Speaking the Truth as a Way to Meaning

Another fabulous post by the Fate Project's blog, Musings:

Truthfulness and Self-Care 

08 February, 2010
Posted by Golabuk in General 

In dialogue, one of the five points of fate practice, truthfulness includes what the Greeks called parrhesia, translated as “frankness” or “candor.” Michel Foucault offers some insights into parrhesia: 

<<To begin with, what is the general meaning of the word parrhesia? Etymologically, parrhesiazesthai means “to say everything”—from pan (“everything”) and rhema (“that which is said”). The one who uses parrhesia, the parrhesiastes, is someone who says everything he has in mind: he does not hide anything, but opens his heart and mind completely to other people through his discourse. In parrhesia, the speaker is supposed to give a complete and exact account of what he has in mind so that the audience is able to comprehend exactly what the speaker thinks. The word parrhesia then, refers to a type of relationship between the speaker and what he says. For in parrhesia, the speaker makes it manifestly clear and obvious that what he says is his own opinion. And he does this by avoiding any kind of rhetorical form which would veil what he thinks. Instead, the parrhesiastes uses the most direct words and forms of expression he can find. Whereas rhetoric provides the speaker with technical devices to help him prevail upon the minds of his audience (regardless of the rhetorician’s own opinion concerning what he says), in parrhesia, the parrhesiastes acts on other people’s mind by showing them as directly as possible what he actually believes.>> 

The most valuable of Foucalt’s points on parrhesia is its relation to self-care: 

<<In the writings of Plato, Socrates appears in the role of the parrhesiastes. Although the word “parrhesia” appears several times in Plato, he never uses the word parrhesiastes—a word which only appears later as part of the Greek vocabulary. And yet the role of Socrates is typically a parrhesiastic one, for he constantly confronts Athenians in the street and, as noted in the Apology, points out the truth to them, bidding them to care for wisdom, truth, and the perfection of their souls. And in the Alcibiades Major, Socrates assumes a parrhesiastic role in the dialogue. For whereas Alcibiades friends and lovers all flatter him in their attempt to obtain his favors, Socrates risks provoking Alcibiades anger when he leads him to this idea: that before Alcibiades will be able to accomplish what he is so set on achieving, viz., to become the first among the Athenians to rule Athens and become more powerful than the King of Persia, before he will be able to take care of Athens, he must first learn to take care of himself. Philosophical parrhesia is thus associated with the theme of the care of oneself.>> 


It may not be apparent at first look how frankness and self-care imply each other, but a practical example or two will make it obvious. Imagine a man in a corporate job he despises, but depends on for his income. Each day, he goes to his office, resigned to put in another eight hours while secretly longing to start a small business of his own, or take up some artistic direction that calls him but also intimidates him for the lack of security it promises. Let’s say that this man is called in to his superior’s office for a performance evaluation, during which he is asked point blank: “Are you happy working here? Where do you see yourself in five years?” and so on. Now, it should be clear that we are not in a position to dictate to this hypothetical individual what constitutes self-care. Perhaps it lies in staying on a bit longer, perhaps not. But we can surely say what constitutes truthfulness in this situation, and remember that we are examining here the idea that truthfulness and self-care stand in intimate relation with each other. Our man can lie for the sake of the evaluation, to keep his job and his income, and so on. In other words, he can be untruthful for a good reason, and no one is ever untruthful without one. Or he can be truthful, which will cast him into a fate that becomes far less predictable. He may be fired on the spot for his confession. On the other hand, his supervisor may be so impressed by his honesty that he gives him free reign, or even is moved by the man’s courage to share a denied dream of his own. In any case, it is one thing to say nothing for a time; another to dissemble when asked a direct question, the truthful answer to which we know only too well. What we are suggesting here is that the best outcome lies in the hands of candor, no matter how it may appear. We may even speculate that when it is time for a truth to come to light, the forces of chaos arrange for someone to ask us the revealing question. At such moments especially, the gods are watching and listening.

We are not denying by this example that it may be in the man’s interest to stay on the job for a time, but ultimately, he will remain set against his better fate as long as he is willing to deny, postpone, or misrepresent the truth. This truth is not his doing. It is written in his nature by the hands that created him. He wants what he wants, and cannot want otherwise. So are we given to ourselves, and must work out our relation to who we already are, so that we may become most fully who we are meant to be. 

Another example: Imagine two lovers who, having awakened from the lovely dream of courtship, are now standing face to face with their own and each other’s issues. This, of course, is where two people learn what sort of love they really have, even whether what they have is love at all—since we may get close to each other for many reasons that have nothing to do with love. In each of these two, a daimon lives and speaks the truth. One aspect of this truth is the “yes” and “no” of our nature. In other words, some things will be, in truth, acceptable; others, not. The “yes” and “no” of us, like our likes and dislikes,” are given, not subject to our will. We may wish we did not love someone we love deeply for all the pain it causes us, or wish we did love someone toward whom we feel nothing of the “divine madness,” as Socrates calls it. In either case, our will stands by helpless while the gods play out our character and our story, for they have written both, leaving to us the fundamental choice between humility and hubris, willingness and willfulness, truthfulness and invention. We are saying here, in expanding on the point made by Foucault, that the best that these lovers can do, for themselves, each other, and their union, is to honor their daimon and be frank with each other, saying “yes” when that is the truth, and “no” when it is not. So much damage is inflicted in romantic unions by one person or the other or both failing to practice parrhesia when the crucial moment comes, because in abandoning parrhesia, they abandon self-care, and this choice, while no doubt serving certain short-term interests, is unsustainable.

What would happen in our lives if we took up parrhesia as a direction for living—if we resolved always to tell the truth as an expression of self-care? One thing that would happen is we would extricate ourselves immediately from the suffering of those who are not yet on their own side. And how can we befriend the gods, life, and fate if we haven’t befriended ourselves?