In the end, what Pinker calls a \u201cdecline of violence\u201d\u009d in modernity actually has been, in real body counts, a continual and extravagant increase in violence that has been outstripped by an even more exorbitant demographic explosion. Well, not to put too fine a point on it: So what? What on earth can he truly imagine that tells us about \u201cprogress\u201d\u009d or \u201cEnlightenment\u201d\u009d\u201d\u201dor about the past, the present, or the future? By all means, praise the modern world for what is good about it, but spare us the mythology.<\/p>\n
And yet, oddly enough, I like Pinker\u2019s book. On one level, perhaps, it is all terrific nonsense: historically superficial, philosophically platitudinous, occasionally threatening to degenerate into the dulcet bleating of a contented bourgeois. But there is also something exhilarating about this fideist who thinks he is a rationalist. Over the past few decades, so much of secularist discourse has been drearily clouded by irony, realist disenchantment, spiritual fatigue, self-lacerating sophistication: a postmodern sense of failure, an appetite for caustic cultural genealogies, a meek surrender of all \u201cmetanarrative\u201d\u009d ambitions.<\/p>\n
Pinker\u2019s is an older, more buoyant, more hopeful commitment to the \u201cEnlightenment\u201d\u009d\u201d\u201dand I would not wake him from his dogmatic slumber for all the tea in China. In his book, one encounters the ecstatic innocence of a faith unsullied by prudent doubt. For me, it reaffirms the human spirit\u2019s lunatic and heroic capacity to believe a beautiful falsehood, not only in excess of the facts, but in resolute defiance of them.<\/p>\n