On "The Departed:" Honor, Identity & Dignity

Each mortal thing does one thing and the same:
Deals out that being indoors each one dwells;
Selves—goes itself; myself it speaks and spells,
Crying Whát I do is me: for that I came.


Jack Nicholson’s character, Frank Costello, rejects the Church in The Departed for no less purpose than to play God. Why should he participate in the Eucharistic meal, where two or three meet in Christ’s name, Christ becoming all in all, when he can make his own way? The question only comes up late in the movie whether anything after his own existence can be assured; I am not speaking of eternal life.

The Departed refuses to give a vision of criminality that shies away from the word “evil.” Most times we want to think of criminals as merely those who don’t have and steal for survival. Or they have lost something great and a void has emerged in their hearts. We don’t want to believe evil exists. We want our criminals to be motivated by want of survival or the manifold problems which accompany love. In some ways, this line of thought comes from political philosophy post-Hobbes. To say that we’re primarily scared of violent death, that we’re only concerned with self-preservation, is to neglect focusing on criminal psychology. It’s to say that we all have the same motives in a sense.

The unfortunate consequence of this sort of reasoning – reasoning which human equality can be built from – is that we can’t say that cops are better than criminals. Pajiba’s review of this movie falls prey to that ridiculous notion, that DiCaprio’s good cop and Damon’s corrupt cop are really alike. They’re nowhere near alike: this movie makes it very clear that there is a big difference between one who would take a bullet for someone he doesn’t know and another who would kill just because he could.

If we take the questions this movie raises through its characters seriously, we can see even larger differences between our typical worldview and the one which has Jack Nicholson’s villain who-would-be-god on the one side and DiCaprio’s cop forced into not being himself. DiCaprio’s cop, William Costigan, merits further comment. He became a cop because his family had always been involved in crime. It disgusted him, and he literally wanted to make the one person who counted (Mom, of course) proud. But he is pressed into going undercover in Costello’s gang, so he has to do jail time, see a court-ordered shrink, and only a few cops can actually know he’s a cop. His ability to have the identity he wants is taken away from him for the sake of justice. He not only can’t be honored in such a way as to make Mom proud, but he can’t even have the dignity that might attend a normal person working a regular job.

Nicholson’s villain has the identity he wants, that of being a tyrant, receiving a warped honor from his thugs. But ultimately, given that everyone thinks he’s psycho or sleaze, what is most telling about his identity is his holding complete control over honors dispensed. Because of him, Colin Sullivan (Matt Damon) can rise as a cop with an immaculate record to the near top of the police force, being an informant for his gang the whole while. The villains in The Departed have a curious control over how we normally see the world. Their real expertise lies not in drug-dealing or stealing or killing. It’s in corrupting our institutions and using them for their purposes. To get justice, one will have to lack nobility and have a fluid sense of identity. This is a superhuman burden to carry, as you’re being told by what you’re fighting for that you’re not allowed to be yourself.

One might be dismissive of the idea of having one’s identity stolen like this. The question of honor usually concerns how others regard the self through the institutions we have set down. We could say that truly striving for self-knowledge should be a more than adequate replacement for such honor. Self-knowledge doesn’t stem from sociability through institutions but through the persistent quest for a Good that transcends any given institution or time. Considerations of honor, on this view, collapse into mere considerations of desire.

Costigan (DiCaprio) transcends honor because of the link between self-knowledge and his assertion of identity. All Costigan has is self-knowledge and the doubt which attends it. There is no family, there isn’t much money, and he has no power. He possesses nothing remotely characteristic of honor other than self-sacrifice. The link between his want of justice and being honored is almost coincidental. No one can say he didn’t lead a good life.

However, that’s where he ends up. I ask you to consider the cost. To not be sure who you are while having to assert yourself; to know you’re right, but at the same time be suspect under the law you fight to uphold. Self-knowledge and identity link to honor, truly: if anyone should be honored, it’s this cop. The price of having to doubt society and yourself – a doubt which, in truth, is knowledge – is having a life in this world.

Which brings us back to the concept of dignity, which we claim all men have, and purposely place lower than other, “higher” honors. All men may not necessarily be equal in the same way. That we extend an equality of dignity to all means that we need to recognize the virtues that accompany truly having dignity. We try to extend dignity to all because of those few who really do stand above. It’s only coincidental Costigan is publicly honored, but that’s because of the irony that his relation to honor is the most fundamental.

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A Daughter to Her Parents on Their Anniversary

I wonder about you two.
Togetherness does not seem
Exciting, not like my time.
Over me the sun and moon
brood silently. Shopping bags
rustle during the day, later,
there is laughter, there are hot meals.
Finally, under the quiet silver moon,
there is the swift cutting of air in the park,
where there are two, apart,
riding bicycles beside each other.

I suppose all is motion for you also.
But it is motion oriented elsewhere,
to say the least. The days began
worrying about how bills were to be
paid, for then and later. Lunch was
arguing and coldness, never seeming
to go beyond the beginning. And finally,
there was no rest under the white moon,
because there was me crying, demanding
to be fed.

The sun and moon look down on me,
for the same reason they are scared
to speak to you.


The grades haven’t been great, despite the fact I have two classes, but I’m dominant in a way I haven’t been in school before. It’s hard to get a discussion going that’s good, and even more difficult to guide it the way one wants to.

But that’s been happening, and I know the grades have to come. It’s inevitable, unless I lapse into a coma.

By analogy, this reasoning extends to one other area of my “life,” and I hope this “life” will become a life soon. The charity and prayers that have been extended to me I will be forever grateful for, and I hope I can do more to justify them. I also hope that what I don’t do, but what is given to me, will be the ultimate justification of me, and I think I really do believe in miracles right about now.

On Frost’s "Meeting and Passing"

Meeting and Passing
Robert Frost

As I went down the hill along the wall
There was a gate I had leaned at for the view
And had just turned from when I first saw you
As you came up the hill. We met. But all
We did that day was mingle great and small
Footprints in summer dust as if we drew
The figure of our being less than two
But more than one as yet. Your parasol

Pointed the decimal off with one deep thrust.
And all the time we talked you seemed to see
Something down there to smile at in the dust.
(Oh, it was without prejudice to me!)
Afterward I went past what you had passed
Before we met and you what I had passed.


The hill in the first stanza has many ways one can go up and down it; I assume a gate implies that a path runs perpendicular to the path our speaker is on. It is then quite remarkable that he finds someone on the exact same path he is on, and that seems to be the prelude to love. Love is depicted in the first stanza as continual turning: he turns and discovers her, the mingling of footprints suggests that they are walking in circles, around and around a section of the hill – incidentally, Purgatory, in the Divine Comedy, is a mountain one walks up to get to Paradise (more on Frost and Dante).

The turning of summer walks, though, changes with in the second stanza; the parasol points, not merely circles, and it demands a unity that is not to be. I wonder if she is younger than he; she’s coming up the hill as he’s coming down, yet her face is pointed downward, like she knows something – or believes something – he doesn’t. She wants whatever is at the top, which might be connected with what she smiles at in the dust. He, on the other hand is returning to the earthly, and knows her love was not True, not because she wasn’t sincere, but precisely because she was sincere.

“Closing-piece,” Rainer Maria Rilke

Rainer Maria Rilke (trans. me)

Death is great.
We are His
laughing mouths.
If we mean ourselves in the middle of life,
he dares to cry out
in the middle of us.


1. “His” is how I am translating Seinen, which is capitalized in the German. “Wir sind die Seinen / lachenden Munds.” I don’t know if the capitalization is relevant, but I’m not going to guess at what that specifically means just yet.

2. “We mean ourselves” – yes, this is as literal as I can be. “Wenn wir uns mitten im Leben meinen.” I have placed “meinen” between “wir” and “uns” in the translation, as the fact “wir” and “uns” are next to each other in the literal text seems to beg for a verb to separate them, and that parallel structure with the end of the poem is maintained by placing “in the middle of life” at the end of the sentence. Feel free to disagree with my work; this is entirely preliminary.