose for himself, and in this sense, he is choosing his fate. Jon did not decide to be born a bastard in House Stark, nor did he decide that brothers of the Night’s Watch have no family but one another. But by choosing to fulfill one purpose rather than another, Jon is choosing himself, and in this sense, by becoming an individual, is free.

Becoming Who You Are

We began by asking, are fate and freedom compatible? Or does fatalism nullify freedom? Intuitively perhaps, we understand that they can be compatible—that finding one’s purpose or living up to one’s fate can be liberating. The challenge is to find a philosophical justification for that feeling. We have found it, I think, in Heidegger. Over the course of a life, one becomes who one is. Struggling to make something of one’s life is the struggle, in Heidegger’s terms, for authenticity. Life presents each of us with any number of incompatible possible lives that we might equally fulfill. Many options are open, but to live authentically, to be an individual, one must choose one and forfeit others. Good characters do this: Dany has chosen the rights to the House Targaryen, Jon has chosen the life of Watch, Robb has chosen to be the King of the North, and Tyrion has chosen to be a Lannister, no matter how much his father, his sister, and the world protest that that is a place to which he has no right. In choosing these lives, these characters are fulfilling purposes or fates that themselves were not chosen. Pindar (522–443 BCE), a Greek poet, expressed this point in the following words: “Become who you are.” How can a person become that which he or she already is? The answer is that who one is, is decided by how that person fulfills the purposes that fate—one’s past, one’s history, one’s character—has assigned.

NOTES

1
. George R. R. Martin,
A Game of Thrones
(New York: Bantam Dell, 2005), p. 57.

2
. The philosophical term “metaphysics” is nearly the opposite of its other meaning when used to denote spiritual or otherworldly things. In philosophy, “metaphysics” refers to the study of reality. For example, the theories of space, time, and causality are “metaphysical.” In the present context, “metaphysical fatalism” says that the future, in some sense,
really
exists and cannot be changed. This is in contrast to what might be called “psychological fatalism,” that sense of powerlessness or passivity that follows from the belief that nothing can be done to change the future. A belief in metaphysical fatalism is often said to entail psychological fatalism, but I dispute this in the present chapter.

3
. Hence the name of the school in philosophy that Sartre more than any other perhaps represents:
existentialism
.

4
. It is worth pointing out that Epicurus did not believe that one should try to maximize pleasure at all times. In fact, Epicurus exhorted his followers to lead as abstemious and moderate a life as possible. A demand for great pleasures too easily leads to great disappointment, whereas a life of simple, rustic pleasure is easily achieved and its disappointments less severe.

5
. Several characters self-consciously struggle against this essentialism. One is Petyr Baelish, who, we are led to believe in
A Feast of Crows
, perhaps desires to run House Arryn, and maybe even Westeros itself, or maybe even something grander. Many readers admire Davos for similar reasons. It does not appear to take much for Lord Manderly to revivify the smuggler in him in
A Dance with Dragons
. And of course, in counterpoint to Jon, there is Ramsey Bolton, whose deformed character seems to betray his unfitness for his false station as Lord Bolton’s heir.

6
. A clever reader might be asking herself at this point, “Is Sartre not saying that freedom is the human essence, something each human has, by virtue of which each of us is a person? And is not this just admitting that humans do after all have an essence?” “Yes and no,” is the right answer. If we wish to insist that freedom is the human essence, then we may do so, so long as we recognize (a) that this essence is different from all other essences and (b) that since one
could be
anything one
is
nothing, and if our essence is nothing, then it really is not an essence at all.

7
. Sartre does not mean by this that we can
succeed
in becoming anything we choose. No human will ever succeed in becoming a god, and it’s probably safe to say that no human will achieve immortality. On a more mundane level, most of what we choose to do or be meets with only partial success. So Sartre is not saying that I
can
be whatever I want to be. His point is that I can
try
to be anything I can conceive, while of course recognizing that both the world and other people constrain my chances of success.

8
. It’s worth remarking here that if we accept the Sartrean terminology, “taking responsibility” and “taking responsibility for oneself” are two quite different things. Responsibilities are something that the world puts on you. Sartre might admit that there are responsibilities, but these responsibilities have no power over you unless you choose to let them. You are, however, absolutely responsible to yourself; in fact, it is the only true responsibility that you have and one that you cannot evade.

9
. See Aristotle,
Categories and De Interpretatione
, trans. J. Ackrill (Oxford: Oxford Univ. Press, 1963).

10
. The term for
authenticity
in German is
Eigentlichkeit
, drawing on the root word
eigen
, meaning “own.”
Eigentlichkeit
might more literally be translated as “ownedness.”

Chapter 18

NO ONE DANCES THE WATER DANCE

Henry Jacoby

“Who are you?” he would ask her every day.

“No one,” she would answer, she who had been Arya of House Stark.
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It’s a long journey from being a nine-year-old tomboy playing with wooden swords, to learning the Water Dance, to escaping King’s Landing after her father’s beheading, to hiring an assassin in Jaqen H’ghar, to becoming an apprentice assassin herself with the Faceless Men at the House of Black and White in Braavos. It certainly makes Arya Stark one of the most compelling characters in A Song of Ice and Fire. She faces all that life throws at her with a fierce determination that’s rare, especially for one so young. Some readers may see Arya as one who becomes a crazed killer, perhaps even a psychotic, driven mad by her thirst for revenge. I see her, however, as a strange mixture of moral virtues and Zen sensibilities. How can this be? What do moral virtues and Zen have to do with each other? And what does either of them have to do with our favorite skinny girl from Winterfell?

This chapter is about Arya’s journey and what it can teach us about how to lead a good life. It’s also about stabbing people—you know, sticking them with the pointy end. Interestingly, as we will see, they turn out to be much the same.

Virtues and the Good Life

In moral philosophy, a distinction is often made between an ethics of
doing
and an ethics of
being
. Roughly, the idea is that while some ethical theories attempt to tell us what to do and what makes our actions right or wrong, other theories focus more on
how we should live
and
what we should be like
. These latter theories comprise the field known as
virtue ethics
.

The goal of all virtue theories is to instruct us on how to lead a good life. The theories disagree, though, on what constitutes “a good life” as well as on the necessary means for achieving it. Many of the ancient Greek philosophers held that the good life equals the life of reason. By contrast, the great spiritual and philosophical traditions of the East tend to distrust reason, and instead would have us focus on living authentically. In Zen, this means having direct experience of reality and finding the true self, whereas in Taoism it means living in harmony with nature in an effortless way. Arya’s journey—from Water Dance beginner to apprentice assassin in Braavos—encompasses all of these. After all, I’m not just writing this because she’s my favorite character (well, maybe).

If you’re going to map the tricky path to the good life, and thus present any virtue theory of ethics, the first thing you need to do is explain what a virtue is. Aristotle (384–322 BCE) was the first to do this in any sort of systematic way in his
Nicomachean Ethics
,
2
so that’s a good place to start. He explained that virtues were character traits; but not just any character traits are virtues. After all, Littlefinger is devious; Sandor Clegane, the Hound, can be vicious; and Joffrey, well, Joffrey needs to be slapped. The point is that these character traits are not virtues. A virtue, said Aristotle, is a character trait that is good for you to have. “Well, isn’t it good for Littlefinger to be devious and the Hound to be vicious?” you might ask. These traits serve their purpose, that is true, but they are not good for them in the sense that they do not bring them true happiness. Certainly these traits don’t bring them
eudaimonia
, the Greek word sometimes translated as
happiness
, but better translated as
well-being
or
flourishing
.

In discussing happiness and the good life, Aristotle is not talking about pleasure. Like his teacher Plato (428–348 BCE), Aristotle denied that pleasure was “the good.” He is talking instead about a life lived with the rational part of the mind controlling our desires and appetites, a life in which we fulfill our proper function as rational beings, living what Socrates (469–399 BCE) called “the examined life.” Virtue is thus not some prize to obtain; it is a process that one works through in an entire lifetime. The person without reason in control—or any immoral individual, for that matter—might obtain various pleasures, but such a person could never attain true happiness. On this point, Socrates, Plato, and Aristotle all agreed.

Since the proper virtues are needed when engaged in the process of living a good life, the next thing we need to know is how these virtues are obtained. Aristotle thought that the moral virtues could be acquired only through practice, and not through instruction. So, for example, Maester Luwin’s having Bran read all about brave knights is not sufficient to make Bran himself brave. He might come to understand the concept of bravery in this way, and thus recognize it in his brother Robb. But for Bran to actually possess the virtue, he must practice performing brave acts until it becomes natural for him to react bravely. It must become a habit.

This leads us back to Arya’s beginnings with the Water Dance. As we will see, the martial arts are a good way to illustrate what Aristotle had in mind. But since the martial arts originated in the East, they are infused with, and help illustrate, the philosophies of Zen and Taoism as well.

Martial Arts and Virtues

Before he leaves to “take the Black” and join the Night’s Watch, Jon Snow gives Arya a special present: a thin sword, made of the finest Valyrian steel, which she names “Needle” (special swords need to have names, of course). Arya Stark may be a very young girl, but unlike her older sister Sansa, who dreams of being a princess, Arya has no time for such foolishness. She’d much rather be a knight. She is already aware that the training she receives from Septa Mordane is not the sort of training that is needed for the life of well-being; she needs a different sort of “needlework.” Jon Snow’s present, on the other hand, resonates with her, and sets her on her path of self-discovery.

At first, all Arya knows of swordplay is that “you stick ’em with the pointy end.” “That’s the essence of it,” her father agrees, but seeing that she’s genuinely interested, he arranges a proper teacher for her (“Lord Snow”). And not just any teacher, we learn, but the Dancing Master from Braavos himself, Syrio Forel. What she learns from Syrio—the Water Dance—is not just how to hold the sword and how to position her body to avoid attacks, but something much more. Indeed, she begins to learn how to live. Just so.

True martial artists will tell you that martial arts are not just about self-defense, but are also about health and well-being. Studying martial arts can help us acquire moral virtues while teaching us how to live, and like Aristotle’s life of virtue, the martial arts stress the importance of the process over the prize. When studied seriously, a martial art is a spiritual practice as well. More on this later.

When I first began studying martial arts, I asked my
sensei
(the head instructor—literally, “one who has gone before”) how often one should train. He replied that you never stop training; everything you do is part of it. What you learn in the
dojo
—the place of training—obviously has application on the outside, if you ever have to defend yourself, for instance. But it’s not just about defense. The awareness you learn, the respect and compassion you show for your training partners, and how you learn to conduct yourself all carry over to the rest of your life. If you think of every action in your life as part of your training, then all your interactions, with people, animals, and the environment, require the same care and focus you must have in the dojo.

Now, let’s return to Aristotle’s idea of virtues as habits. Aristotle wants us to practice honesty, courage, justice, and so on until they become a natural part of us. In martial arts training, something very similar takes place. For example, in karate, students practice various movements, like upward blocks, endlessly. An upward block is an unusual sort of movement—not something that one routinely does—but over time it becomes a simple automatic movement. And that’s a good thing, because if someone attempts to strike the martial artist over the head, you want the block to be an automatic response. If it was not so—if it was instead the case that you first had to think about how to respond to the attack—it would be too late. The same is true for all the movements Arya learns in practicing the Water Dance. The sword thrusts and blocks, the graceful movement of the body, chasing cats through the castle, as well as standing on one leg or walking on her hands to create a new sense of balance, are all meant to train Arya to respond instantly and appropriately to any dangerous situation.

Similarly, the honest person responds automatically with the truth in every situation; he doesn’t have to think about what the proper response should be. This idea, that the “proper response” does not involve thinking, is not only shared by martial arts and Aristotle’s virtue ethics,
3
but is also an essential part of the philosophies of the East. And further, the common theme in each is that character is developed through discipline, practice, and attention. In martial arts, without this training of the mind, you’re just learning how to fight. With this training of the mind, though, you’re learning how to
live authentically
.

The Water Dance

“This is not the dance of the Westeros we are learning. . . . This is the Braavos Dance, the Water Dance.”

—“Lord Snow”

Virtue theories such as Aristotle’s are concerned with how we should live. Since martial arts share this goal, they can be put in the same category. But there are many differences. For Aristotle, to lead the good life, reason must be in charge. The rational part of the mind must control the irrational part so that we are not ruled by our desires. For the martial arts path to the good life, we must also control our desires, but this is not accomplished by living “the examined life” of Socrates or “the life of reason” recommended by Aristotle. It instead requires an egoless presence with a “mind like water.”

It’s not for nothing that the sword style Arya is learning is called the Water Dance. For one thing, water is a very important concept in Taoism. Taoism’s main work, the
Tao Te Ching
, attributed to the great sage Lao Tzu, is full of passages encouraging us to “be like water.”
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What does this mean?

In their first lesson, Syrio explains to Arya: “All men are made of water; do you know this? If you pierce them, the water leaks out . . . and they die” (“Lord Snow”).

Water is essential to life. The Water Dance mirrors the very dance of life. Water flows and adapts to its surroundings, filling containers of any shape, going through holes or cracks, and moving around an obstacle when it can’t go straight through. In martial arts, there must be a flow as well—a dance, if you will. The martial artist adapts to the situation, using only the amount of force necessary, and never more. To lead a good life, we too must be able to adapt, and go with the flow.

Several characters in A Song of Ice and Fire adapt well to their surroundings, and their lives, while still containing tragedies and suffering, are the better for it. Tyrion and Daenerys come to mind as excellent examples, while Daenerys’s brother Viserys illustrates the opposite. But no one is a better example of harmonizing with one’s surroundings than Arya. From working in the kitchens at Harrenhal, to becoming “Cat of the Canals” in Braavos, she learns to accept her situation for what it is, and thereby to do what is required. This involves, at Harrenhal, enlisting the help of Faceless Man Jaqen H’ghar to assassinate some of her enemies and lead a revolt, and killing a Night’s Watch deserter in Braavos. Using Needle is sometimes, unfortunately, what the situation calls for.

Another feature of water is its flexibility, which enables it to withstand great force; the martial artist can likewise withstand attacks by being flexible. An important skill in martial arts involves redirecting an attacker’s own energy against him. Doing this properly requires little energy of your own. If you’re struggling to make it work, using all your strength, you’re not doing the technique properly.

This idea of avoiding struggle involves one of Taoism’s key concepts:
wu wei
. This is the idea of responding to every situation in life effortlessly and naturally, like water. Lao Tzu tells us that “the way of the sage is to act without struggling.”
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When you achieve this, you are in harmony with the Tao itself—the flow of nature, or the very dance of life. In martial arts, this is nicely illustrated by performing a Tai Chi form, which is a series (sometimes quite long) of choreographed movements done very slowly. To the outside observer, it looks like a graceful dance; in reality, it consists of a series of deadly self-defense blocks, strikes, and kicks. To do it properly, thinking must be put aside; one
becomes
the form. Again at her very first Water Dance lesson, Arya complains that her wooden sword is too heavy to hold in one hand. “What if I drop it?” she asks. Syrio replies “The steel must be part of your arm. Can you drop your arm? No” (“Lord Snow”). That’s the idea.
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Zen and the Sword Master from Braavos

“There is only one god and his name is death. And there is only one thing we say to death: Not today.”

—“A Golden Crown”

To be able to respond effortlessly, and to be able to become one with the dance around you, requires that your mind be like water. But Zen has us go further, as we strip away the ego in order to find our true self. Indeed, a famous Zen koan asks, “What was the face you had before you were born?”
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Slaying the ego—which, as we will see, is perhaps the most important part of Arya’s later training at the House of Black and White—is also crucial in Zen.

Zen
is a way of seeing the world, and a way of authentically being in the world. It can be thought of as a philosophy of life, yet it has no theory. And unlike most philosophical systems, it deemphasizes the intellect in favor of intuitive action. As its approach to life is often illustrated in the interaction between student and master, Arya and Syrio will thus do just fine.
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