Review
Awe and wonder
Books
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Poetry
6 min read

Charles Taylor on how poetry seeks cosmic connections

The philosopher yields an array of luminous insights.

Paul Weston is a Fellow at Ridley Hall, Cambridge.

At dusk, three people sit on a field edge and look at the stars emerging.
Rad Pozniakov on Unsplash.

Charles Taylor, Cosmic Connections: Poetry in the Age of Disenchantment

At just shy of 600 pages, philosopher Charles Taylor’s latest book is not for the faint-hearted. At the heart of the book are fascinating questions. What kind of language should we use when we encounter ‘beauty’, or experience ‘wonder’ which seems to take us into a new kind of space, or make time stand still? It could be the sight of a breathtaking landscape. It could be a piece of music. It’s that sense of ‘connection’ with something bigger than ourselves. What might it mean? More particularly, how do we express what we intuitively feel to be real and deeply significant about such things when our usual language fails to capture it?  

Taylor says that his latest book ‘is about (what I see as) the human need for cosmic connection . . . one shot through with joy, significance, inspiration’. And his hypothesis is that ‘the desire for this connection is a human constant, felt by (at least some) people in all ages and phases of human history’, even if ‘the forms this desire takes have been very different in the succeeding phases and stages of this history’. The book explores these questions by focusing on late-Romantic European poetry and traces its development through the work of later poets including Goethe, Rilke, Wordsworth, Hopkins, and T. S. Eliot. 

The background to Taylor’s explorations is the ongoing impact of the Enlightenment on our language and understanding about ‘truth’ and ‘meaning’. Those familiar with his 2007 book A Secular Age will find echoes of it here, particularly the way in which post-Enlightenment language tended to develop the language of control. This, he argues, became increasingly dominant in Western modernity ‘because it is linked to a practical stance which is basically instrumentalist; we seek out the efficient causal relations in our world with the aim of discovering handles which will enable us to realise our purposes’. In reaction to this narrowing of possibilities, the Romantic poets focused on ‘the experience of connection, and the empowerment this brings: not a power over things, but one of self-realization’. And a key element of the Romantic movement was the recognition that a poem (alongside the wider arts) uncovers deeper meanings: it ‘reveals to us, brings us into contact with, a deep reality which would otherwise remain beyond our ken’. 

‘Poetry goes beyond creating a mood, an atmosphere of feeling, and claims to give access to the inner force in a thing, not by describing it, but by making it palpable’ 

Charles Taylor

The book focuses on the variety of forms that this reaction took amongst Romantic poets. A unifying desire for ‘connection’ led to differing ideas about how poetic language makes this possible and what kinds of meaning are revealed. But the central belief remained constant: that poetic language was the key to addressing a prevailing cultural atmosphere of ‘disenchantment’, in which the desire for cosmic connection had been sidelined.  

On the English side of the channel, Taylor finds in Keats’ poetry, a new form of expression summed up in his statement ‘Beauty is Truth and Truth Beauty’. In Taylor’s words, ‘Art raises the object to a new unity and intensity, which constitutes Beauty. But this is not something which just exists in the mind of the artist (or reader); it has reality, and hence Truth, even though this reality is partly brought to fruition by artistic (re)creation’.  

Similarly, for Gerard Manley Hopkins, the form of poetic language itself can become a means of ‘connection’. As Taylor puts it, in Hopkins’ work, ‘Poetry goes beyond creating a mood, an atmosphere of feeling, and claims to give access to the inner force in a thing, not by describing it, but by making it palpable’. His poetry embodies this in that it ‘renders the rhythms of the being itself through the “sprung rhythm” of the verse’.  

The second half of the book looks to poets of the last 200 years who have navigated parallel pathways towards this ideal of experienced fullness – in the face of increasing industrialisation and disenchantment. Baudelaire longs for the experience of fullness, but finds it barred by a state of melancholy that he described as ‘Spleen’. It is a melancholy brought about by the endless repetitions of mundane and urbanised life. Baudelaire’s attempt to find release from our imprisonment in trapped time is to face Spleen head on and to transform it through poetic contemplation.  

T. S. Eliot’s poetry similarly aims to evoke the sources of a fuller life in a culture of decay by means of the ‘continual surrender’ of the poet to something more significant and valuable. In Eliot’s case this resolves in a more-or-less traditional sense of Christian order, but Taylor notes that his poetry doesn’t necessarily require this. Miłosz on the other hand, amidst the social and political upheavals in Poland, sought a higher form of poetry: a poetry that could rise above the discord of social turmoil in order to define a moment and clarify the path that needed to be taken.  

‘The work of art opens for us a new field of meaning, by giving shape to it’. 

Charles Taylor

At times, the weight and detail of Taylor’s exposition threatens to overwhelm the reader, but he offers an array of luminous insights along the way, and he is largely successful in keeping an eye on the broader questions and themes. Perhaps the most important here is his belief that the human desire for ‘cosmic connection’, with its yearning for joy, significance and inspiration is perennial. The book is in this sense an elaborate historical worked example of this desire, understood – perhaps imperceptibly – as a sense of ‘loss’ or ‘longing’. It is this ‘central aspiration of the Romantic period’, he concludes, that ‘remains powerful today’. 

My own experiences of talking with people today seems to amply confirm Taylor’s view. And the search for language to describe the desire for this sense of connection (or the longing for it) continues to thrive even within a so-called secularised culture (most likely because of it). It too seeks language for expression and sometimes struggles for some of the same reasons that the Romantics identified. Taylor’s phrase ‘the immanent frame’ (from his A Secular Age) powerfully evokes a sense of being held on a restricted rein, unable to name or explore the realms of ‘beauty’ or the ‘transcendent’ beyond perceived cultural boundaries. Connected to this is the still commonly held belief that any supposed knowledge derived through the arts doesn’t put us in touch with anything other than ourselves.  

Taylor convincingly transcends the supposed dichotomy between these so-called ‘subjective’ or on the other hand, ‘ontological’ possibilities. ‘The work of art’, he says, ‘opens for us a new field of meaning, by giving shape to it’. Moreover, it can ‘realize a powerful experience of fulfillment . . . of connection which empowers’. And Taylor backs his theory with autobiography. In Goethe’s ‘Wanderer Nachtlied’, he says, ‘There is a kind of rest/peace which I long for. I don’t fully understand it, but now I have some sense of it’. Or broadening the artistic field, he finds that listening to Chopin’s Fantasie-Impromptu in C sharp minor ‘opens me up to an unnameable longing’, or that when he listens to Mozart’s Jupiter Symphony, he feels ‘a striving upwards, an expression of praise and thanks, straining to reach some higher addressee (for me, this would be God), but I can imagine that someone else, feeling the ascending movement, would imagine another destination’).  

Here then is a book that shines a light on the possibilities of ‘cosmic connection’. Taylor affirms our desires, reassuring us that we should not feel strange to share the same longings for ‘fullness’, for ‘transcendence’, for ‘joy’ and for ‘connection’ as did the Romantic poets. Our recognition of these desires may well have been evoked by the kind of poetry or music that Taylor talks about here. But for all of us, it is good to be reminded that in a western world still heavily influenced by the climate of secularisation many today are still searching for the sense of cosmic connection that Taylor describes.   

 

Charles Taylor’s Cosmic Connections: Poetry in the Age of Disenchantment is published by Harvard University Press. 

Review
Books
Care
Comment
Psychology
7 min read

We don’t have an over-diagnosis problem, we have a society problem

Suzanne O’Sullivan's question is timely
A visualised glass head shows a swirl of pink across the face.
Maxim Berg on Unsplash.

Rates of diagnoses for autism and ADHD are at an all-time high, whilst NHS funding remains in a perpetual state of squeeze. In this context, consultant neurologist Suzanne O’Sullivan, in her recent book The Age of Diagnosis, asks a timely question: can getting a diagnosis sometimes do more harm than good? Her concern is that many of these apparent “diagnoses” are not so much wrong as superfluous; in her view, they risk harming a person’s sense of wellbeing by encouraging self-imposed limitations or prompting them to pursue treatments that may not be justified. 

There are elements of O-Sullivan’s argument that I am not qualified to assess. For example, I cannot look at the research into preventative treatments for localised and non-metastatic cancers and tell you what proportion of those treatments is unnecessary. However, even from my lay-person’s perspective, it does seem that if the removal of a tumour brings peace of mind to a patient, however benign that tumour might be, then O’Sullivan may be oversimplifying the situation when she proposes that such surgery is an unnecessary medical intervention.  

But O’Sullivan devotes a large proportion of the book to the topics of autism and ADHD – and on this I am less of a lay person. She is one of many people who are proposing that these are being over diagnosed due to parental pressure and social contagion. Her particular concern is that a diagnosis might become a self-fulfilling prophecy, limiting one’s opportunities in life: “Some will take the diagnosis to mean that they can’t do certain things, so they won’t even try.” Notably, O’Sullivan persists with this argument even though the one autistic person whom she interviewed for the book actually told her the opposite: getting a diagnosis had helped her interviewee, Poppy, to re-frame a number of the difficulties that she was facing in life and realise they were not her fault.  

Poppy’s narrative is one with which we are very familiar at the Centre for Autism and Theology, where our team of neurodiverse researchers have conducted many, many interviews with people of all neurotypes across multiple research projects. Time and time again we hear the same thing: getting a diagnosis is what helps many neurodivergent people make sense of their lives and to ask for the help that they need. As theologian Grant Macaskill said in a recent podcast:  

“A label, potentially, is something that can help you to thrive rather than simply label the fact that you're not thriving in some way.” 

Perhaps it is helpful to remember how these diagnoses come about, because neurodivergence cannot be identified by any objective means such as by a blood test or CT scan. At present the only way to get a diagnosis is to have one’s lifestyle, behaviours and preferences analysed by clinicians during an intrusive and often patronising process of self-disclosure. 

Despite the invidious nature of this diagnostic process, more and more people are willing to subject themselves to it. Philosopher Robert Chapman looks to late-stage capitalism for the explanation. Having a diagnosis means that one can take on what is known as the “sick role” in our societal structures. When one is in the “sick role” in any kind of culture, society, or organisation, one is given social permission to take less personal responsibility for one’s own well-being. For example, if I have the flu at home, then caring family members might bring me hot drinks, chicken soup or whatever else I might need, so that I don’t have to get out of bed. This makes sense when I am sick, but if I expected my family to do things like that for me all the time, then I would be called lazy and demanding! When a person is in the “sick role” to whatever degree (it doesn’t always entail being consigned to one’s bed) then the expectations on that person change accordingly.  

Chapman points out that the dynamics of late-stage capitalism have pushed more and more people into the “sick role” because our lifestyles are bad for our health in ways that are mostly out of our own control. In his 2023 book, Empire of Normality, he observes,  

“In the scientific literature more generally, for instance, modern artificial lighting has been associated with depression and other health conditions; excessive exposure to screen time has been associated with chronic overstimulation, mental health conditions, and cognitive disablement; and noise annoyance has been associated with a twofold increase in depression and anxiety, especially relating to noise pollution from aircraft, traffic, and industrial work.” 

Most of this we cannot escape, and on top of it all we live life at a frenetic pace where workers are expected to function like machines, often subordinating the needs and demands of the body. Thus, more and more people begin to experience disablement, where they simply cannot keep working, and they start to reach for medical diagnoses to explain why they cannot keep pace in an environment that is constantly thwarting their efforts to stay fit and well. From this arises the phenomenon of “shadow diagnoses” – this is where “milder” versions of existing conditions, including autism and ADHD, start to be diagnosed more commonly, because more and more people are feeling that they are unsuited to the cognitive, sensory and emotional demands of daily working life.  

When I read in O’Sullivan’s book that a lot more people are asking for diagnoses, what I hear is that a lot more people are asking for help.

O’Sullivan rightly observes that some real problems arise from this phenomenon of “shadow diagnoses”. It does create a scenario, for example, where autistic people who experience significant disability (e.g., those who have no perception of danger and therefore require 24-hour supervision to keep them safe) are in the same “queue” for support as those from whom being autistic doesn’t preclude living independently. 

But this is not a diagnosis problem so much as a society problem – health and social care resources are never limitless, and a process of prioritisation must always take place. If I cut my hand on a piece of broken glass and need to go to A&E for stiches, I might find myself in the same “queue” as a 7-year-old child who has done exactly the same thing. Like anyone, I would expect the staff to treat the child first, knowing that the same injury is likely to be causing a younger person much more distress. Autistic individuals are just as capable of recognising that others within the autism community may have needs that should take priority over their own.   

What O’Sullivan overlooks is that there are some equally big positives to “shadow diagnoses” – especially as our society runs on such strongly capitalist lines. When a large proportion of the population starts to experience the same disablement, it becomes economically worthwhile for employers or other authorities to address the problem. To put it another way: If we get a rise in “shadow diagnoses” then we also get a rise in “shadow treatments” – accommodations made in the workplace/society that mean everybody can thrive. As Macaskill puts it:  

“Accommodations then are not about accommodating something intrinsically negative; they're about accommodating something intrinsically different so that it doesn't have to be negative.” 

This can be seen already in many primary schools: where once it was the exception (and highly stigmatised) for a child to wear noise cancelling headphones, they are now routinely made available to all students, regardless of neurotype. This means not only that stigma is reduced for the one or two students who may be highly dependent on headphones, but it also means that many more children can benefit from a break from the deleterious effects of constant noise. 

When I read in O’Sullivan’s book that a lot more people are asking for diagnoses, what I hear is that a lot more people are asking for help. I suspect the rise in people identifying as neurodivergent reflects a latent cry of “Stop the world, I want to get off!” This is not to say that those coming forward are not autistic or do not have ADHD (or other neurodivergence) but simply that if our societies were gentler and more cohesive, fewer people with these conditions would need to reach for the “sick role” in order to get by.  

Perhaps counter-intuitively, if we want the number of people asking for the “sick role” to decrease, we actually need to be diagnosing more people! In this way, we push our capitalist society towards adopting “shadow-treatments” – adopting certain accommodations in our schools and workplaces as part of the norm. When this happens, there are benefits not only for neurodivergent people, but for everybody.

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