Doctor Strange and Philosophy

The Other Book of Forbidden Knowledge

Mark D. White, William Irwin

• Publisher: Wiley-Blackwell
• Year: 2018
• Print ISBN:
  9781119437949
• eBook ISBN:
  9781119437925
• Edition: 1
• Topic: Philosophy
• Subtopic: Philosophy History & Theory

Explore the mind and world of the brilliant neurosurgeon-turned-Sorcerer Supreme Doctor Stephen Strange

Marvel Comics legends Stan Lee and Steve Ditko first introduced Doctor Stephen Strange to the world in 1963—and his spellbinding adventures have wowed comic book fans ever since. Over fifty years later, the brilliant neurosurgeon-turned-Sorcerer Supreme has finally travelled from the pages of comics to the big screen, introducing a new generation of fans to his mind-bending mysticism and self-sacrificing heroics. In Doctor Strange and Philosophy, Mark D. White takes readers on a tour through some of the most interesting and unusual philosophical questions which surround Stephen Strange and his place in the Marvel Universe.

Essays from two-dozen Philosophers Supreme illuminate how essential philosophical concepts, including existentialism, epistemology, metaphysics, and ethics, relate to the world of Doctor Strange. Fans will find answers to all their Strange questions: How does Doctor Strange reconcile his beliefs in science and magic? What does his astral self say about the relationship between mind and body? Why is he always so alone? And what does he mean when he says we're just "tiny momentary specks within an indifferent universe"—and why was he wrong?

You won't need the Eye of Agamotto to comprehend all that is wise within. Doctor Strange and Philosophy offers comic book fans and philosophers alike the chance to dive deeper into the world of one of Marvel's most mystical superheroes.

Part I
“YOU’RE JUST ANOTHER TINY, MOMENTARY SPECK WITHIN AN INDIFFERENT UNIVERSE”

1
Bargaining with Eternity and Numbering One’s Days: Medicine, Nietzsche, and Doctor Strange

George A. Dunn

From the standpoint of modern medicine, death is a failure—and one of the first things that we learn in the 2016 movie Doctor Strange is that Stephen Strange does not like to fail. In fact, at the time of the automobile accident that brought his brilliant career as a neurosurgeon to a tragic end, Stephen Strange and failure had apparently never yet crossed paths. He had a “perfect record,” as he casually reminded Nurse Billy in an offhand boast when Billy proposed that he help a “68‐year‐old female with an advanced brain stem glioma.” Such a diagnosis predicted a poor outcome that he would prefer not to have sully his résumé. At the same time, though, he doesn’t want to build his reputation on easy victories. He declines to help “a 35‐year‐old Air Force colonel who crushed his spine in some sort of experimental armor,” dismissing it as the surgical equivalent of child’s play: “I could help but so can fifty other people.”¹

So it’s no surprise that after Stephen’s catastrophic accident that crushes his hands, his world collapses. Physical therapy alone can never restore his hands to what they were before and—ironically, in light of his own practice of rejecting patients who might ruin his perfect record—another doctor rejects him as a candidate for a cutting‐edge experimental treatment lest it fail and ruin the doctor’s reputation. Stephen’s entire professional life, outside of which he seems to have little else, has been about undoing damage and defying death. His own research has focused on the stimulation of neurogenesis in the central nervous system, restoring damaged neural tissue through a process that promises to save thousands of lives. His experience in the operating room is one of snatching patients from the jaws of death or, in at least one instance, restoring to life a patient who had already been declared brain dead. If death is failure for Stephen, the converse is also true after his accident—the failure to restore his hands is tantamount to death, the end of the only life that holds any meaning for him.

Heading East

“This isn’t the end. There are other things that can give your life meaning,” his friend and colleague Christine Palmer urges. “Like what? Like you?” he snaps backs. Christine tries to shake Stephen of his obsession with reversing the irreversible and get him to accept that “some things just can’t be fixed.” But because he’s unable to envision a new life for himself, he clings to the unrecoverable past with mounting desperation and anger. That desperation finally drives him to Nepal, high in the Himalayas, in search of a miracle, to Kamar‐Taj, where he becomes a student of the Ancient One. Though he hopes to learn the secret to restoring what was lost, he instead learns to surrender his attachment to the past and embrace transformation and mortality. As it turns out, that was the very same lesson that Christina was trying to teach him, but maybe Stephen first needed to travel to the other side of the world, to the exotic East, to sink to the absolute nadir of desperation, and then encounter that same truth wrapped in saffron robes before he could truly hear it.

Since at least the nineteenth century, it has become something of a cliché to view the East—the Indian subcontinent, the Himalayan regions, and the Far East in particular—as the repository of wisdom and spirituality, while the West has been depicted as an abode of soulless materialism where an ever‐increasing store of scientific knowledge is coupled with a paucity of wisdom about how to use it well. Stephen Strange in many ways epitomizes the unflattering picture that these stereotypes paint of a spiritually desolate West. He’s a vain egoist engaged in a self‐defeating attempt to control every facet of his world, a believer only in what’s given to his senses, trusting only in reason and science and living like an existential orphan in a universe that’s barren of any meaning or purpose except what we impose on it. “We are made of matter and nothing more,” he lectures the Ancient One, reciting the creed of scientific materialism. “You’re just another tiny, momentary speck within an indifferent universe.”

Obviously, not every resident of Western civilization shares this worldview, which is at once bleak in its assessment of our existential plight and madly optimistic in its faith in our ability to bend this particular corner of our indifferent universe to our will through science, technology, and medicine. Still, it does represent an attitude that is at least native to the West, one that often claims as its warrant the tremendous power over nature that it has allowed us to achieve. We witness the bounty of this power in the early scenes of the movie that take place in the hospital, where Stephen deploys the most advanced medical technology, knowledge, and skill in the service of saving lives. Yet when he begins his training at Kamar‐Taj, the Ancient One admonishes him, “Your intellect has taken you far in life but it will take you no further,” following that up with an instruction to “silence your ego.” If the West is hyper‐rationalist and obsessed with subduing the forces of nature, the East of popular imagination is where one goes to gain the wisdom that begins with surrendering control and accepting the limits of reason.

Kamar‐Taj is a Westerner’s dream of exotic Asian culture, an Orientalist pastiche of incongruous elements from diverse traditions that variously evoke an idea of the mystical, spiritually enlightened East. The Ancient One, who is not a Buddhist, wears the saffron robe of a Buddhist monk and shows Stephen a book containing diagrams of both Indian chakras (tantric centers of spiritual energy) and Chinese acupuncture points. Denizens of Kamar‐Taj wear Japanese‐inspired clothing and engage in martial arts training, while the Ancient One mouths various mystical‐sounding clichés with sage‐like solemnity (“At the root of existence, mind and matter meet; thoughts shape reality”). The Ancient One is obviously not of Asian heritage herself, however—we’re told that she’s Celtic, which vaguely associates her with a certain New Age image of occult wisdom and intimacy with nature drawn from the pre‐Christian West. In the popular imagination, the Celts represent something like a remote outpoint of Eastern wisdom in the West, one that is long gone, trampled under by the advance of Christianity. But what this imaginary, hybrid, trope‐laden Asian landscape signifies is not so much the reality of Asian civilizations, but rather a sense that, despite the manifold successes of Western science and technology, something vital has been lost along the way, something that this fantasy imagines still exists elsewhere. As Stephen tells Christine upon his return, “After Western medicine failed me, I headed East.”

“Matter and Nothing More”

Stephen speaks of Western medicine, but it might be more accurate to refer to modern medicine, since the kind of medical practice in which Stephen was engaged is bound up with a set of ideas and aspirations regarding humanity’s place in nature that emerged only in the seventeenth century in tandem with the scientific revolution. Among the intellectual guiding lights of this revolution were two great philosophers: Francis Bacon (1561–1626) and René Descartes (1596–1650). Because Bacon came first, the project that he and Descartes initiated is often referred to as the Baconian project.

This project, which came to shape Western civilization and then in due course the emerging civilization of global modernity, was guided by the imperative to reduce human suffering—“to subdue and overcome the necessities and miseries of humanity,” as Bacon put it—and to expand the realm of human freedom through the technological conquest of nature.² Descartes was even more blunt about the aims of this project: the new technology enabled by a proper science of the natural world promised to make us “the masters and possessors of nature,” which was

desirable not only for the invention of an infinity of devices that would enable us to enjoy trouble‐free the fruits of the Earth and all the goods found there, but also principally for the maintenance of health, which is the first good and the foundation of all the other goods in this life.³

Consequently, for Descartes, the indefinite lengthening of human life was to be the crowning achievement of modern science. “The preservation of health has always been the principal end of my studies,” he wrote.⁴ Whereas the goal of pre‐modern medicine was to care for the sick and the dying, in full awareness that not every ailment could be cured and that death was inevitable, within the context of the Baconian project, any limitation on human powers is an insult to our autonomy, a challenge to be overcome, and a summons for us to reclaim control of our existence. For Descartes, as for Doctor Stephen Strange, death is an enemy to be subdued.⁵

It’s more than a little ironic, then, that, as contemporary philosopher (and physician) Jeffrey Bishop points out, the human body as conceived within the Baconian project is essentially a dead body, as opposed to the living, suffering, full...

Table of contents

• Cover
• Title Page
• Table of Contents
• Contributors
• Acknowledgments
• Introduction
• Part I: “YOU’RE JUST ANOTHER TINY, MOMENTARY SPECK WITHIN AN INDIFFERENT UNIVERSE”
• Part II: “FORGET EVERYTHING THAT YOU THINK YOU KNOW”
• Part III: “REALITY IS ONE OF MANY”
• Part IV: “A MAN LOOKING AT THE WORLD THROUGH A KEYHOLE”
• Part V: “IT’S NOT ABOUT YOU”
• Part VI: “I’VE COME TO BARGAIN”
• Index
• End User License Agreement